nickilovesdrama

Riding the Tide

2012-01-11T21:00:00.005-05:00

The Tide in all its glory

Last Saturday Jeff and I had a totally frivolous day. Hampton Roads recently spent $338 million dollars on a brand new light rail, a commuter train to help alleviate some of the crazy car traffic. It came under a lot of flak because it was two years overdue and cost about double what it was originally supposed to, but now that it's up and running, the ridership is already twice what was projected. I love trains, I love mass-transit...it's so convenient not having to worry about parking your car, being able to read or eat or put on makeup or tweeze your eyebrows while you're driving. Yeah, sure, there's never a bus coming for twenty minutes and then there's three, but overall, I'm very pro mass transit. Right now the Tide, as the train in Norfolk is lovingly called, only has about ten miles of track, but there's already talk about extending it down to Virginia Beach...I hope they do. As nice as it is not to have to pay for parking in downtown Norfolk, it would be REALLY nice not to have to park a car in Virginia Beach.

So, I wanted to support the Tide. First, we had to drive for an hour. Then we parked (for free), bought our tickets from a machine (Jeff, who's a bit of a coin collector, was geeked out that the change came in dollar coins), and settled in for the ride. The Tide is brand spankin' new, shiny and clean. Cleaner even than the Waterloo line in London. The train is really only fifty feet long, with a bend in the middle to get around the curves...baby trains that remind one of caterpillars.

First we meandered through Norfolk suburbs, before sailing high over Norfolk State University. Then we gradually landed in downtown Norfolk itself, and disembarked near MacArthur Center. The Tide is small enough that it has to obey traffic signals and it even has an electronic trolley bell to warn pedestrians its near. Our tickets were also good for the ferry that goes across the Elizabeth River to Portsmouth, so we headed across for dinner at one of our favourite restaurants, the Biergarten. As the name suggests, it is a German restaurant, and yes, there is bier. 306 varieties at last check. Although we've had good meals there before, this time was a bit of a letdown. Too many kids in one warm room plus disappointing schwarzewälder kirschtorte made for a long meal. Still, bier. Also! I finally got to see inside a store called Skipjacks, which is nautical themed, with lots of antiques. If had several thousand dollars and several living rooms to decorate, I could have spent DAYS in that store. And they have a dog named Jack...I didn't ask, but I suspect that he may have been named after Jack Aubrey.

Here's a map in case you're getting confused. Click on it to make it bigger...we got on at Newtown Road and off at MacArthur Center. Not shown: the Bier Garten and Skipjacks, which is south of the Elizabeth River. It's important to be specific, because normally when you say "south of the river" you mean the James, which is where we live. There are a lot of rivers in Hampton Roads, hence the name "roads."

The weather was absolutely wonderful, warm and sunny, even when we were on the ferry, which is an adorable fake paddlewheel. Honestly, I would live in Portsmouth and work in Norfolk just so I could commute on the ferry every day. The best part about riding the Tide was not reliving the happy rides of time past, but of watching people who had never been on a train before enjoy it. You could see parents relaxing as they watched their kids frolic on the turntable bed in the train's floor...ladies of a certain age wearing hats, headed down to MacArthur Center for some shopping...a Navy guy in an Admiral's uniform (hockey, not dress blues) headed to a game. More than anything, this made me cheerful and happy too. I hope that everyone who was riding--especially people who ride every day--will see how great trains, buses and even ferries can be and then maybe we can saturate this country will mass-transit, like it is in Europe.

I'm definitely enjoying this whole not working in the evening thing...so far this week I've cooked dinner twice and reveled in dishes duty. Ah, domesticity! How I have missed thee.

Honestly

2012-01-01T20:09:00.003-05:00

This is where the pretty pictures of a lovely Christmas at home are supposed to go, then a joke about how hard it is to update my blog when I'm typing on my new iPad (thank you so much, mom and dad!) and there's a beagle on my foot, but it's been a long couple of weeks. No, screw that, it's been a long couple of months.

Starting in August, I began working at the Busch Gardens costume shop, a local theme park. The job is more fun and less stressful than CW but those extra hours, combined with going home in September, continuing ghost storytelling tours and managing a Christmas program in December meant that I haven't worked less than 60 hours a week since then. The two weeks around Thanksgiving I worked so much that I doubled my paycheck from CW. The three remaining work days of the week afterwe got home from our Wisconsin Christmas I got six hours of sleep each night because I had to work at night.

Why am I saying these things? So all my loyal readers will understand exactly what I've been up against these past months and why I've neglected my blog. I know I'm supposed to feel grateful to have a job, much less three or four, depending on how you look at it, but I just can't do it any more. I twisted my shoulder in my sleep last month, and I'm convinced that overexertion due to my job contributed to it. I've gained 30 pounds in the past two years, but with limited time to eat right and exercise, my knees are starting to creak ominously. It's not that I am being whiny and saying I can't keep up this pace--clearly I can--but that I just can't physically or mentally do this anymore.

What the alternative is, I don't know. It seems like a good time to consider and calculate, since I have no evening jobs during the month of January. It's a new year, time to make a new start. I'd like to leave the dishes pile up because I'm busy writing, not because I'm working. I'd like to go see some movies, not just watch the trailers and miss the feature. And I really want to sit quietly by the window and read, with no other claims on my time. I've already made plans to go to Harry Potter world at Universal later this month...yay, a real vacation! Yet, I'm already living in dread of March, when hay making time comes again. I need to plan now to avoid that madness.

I hope everyone who reads this is happy and healthy and doing exactly what their hearts desire. I love you all and think about you all constantly, even if I don't call you and tell you enough. You are all so important to me...2012 is going to be good!

Lo, for a thousand tongues to sing...

2011-12-08T22:11:00.002-05:00

I finally managed to scratch enough time out of my schedule to join the choir at the Methodist church I've been attending. I was excited to join because they were singing a cantata for Christmas. Even if I couldn't be at every rehearsal, or every Sunday, at least I could sing the cantata. It's not Christmas without a cantata.

Except, this choir is unlike any one I've ever been in before. I like the choir members. Don't get me wrong. They are a fun group of people, and for once the men almost outnumber the women. But they are a very...democratic choir. Meaning, at any given moment, any one of them might be talking to their neighbors. Conferring about what page we're on. Where we are starting and who exactly is singing second soprano and did you remember that we're not turning pages until the solo is done? The choir director is the sweetest, meekest woman I've ever seen stand in front a choir, and has absolutely no inclination to interrupt anyone. She also directs using a kind of stabbing motion...anyone who's ever been in a music group knows how helpful downbeats can be, but they are cast aside here. In addition, the children's choir director (who's less talented in the directing department, but a more forceful personality than her adult choir counterpart) is apt to leap up and offer her two cents. Her cutoffs to held notes can take two or three beats. Enunciation, ending words with their proper consonants, matching vowels--oh, trying to blend a choir full of Southerners, a few Eastern Shore-ers and me, a Yankee surely must make angels wince--all these techniques are lost on these folks.

I truly despaired after the first rehearsal. The choir, enthusiastic as they are, seemed more interested in getting through the music at top volume while loudly complaining that the CD moved too quickly for them. Oh--did I mention we're singing to canned music? Yup. I get that it's a small church with few resources for musicians. But I would rather sing with a plain piano or organ than a CD. I honestly questioned whether this was a group I wanted to get involved with. Even the cantata seemed a little boring. Too much reliance on key changes for dramatic effect. I'm embarassed to admit that I thought I was "too good" for this choir. I've had the advantage of excellence musical training in my life, which, like the proverbial bicycle, comes back without a second's thought.

Yet, after that first rehearsal, as I was standing there metaphorically pulling my hair out at the fact that we had accomplished about an hour's worth of singing during a two-hour rehearsal, something happened. People came up to me, introduced themselves, and said they were glad to have me. When i went to the second rehearsal, people came up and again introduced themselves, and again said they were glad to have me. They encouraged me to pull out that high "E" at the end of the cantata "--if I could!" and seemed relieved and appreciative when I did. I practised good choir skills, sitting straight on the edge of my chair, working my breathing, and counting--counting--rest phrases, something I hadn't had to do at my old choir. I remembered John Wesley's covenant prayer...

I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.
Put me to doing, put me to suffering.
Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee,
exalted for thee or brought low for thee.
Let me be full, let me be empty.
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.
And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
thou art mine, and I am thine.
So be it.
And the covenant which I have made on earth,
let it be ratified in heaven.
Amen.

...and remembered sometimes we have to be put aside. Not our will, but God's. I thought about how instead of bitching about the choir, I could be a good example, showing up on time and practising good choir behavior. I like the people in the choir. They are truly the heart of the church, more enthusiastic and energetic than any other congregation I've been a part of. I want to sing! But also want to help the choir channel their enthusiasm into focused rehearsals. It would make everything run so much smoother. That's a tall order, I've only been a handful of times, but the more I go, the more I enjoy it.

If anyone is going to be around, we'll be singing Saturday and Sunday evening...

It's curtains, sheee?

2011-11-05T11:19:00.009-04:00

I am ashamed, loyal readers, to admit that until about, oh, three hours ago, we had no curtains in our bedroom. This wasn't a problem, since the house next to ours is set further back, so they were unable to see in our windows--a perk of living in the country. But now the house beyond that one has been renovated from a summer cottage into a year-round residence, and that one, loyal readers, is evenly set back from the river with ours. Giving those neighbors an unintentional front-row seat to our bedroom, and making curtains a priority.

Oh, sure, we covered up our windows, we're not heathens, after all...

Not shown: the English flag Nicki used during the 2006 World Cup, used for covering up the right window

...but somehow using a British flag seemed so...collegial.

(For educational purposes, must just point out that this flag is actually known as the King's Colours...we use this flag when we're reenacting. This flag was created just after the union of Scotland and England...St. David's cross, a red "X" was added later when the monarchy realised that they had Wales as well.)

So, curtains. I have been halfheartedly looking for something--anything--but the availability of curtains in my price range is depressingly limited. It's hard to pay $30 for some cheap polyester thing that I could make myself for half the price. I can sew, after all! But there again--I get distracted so easily. If I can't do a project in two hours, forget it. I think that's one of the reasons I'm not "crafty." I build things out of sheer desperate necessity, usually weeks after a deadline and only then if I can't buy it somewhere.

Today, after watching the neighbors enjoying their dock (the rockfish are running!), I finally decided to make some damme curtains already. I started by surfing around the internet...and quickly ran across this site. Using drop-cloths as curtains seemed right up my alley. However, I had a different set of criteria: first of all I wanted to spend no money. With the amount of fabric and notions we have floating around this house, there was no reason to go out and buy fabric. That included, secondly, a new curtain rod. There are several of the boring "cover up with anything that has a channel" variety of curtain rods out in the garage, and I was determined to use one to save money (see previous statement). Curtain clippies are nice, but they do require a curtain rod that is not ashamed to be seen. Thirdly, I had no drop cloths. And I have an inherent dislike of sewing projects that involve no actual sewing...in my humblest, most polite of opinions, if you're gonna be crafty, you're gonna have to put in a hem every now and then.

So, to start with. I had no drop cloths, but I have sheets. Lots and lots of random sheets. I pulled out a plain white one with a bit of satin edging at the fall and thought "great." Except this sheet didn't belong to me, and, while I was totally willing to slice it in half and hem it, I wasn't sure that Jeff's mom would appreciate it. Also, a curtain that opened to the side would mean revealing an ugly curtain rod. Roman shades perhaps? But, urgg, that would require measuring and sewing rings and being fiddly and perfect and that just seemed...like a lot of work.

In the end, what I ended up doing was this. I folded the top of the sheet down enough so that the fall of body reached the top of the window almost to the floor. Then I ran a straight seam using a basting stitch along the seamline that held the satin detail in place...one quick seam that can be ripped out easily. This created a channel that was 17 and 3/8" deep...hiding the ugly curtain rod.

Now what I had looked like this:

Not shown: piles of clean laundry that haven't been put away for three days.

Usually I get annoyed when chirpy crafty people go "I used some buttons I just HAPPENED TO HAVE LYING AROUND for this next step!" but in this case, that's exactly what happened. I used some buttons that I just happened to have lying around, tacking them on to the sheet at the level of the seam. Then I cut a length of jute twine, knotted it to make a loop, and whipped it to the back of the sheet, again at the level of the seam. I used jute twine to try to achieve a "shabby chic" look with the white fabric and the bronze buttons. When the loop is pulled under the curtain and buttoned on to the button, it polonnaises the curtain like an eighteenth century dress. And it has the unexpected effect of looking like a sail.

Not shown: Nicki doing the happy dance when she realises she has an awesome curtain that LOOKS LIKE A SAIL.

So what do you think? I'm pretty pleased. Not only does it fulfill all my requirements: cheap, using materials I have, hiding ugly curtain rods, bonus sail-like qualities, but it's easy to get up and down and it's clean looking. I'm hoping to get permission to cut a sheet in half soon so I can do the same thing to a dormer window facing the front of the house...but judging by how long it took me to get around to making these curtains, don't hold your breath.

Michelle Obama Wants My Money

2011-10-26T21:06:00.002-04:00

I got a letter in the mail today from Michelle Obama--actually from the Obama For America campaign--asking me to send money to her husband's campaign. I am skeptical. Not only because I feel that more than a year out it is way, waaaay to early to encourage these yahoos to start campaigning, but also because I don't know if this time around I can support President Obama.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I still think Obama is a better person to have at the helm than most politicians currently involved in the fray. We align on several issues, even though he out of necessity does more politicking than I do. I am still upset about the fact that the final version of the healthcare reform bill did not include universal, government-sponsored healthcare. Or access to buy into the Medicaid program for everyone. Especially since during those heady days Obama's party controlled both houses of Congress.

I don't want to be a one-issue voter. I hate the idea of blaming the government for things they do or do not do. I have health insurance now...but I can't help but think how many more options myself and so many of my friends would have if we weren't tied to jobs "just for the benefits."

It's just a niggling issue for me personally. I intend to become more well-informed before the next election. Maybe this time around Barack Obama won't be my candidate of choice. So for now I'm hanging on to my money.

Mom Says Post

2011-10-23T16:29:00.006-04:00

Beautiful Fort Ticonderoga

I received an email from Mom today with the subject line "Goodbye Irene" which I think is a subtle hint that she's ready to see some different content on this page. So! Where to begin? As with all recent posts, it's not the lack of things to talk about, but the abundance.

About a week after the hurricane, Jeff and I took off with our reenacting group (the Queen's Own Loyal Virginia Regiment; look us up on Facebook!) to New York, to participate in an event at Fort Ticonderoga. If you're thinking "Nicki, you live in Tidewater Virginia, and Fort Ticonderoga is in upstate New York, located on a peninsula that sticks out into Lake George, near the Canadian border, that's an insane amount of driving!" you would be right. We left Thursday afternoon, picked up a few more unit members in Maryland, and arrived Friday morning at 5:30 am. We immediately put the cars in park and took a nap for about an hour, until the local diner opened up and we could have some eggs and bacon for breakfast. (For the record: driving overnight is the only way to do I-95)

The town of Ticonderoga is, in a word, beautiful. It is tucked into a little valley in the Adironack mountains, with pine trees and winding roads rising on either side of it. The road to Ticonderoga winds through several little towns, all with locally owned restaurants, shops and hotels--definitely a place I want to revisit when I'm not busy playing history. Since we arrived a day before the event started, the unit had plenty of time to build a camp and generally unwind and relax after a long drive. The Queen's Own is trying to be a very historically accurate group, and one of the things that is most accurate is the fact that there are no tents when you're a militia unit. So the lads took to the woods, chopping down saplings and gathering brushwood until they had fashioned a lean-to. After scattering a couple bales of straw underneath, we had our shelter for the weekend. Voila.

Camp with a couple of gatecrashers on Friday night. The Queen's Own didn't mix it up too long Friday night, prompting a few comments "wow, those guys are really hardcore..." "No, they just drove through the night, didn't you know that?" Yes, and we can hear you from under our blankets.

I should note that ultimately we want to be able to cary everything into camp on our backs...we were only thwarted in this attempt this time by the addition of a fourteen pound salted Virginia ham. All the food we had was non-perishable, and it was either eaten (ham) or burned (bones). It's amazing how little refuse you leave behind.

The lads receive their orders Saturday morning...we try to run things in a military fashion, apart from the floggings. And even then you can be sentenced to fetch wood and water if you're not prompt.

Overlooking the Fort's guns. There are not any super-awesome pictures of me from this event, this is probably the best one. Also the best because, well, cannons.

Saturday we had visitors (and by visitors I mean "non-costumed civilians") so I was busy cooking for t'lads and answering questions. We were sharing our camp with a group that ate vegan, so it was almost like dueling kettles for awhile. One of our boys volunteered to be tried as a deserter...and he was duly dragged into the "court" by his fellow militiamen, tried and found guilty of desertion. Then the lads went off to the battle (we won), and after supper we went up to the Fort to share some libations with the American rebels.

A deserter in our midst! Get 'em, boys!

The lads advance during the battle...

Fort Ticonderoga was built in the 1750s by the French...the British took it away from them, then the Americans took it away from the British, and then the British got it back until the end of the Revolution. It was manned again during the war of 1812, and even during WWII it served as a radio base. Today it is a living history museum, with costumed interpreters, an EXCELLENT museum, a nifty giftshop and cafe. During the 19th century it was restored by a wealthy family who also built a small hotel down by the waters of Lake George, near the King's Garden. This is near where we were camping...the Americans got to sleep in the Fort. But really, after seeing the hardpacked earth and stone floors of the fort versus our comfy grass and straw beds, I think we Loyalists got the better end of the deal. Fort Ticonderoga was also recently featured in an episode of "Ghost Hunters"...and yes, Nicki is glad she only learned about the ghosts after we went there.

The Fort at night

Discussing the day's tactics with the serjeant.

Sunday I watched the battle, repeated for that day's guests. It was fun to mix in with the civilians, shouting encouragement to "our brave boys in red" and getting the stink-eye for it. Many guests thought I was a history teacher, but I had to correct them and say "no, this is just wicked interesting, that is all." It's hard to describe what a re-enactment battle is like. Most battles try to recreate an actual event, but there are some sites that will just make up battles to demonstrate what eighteenth century tactics looked like. This event was one such. Basically the scenario involved the Americans attempting to hold the fort, and the British rolling them back like blankets. During the Revolution, there was a garrison of Americans here, but they were so few in number that when the British showed up, it was not worth the lives for a pitched battle. The Americans had already removed the cannons, so the garrison surrendered. Both Saturday and Sunday the British forces began near the base of the hill on which Fort Ti is located, then advanced upward. The militia (including the Queen's Own) acted as light infantry, pushing through bracken, muddy water and trees to get the advantage and cover the regular infantry. Also there were cannons and horses. It was a pretty intense battle, lasting from early skirmishing to a final bayonet charge and surrender, all told around three hours of "fighting." Even though no one was actually hurt by a weapon, one of the guys in our unit did sprain his ankle on Saturday. And I've been to other events where there have been powder burns and even a broken collarbone. Reenacting is intense, and it does leave you drained. (Unfortunately, it's hard to take good photos and even videos of reenactments...trying to catch the excitement from afar is difficult, and if you have cameras in your midst you're liable to irritate reenactors.)

So by Sunday evening we were pretty wiped....we had permission to leave around 4pm, and we did so. Packing up involved rolling up blankets, tearing down our brush arbor and putting out the fire, and then we were on our way. Jeff and I arrived back in Virginia at around 4:30 in the morning on Monday. It was probably the best reenactment I had been to...but I was really glad I had taken Monday off.

This is what Jeff looks like...he is going to be mad that I put this on here, but it's my favourite picture of him so far ever.

It's hard to believe that was five weeks ago now! It's been a lot of fun putting up pictures and reliving that trip. I had a great time, even with all the driving, and I definitely want to go back again.

**All photos of Fort Ticonderoga were taken by Kelsey Freeman...she is a professional photographer with our unit who brought her camera along.

After working Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of that week, I took off again, this time for Green Bay. As I mentioned previously, Dad took a fall down the stairs at home. Now he was coming home from the hospital, and I went to try to help Mom get him settled. And by support I mean reinforcing some of the new rules, "Dad, when mom says 'eat' she means it!" Dad was pretty weak from being in the hospital for two weeks, but he perked up (and started eating), as soon as he got home...and from what I hear now, a month later, it's only been uphill. Also, bonus, I got to meet my new niece:

I was thrilled. Nora, less so.

And since returning home three weeks ago, it's been work, work, work. As usual. I signed on to work part time at Busch Gardens Williamsburg in their costume shop. As you can imagine, it's quite a bit different from CW's shop. Also, bonus, I get into the park for free and have discounts on food and souvenirs, which came in handy last weekend when Jeff and I had a couple friends come down for Howl O Scream. Then there was also Prelude to Victory, the rebel answer to Under the Redcoats...I had to go around all day pretending to be a patriot supporter of Mr. Washington, but secretly I was a British spy, gathering information. ("Infantry: 62. Cannon: 1") Then just yesterday Jeff and I were back at an old favourite spot of ours, Smith's Fort Plantation, which is a local history museum. They are having their Christmas Craft Show this weekend, so Jeff and I went in our historical costume and talked a bit about the house. Nothing like being able to drive home after an event in thirty minutes or less!

And that's the update...I hope this will not be the last one for another six weeks!

Good-bye, Irene

2011-09-05T21:41:00.005-04:00

We survived!!! I was woken up last Saturday by the sound of wind whistling around the house. It gradually increased until it was an unrelenting howl until around noon which lasted until about six PM. The wind didn't go down completely until after one AM. I spent most of the day on the sofa. In the morning I was surfing the internet, waiting for the power to go out--and let me tell you, THAT'S a weird feeling, knowing that the power is going to go out and just waiting for your big exit from civilization. I managed to get a hot meal around 12:30 and then *blink* *blink* power gone. For six days. After the power went out, the biggest problem was leakage. The wind was beating so hard against the door upstairs that it was actually forcing water through the door knob, through the frame, and then down into the ductwork below. Downstairs I had a bucket brigade going. There wasn't a lot of rain (as compared to, say, Vermont), but the wind was unreal. After awhile, I sort of got used to it, and spent the afternoon sewing, listening to a book on my computer.

Some videos I took during the storm:

Jeff came home about six, during the lull of what had been the eye--and about thirty minutes before VDOT closed the James River Bridge due to high winds. We had some cold bean soup for supper (wind was too high to even attempt a fire outside) and some other non-perishable rations, like cookies, and then I finally dragged Kizzy outside for the first time all day. Jeff and I watched our neighbor's dock get torn up. The James was at high tide around this time, and the waves were approximately five feet above high tide. They completely lifted away the decking on the dock next door to us, and slammed some of the planks into the dock on our property. (Our dock is really just steps down to the beach, with nothing sticking out into the water) We stood on our dock, watching waves pound the cliff and feeling the shuddering motion as planks and rafts of decking slammed into our piers, and then I decided it was time to retreat back to the safe cave of our living room.

However, as far as damage went, we did pretty well. Mostly it was tree limbs and pine cones (and by "pine cones" I mean every pine come in a three-county radius is lying in our yard) but we did have a few major branches come down. One was neatly resting on a power line. The willow tree out front is completely shattered. Apparently this is the survival mechanism for willow trees, for Jeff assures me that the same thing happened during Isabel, and the tree came back. Cleaning up later that week, we found willow leaves wrapped around the bushes by the mailbox. Further down the road the power lines were completely broken, like guitar strings. Right at the end of our street, a tree had completely fallen across the road, taken out a power line pole, broken all the lines, and sent a transistor scattering into a corn field. Honestly, the biggest shock was that the power came back on as soon as it did!

Sunday we spent cleaning up and practising our outdoor cooking, a skill with which we happily have a lot of experience. Monday I got a surprise when I went into work and found that Williamsburg had no power. I got to spend time with the military guys on Monday, and Tuesday I just came home and cleaned up. We have a brush pile in our front yard that's taller than me now, and after working one afternoon with his uncle, Jeff wants a chainsaw. Luckily the weather has been a dream. High 70s, 60s at night, so leaving the house open to the elements has not been a problem, nor has sleeping. The biggest challenge was finding ice for our perishables--and even that was solved on Monday when I stopped at Harris Teeter. They were giving ice away! I will definitely shop there in future!

In a way, it was nice, the way power outages always are. We were prepared, mentally, the weather cooperated, the food didn't spoil and we ate up most of the stuff in our freezer without a problem. (Strawberries picked in 2010 that moved with me in July last year didn't make it, however) Jeff and I spent our evenings cooking, walking the dog, and going to bed early, since it's hard to read by paraffin-lamp light. We talked a lot, just hung out with each other. When I finally went back to work on Wednesday I missed him like the dickens, and swore that we were going to turn off TV and internet after eight o'clock in future. Even the mosquitos disappeared for a few days.

But now, the power's back on, work is back in full swing, and we're getting ready for a big reenactment this weekend. So, without further ado, a few post-storm pics:

The other neighbor's dock. His deck was about two feet higher than the one that was washed away, but, as you can see, ended up being covered in driftwood and decking material.

My tomato plants. They were nearly blown over, and after receiving a healthy dose of salty James River spray, I think they may be done for the season. But you never know. They are hearty plants all right.

The tree what came down on our power line. Previously, I'd called the power company about having a line resting on this branch, but they refused to do anything about it because the tree was on "private property." Guess what? They cut the branch down (and more!) on Thursday.

Our stove. The bricks are eighteenth-century bricks, leftovers from houses washed into the James by Isabel. We pick out a half-dozen or so whenever we go down to the waterside. Jeff build a little oven and we cooked chicken Sunday night after the storm. Better eating than anything we'd had in awhile!

After the storm...all I could think about was the line from Secret Garden: "Strangely quiet, but now the storm simply rests to strike again...."

***

One more thing...

I also want to let my loyal readers know that Dad took a fall last Friday. He fell down the stairs at home, due to a lack of coordination because of recent health concerns. He is okay, but spent a few days in ICU and is now in a regular hospital room. I know when he finds out I'm writing about him on here he'll be as embarrassed as the dickens, but this is my space, and that's what's happening in my life. And maybe he'll start listening to his doctors and take his pills now. Email me if you'd like more information--mom is asking for no visitors yet--and keep us all in your prayers.

Storm's a Brewin'....

2011-08-26T18:27:00.002-04:00

I'm sure my loyal readers have heard about Hurricane Irene barreling towards the east coast, so I thought I would update to let everyone know that, yes, it's going to hit us, and yes, we are ready. It's hard to believe that by this time tomorrow I will be in the midst of a swirling, howling tempest. The good news: Jeff has spent the past three days storm-proofing the house. The bad news: he has to work this weekend, so I will be riding out the hurricane by myself.

Well, me and Kismet.

We have water, we have food, we have first-aid kits, we have moved all the outside furniture in, we have tools laid by in case of emergency, and Nicki splurged on a new Patrick O'Brian book. Our house faces the James River, but we are up on a thirty-foot bluff, so there is little chance of flooding. The lawn may be overwhelmed by rain, but the drainspouts have been extended to drains in the lawn (thank you, Jeff!) so hopefully the water from the roof will run right into the James. The other big concern is trees falling. I've parked my car away from the trees, but there is one or two that might reach the house, so I'll be camping out in the living room Saturday night.

I'm ready. I am positive the power is going to go at some point, so I'm prepared for some urban camping. Part of my reason for updating this blog is to let everyone know if you don't hear from me (not that I've been good about updating lately, I'll admit), it's probably because the power is gone and with it, the internet. My biggest concern, really, superfically, is boredom. I don't really want to be sitting around listening to the wind howling, so I've laid in a good supply of (hand) sewing projects and books. And my journals, so I can capture the storm's fury in prose.

I'll post some pictures here after the storm has gone by...I'm half excited, half nervous. Like we've been saying, prepare for the worst, pray for the best! In the meantime--stay dry!

We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Nicki

2011-08-09T23:04:00.003-04:00

Everything is fine.

Really.

Well...

I'm not hysterical anymore.

Just kind of embarrassed.

Here's a picture of Kismet:

London on Fire

2011-08-08T21:05:00.003-04:00

Today is not a good day. First of all, there is rioting in London, ostensibly about a police shooting of an unarmed man, but really more about the unappreciated lower classes finally rising up and screaming out their frustration in an unstoppable orgy of rage and looting.

I know how they feel.

The rioting started near Wood Green, where I lived for six months, and included several stores that I used to shop at. Today it spread down to Lewisham, which is the shopping center I did most of my grocery shopping at while I was going to school at Goldsmiths. I don't avow looting--it is a senseless waste of proletarian small businesses--but I am in favor of setting cars on fire, which is also occurring. Fancy cars, ones that have insurance, burning in the middle of the street away from private property. A beacon to the powers that be that this crap has got to stop.

I should probably mention that I have been listening to a lot of NPR lately. My attitude is probably due a lot to the focus of the programming lately. That, and a desperate creeping feeling of not having enough money to live on (probably due in part to the fact that the program I was managing was cancelled for lack of attendance), of being nearly thirty and not living up to my potential--or any reasonable facscimile of potential--of not having any sodding end in sight of this endless work, work, work, work, the fact that my hands have started to hurt full time with no respite in the evenings or on the weekends (even odds whether it's arthritis or carpal tunnel), the 401k I dumped all my savings into instead of a bank account has tanked substantially in the past week, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, worrying constantly about the health of my family, having to choose between finding two hours for writing or doing the dishes (AGAIN), walking the dog...I can't do any more! I can't work any harder! And yet there is no respite! AND THIS CRAP HAS GOT TO STOP!!!

It's enough to make me want to set cars on fire. Fancy, well-loved cars with an insurance policy sitting in the front window, preferrably in a tony neighborhood of Washington DC. What else is there? Rage, rage, rage....I will bring the police screaming to my bonfire, screaming up with their sirens blaring, I'll be sitting right there in the middle of the street, waiting for someone else to make a move and take the decision out of my hands. I'll come quietly officer, if you'll just stick me in a cell and let me sleep for about six years.

Part two:

I'm also trying to go back to school. AGAIN. More applications. More tests, more student loans...and a request for a transcript from Goldsmiths College. My printer sucked up two pages, thinking it was a size A9 page, instead of our standard 8x11s, so now I have to tape the two pages together and mail it off. The sight of those pages morphed into the familiar-yet-foreign longish form was enough to make me tear up. I'm so sick of all this working and hurrying. I want to go back to that senseless lull where all that was important was making the next deadline, writing something that other people would think was clever. And going to art galleries on weekends. Spotting Nelson like he was a hidden Mickey. I marvel now at the amount of sleep I got in London. It felt like such a waste at the time, but now, how I wish I could have stored that up in a bottle.

And maybe I'd go out on a night like tonight and bask in the glow of a burning car.

Last Sunday I forgot that Benn's UMC was starting at 10 instead of 11, so I ended up going to Trinity UMC instead. The sermon was about Jesus walking on the water. How Simon Peter only fell in the water when he took his eyes off of Jesus. The parallel was clear: Keep your eye on Jesus, and not on the storm. That's great advice. That's exactly the advice I need right now. When I went up for communion, all I could pray was "Stay with me this week, Lord, stay right here by my side."

I'm not going to set anything on fire. (Got that, Homeland Security?) I'm going to meekly go about filling out my paperwork, go to work, register for tests, cook dinner, go to work, walk the dog...remember that we don't get to live in places like grad-school London.

Mount Vernon Part 2

2011-07-31T17:38:00.002-04:00

A handed down story at CW quotes a derisive guest as saying "You visit Colonial Williamsburg like you visit Disneyworld...once you're dragged by your parents, then you drag your kids, and then when you get older you can afford to stay in the hotels and eat at the nice restaurants." That sounds about right.

I have been to Mount Vernon before. When I was about ten, I think...this was in conjunction with a family visit to Washington DC, and Bush I was in office, so that would date it to about 1991. My clearest memories include standing in the HUGEOUS dining room, marvelling at the blue-green paint job, hearing about how Washington employed sheep to keep his lawn mowed, and standing in front of the Presidential tomb going "wait, he's in THERE?"

Well, I found out recently from an ex-employee that Washington never actually used sheep to mow the lawn--they used scythes and rollers to flatten the grass. But I wanted to see if other memories of Mount Vernon added up in my memory, so Jeff and I took a day trip up there yesterday. I fully expected the Mansion to be smaller that I remembered, which it was, but I was not prepared for the Ford Orientatio Center and the shiny new Donald W Reynolds Educational Center and Museum. Oh sure, I'd heard that such places had opened in 2006, and squeee'd expectantly up the drive, looking forward to seeing the waxworks of G-Dubs and original artefacts, but the actual centers were loud and shiny and a little, well, jarring.

Not lawn mowers.

We bought our tickets ($15), and headed into the Ford Orientation Center. Bronze statues of George, Martha and their kids greeted us. There was a 1/22nd replica of the Mansion, complete with lights, that opened and closed within a Plexiglass case, letting you peek in rooms. Then we were shuffled into a theater to view a movie about Washington's early career...but not before getting a five minute overview of the amenities available by none other than Pat Sajak. The Mansion! The Pioneer Farm! The Walking Trail! The Shops! The Boat Tour! The Hotel! The Civil War Tour! Children's Activities! The following movie was acted pretty well, but it didn't tell a coherent story. Washington was a hero when he was younger. Boom! He's retired to Mount Vernon. Whaa? Nothing about him being President? Oh, well, okay...I didn't need much background on our First President (did you know he started the French and Indian War? True!), but I kinda felt for the people around me.

Doors opposite the ones we had entered opened...no going back to see the statues some more...and we were walking up a brick path towards the mansion. Yup. Smaller than I remembered. But I didn't remember all the outbuildings. We made our way up to the Mansion via the South Lane, where the Greenhouse and slave quarters were, poking our heads in the door. As did everyone else who was there. That was when I noticed the hordes of people. For real noticed them. Especially the kids, who were running from exhibit to exhibit...while I was trying to read "stationary interpretative signage" they would dart in front of me, frown because the sign was not a stop on their "History Hunt" maps, and then dart off again, bawling that they needed to "find number 4." I am all for taking kids to historic sites--probably would not be going to them now if I hadn't been taken when I was younger--but these families seemed to be there because it was a line on their Washington DC tourbooks, not because they had any true history geek or squee factor. Personally, I don't know how I would prepare an eight year old for the seriousness and gravity of visiting the Home of the Father of Our Country, so hats off to this family, who not only clearly absorbed Mt. Vernon and the outlying farms, but documented it in a series of photos--MUCH better photos that I could have taken yesterday.

Another reason we had gone to Mount Vernon was so I could do some research for a play I'm writing about Washington's slave, Billy Lee. I wanted to walk around the grounds and get a spatial feel for the place, to see how far it was from the house to the slave quarters, etc, what kind of life house slaves would lead. I was prepared for not a lot of information about Washington's slaves--it is after all, Washington's house, and the Mount Vernon folks are in the business of continuing the deification process--but I was disappointed with how little info there was. The displays in the slave quarters were static, and there was no mention at all in the house tour.

Our house tour started at 2:45..well, that's the time we could get in line. Stood in line for about ten minutes before we were directed into the servant's house. Then we went into the main house, into the dining room...just as green as I remembered. Gorgeous color. The man in there talked for five minutes at random about the paintings, the original marble fireplace, one historical moment (when Washington found out he was president "right HERE!"), and then shoehorned us out the opposite door. As we were being herded out, I asked the guide if the paintings had been in the house when the Ladies Association had bought it. "No," he shouted, going back to the door we had come in and letting in the new group "they were hunted down and repurchased later." We stood on the back porch, looking out at the Potomac. "The Ladies Association also bought the land across the river," I told Jeff, something I remembered from the last time I was here, "so the view is the same as when Washington lived here. Except for the motor boats, obviously." We admired the view and then shuffled forward into the foyer. Four rooms led off of this hallway. Jeff and I admired the faux painting in the hallway, the key to the Bastille in it's glass case, I asked another question, glanced in the four rooms, and then went upstairs...where the next guide was already finishing her spiel about the bedrooms. More faux painting (Unlike other Virginians, Washington believed in paying for what he owned, so there is a LOT of faux finishing in this house, instead of actual marble, wood, etc.), and another quick glance at the bedrooms, then we were in the hallway leading into the room where Washington died. I made the mistake of asking the guide stationed there where Billy Lee would have slept. ("Frank Lee?" "No, that was his brother. Billy--" "Oh, right. I don't know.") Looking briefly into Washington's room, we made our way downstairs and into his study. I remembered this room, with all the natural specimens and the fan chair. At this point, I had given up on questioning the docents, and settled for admiring the inset wall cabinets. Then we were outside. That was it. Twenty minutes, five guides, and I had three questions sort of answered and felt like I had been on a conveyor belt.

So, okay. The visitor count that day had to have been in the thousands. Good on Mount Vernon drumming up the numbers. I'm sure that others who went through were perfectly content with their tour...the average person can only stand listening to someone prattle on about antiques for so long, after all. But I have a higher tolerance for prattling, and a better grasp of the historicity of Mount Vernon, and I would have liked to have spent a little more time speaking more with people who have their boots on the ground so to speak.

We wandered through the kitchen in a desultory way, then down past the stables and further down the path to Washington's tomb. More kids. The tomb itself, like the house, was smaller than I remembered. I stood there, thinking about visiting this same grave twenty years ago, when a little girl marched up to the gate in front of me, announced to seemingly no one "That is a very small room!" and then turned on her heel and marched off. I prevented myself from saying "Honey, that's all the space any of us will need in the end." We walked up to the slave memorial. It was much quieter and more sacred there. More trees, birds...Billy Lee is buried there somewhere. I wished I would have brought flowers. It's the least I could do since I'm quietly dramatizing and dismantling his life. But we just looked and walked on.

Down a brick path to where the boat launch was. Friends, if I'd have known there was a boat tour, we would have been on it. That was new. As it was, we got there too late to make the last tour. By this point, after the heat of the day and the oppression of hundreds of our fellow humans, we were not really in any shape to make the haul back up to the Mansion. We opted instead for a bus shuttle back to the Museum.

Not actually Washington, but an extremely lifelike waxwork! Who sees what you're doing there!

I was ready for the Museum. Part Smithsonian, part multi-visual, mega remix experience, I was looking forward to seeing WASHINGTON! THE MAN! THE HERO! Reinterpreted by the best that museum designers had to offer. There were waxworks ("death's head buttons? on a working man's coat? really?), cartoons about his young life ("the cherry tree is a LIE!"), and reproductions of artifacts that we were invited to touch (yay!). And there were kids. Hordes of kids. Running around, shouting, touching things, setting off alarms. One girl was taking so many pictures I feared the flash would trigger a seizure. I finally said "hon, you're not supposed to take pictures in here." "Oh. How come?" "Because it will fade everything." This seemed to stop her until she figured out how to turn off the flash feature. Whatever. Another little girl had a meltdown at the Presidential Swearing In Exhibit, slapping the Bible and screaming "this is STUPID! STUPID!" and totally getting in my way of examining the Presidential Swearing In Suit. There was a shrine to Washington's dentures, as well as a video of how there were made. (one word: ow. Also: ew.) There was an excellent exhibit and retrospective video about the enslaved population at Mount Vernon, which I watched in full. But, by that point, the day was over. We were tired and huuungry. After a cursory turn through the giftshop (where I bought the Mansion guidebook, hoping to pick up on some details that weren't covered on our tour), we took off.

We had dinner at a local pub, picked up Kiz from daycare and headed back home. Being able to spend all day with Jeff was lovely, as was getting away from the house. And I did accomplish goal one--that of studying the layout of Mount Vernon, of visiting where it happened and starting to see the elephant from the enslaved people's point of view. But I didn't get much out of the house tour. I should have thought before we went--July is high season after all. I'd go back--I'd definitely recommend others to go--but go in the off season. That's what off-seasons are for, after all. And, if you really want to get up close and personal with some of Washington's dentures, check out the Royal Hospital in London...just watch for opening doors.

Lighting the Way

2011-07-28T21:16:00.002-04:00

Last March I was calmly eating dinner with a fellow employee before starting my evening job. We had both heated up Lean Cuisines and were munching in silence, when suddenly she slapped her hand down on the table and started choking. I stood up, watched as her face started panicking, then went around behind her and gave her the Heimlich manoevre. I was freaking out as well, since she was wearing stays, and I couldn't exactly feel where her navel was...bits of CPR class were flashing through my mind: "Feel for the navel...don't be afraid to be rough...sharp upward jerks...you may break a rib..." I threw out a little prayer and heaved. She made a sound like a garbage disposal backfiring, and spit up a piece of potato. Gross, but we were both so relieved that we didn't care. She was crying, I was crying, we were both trying to remember how to breathe. After about fifteen minutes, we went back to eating dinner...and a few minutes after that our manager showed up. "What's up, guys?" he asked, sensing the tension, seeing red, tear sodden eyes. "Oh, nothing," my coworker said, "Only Nicki just saved my life."

It impacted me pretty majorly, but after a month or so, I had sort of forgotten about the event. Until last week, when a committee showed up at work unannounced. At first I thought it was a tour of Operations, but when I saw my evening program supervisor, I unscrewed my ear buds and paid attention. "We are here today," one of the ladies announced "to honor an employeed with a Lighting the Way Award--" geez, I thought, who deserves that?-- "an employee who acted quickly in the face of life or death situation--Nicole Lemery!" I was shocked. Really shocked. And touched, that my act was recognised not only by the woman who I helped, but by the company I work for. The Lighting the Way Award is given to an employee who goes above and beyond the Foundation expectation. Although I try to argue that anyone would step in and try to help if someone was choking, I'm grateful that my company got to see that I'm capable under fire.

The award itself is a small brass candlestick (above) and a little patch you can stick on your nametag so everyone will know you've won this award. (the flowers in the picture above, I should mention, are from Jeff--he surprised me after work today with them) I'm still pretty pleased about the whole thing. I just wanted to let everyone know and brag a little bit...work hasn't been easy lately, but sometimes karma is a beautiful thing.

Vacation in Pictures

2011-07-25T20:12:00.006-04:00

Hello everyone...hard to believe a month has passed since I posted last! I honestly wanted to post a few more times while I was home, but, doggone it, I was enjoying sitting around doing nothing so much, I just kept on doing it. So here are a few snaps from that week:

One of my projects before I left: a little sundress for Lily. I was worried that it would be too small for her...turns out she will probably get another summer's use out of it! The fabric was bought at a second-hand sale, and the buttons were $3 at Hancock Fabrics, so it was quite inexpensive. I have yards left over, so I may have to make a skirt for myself.

Ostensibly the reason I went home in the first place: family reunion. Here's a photo of the brothers and sisters, along with their significant others. I'm not sure if I can name everyone, but Mom's in the front row, wearing her fabulous purple shirt!

And here is a picture of all the cousins--that is, first cousins. There are only five of us missing. I didn't realise it, but at 29 and seven-twelfths, I am the youngest granddaughter. Peter is the youngest grandson. For the longest time, I thought my second cousins were my first cousins, especially since most of them are also older than me!

Lily loves taking self-portraits...and I love posting them.

After four days in Green Bay I went down to Fort Atkinson to visit Laura. Somehow we ended up at UW Madison's Terrace, drinking Spotted Cow and discussing politics at the top of our lungs.

I went over the Peter and Brenda's house for some Fourth of July fireworks. Lily was adamant that I wear the red, white and blue headband doodly-boppers, and outline her foot with sidewalk chalk.

Me with Peter, Brenda and Lily.

Another project I had to finish before I left for Green Bay--a teddy bear dressed as a Fife & Drum Corps member. Couldn't resist bragging a bit.

I missed Nora Lynn's big entrance by about fourteen hours...I hope no one minds me posting this, but I think a new baby is a great way to end a photoblog!

Going to have an early night tonight, but I will try to write more soon.

Reunion

2011-06-27T18:54:00.002-04:00

It's Monday, June 27th...I've been home in Green Bay for three days now. I should say--I've been based out of GB for three days now, since I spent Saturday and Sunday roadtripping to Cashton, WI to go to a Ruetten family reunion. I haven't seen most of that side of the family since Grandma Ruetten passed away seven years ago. Seems like everyone my age has got babies running around...yet it was nice to catch up with the cousins. Since we last met, I've "grown up," no longer treated like the little kid. Although there was a conversation about "after you graduate, get a job, marry, have kids...what else is there to update people about? Still living, still working, raising a family." What people do: live, grow, love. I also got a chance to learn a little about Grandpa Ruetten's ancestors, the ones who came over from Germany in 1881. Since living in Virginia, where everyone is a hobbit when it comes to geneology, I've gotten interested in tracing my family roots back. It's startling to see people with familar names, faintly traced in a few quick sentences and a picture. Leaving we descendents to fill in the blanks.

Another quest when I came home was to clean out the closet in my old bedroom. It's become a hole for memorabilia from high school, college, early trips abroad. And there's not really anyone but me who can decide what to save and what to throw. I've been working at it today with a descendent's mentality: both of my grandmothers left closets full of pictures and souveniers that mean little or nothing to their children and grandchildren, and I don't want to do that. I'm being ruthless. Haven't gone quite so far as to throw out the baby album, but I know there will come a day when I pare it down to a half-dozen pictures. For now I've been editing my high school experiences, tossing three yearbooks and only saving my senior edition, and making sure I don't have TOO many copies of the London Tube map. After all, it will be completely different when I go back.

Still, there are a lot of things I'd like to hold on to. Silly things, like scarves, that will come in handy next fall, and potential housewarmers, like a silk embroidered shawl. Then there are the absolute treasures, like the tape of an interview I made with Grandma Lemery. And the pictures...oh the pictures. I am hoping that in a hundred years there will be more than one photo of me left, but I'm trying to get rid of the ones that include people whose names I can't remember.

I may be the only organizer to have four piles: donate, save, trash/recycle and burn. There is something so cleansing about burning old things. I don't want strangers in recycling plants fingering my photos, I don't want people who were once very near and dear to me to think that I don't value that time in our lives together...but too many photos and a desire to move forward sends them into the flames. Tomorrow we'll take a load to Goodwill and then start on the other half of the closet. In the meantime, I'm left to reflect on what is and isn't important to me.

pictures = 1,000 words

2011-06-20T22:15:00.002-04:00

I wanted to write a post about how much fun I had at the Shakespeare this weekend, and at the gorgeous B&B in Fredericksburg, how much I enjoyed antiquing wif mah honey and the new project involving repurposed WWII linen mail sacks, and I wanted to illustrate all this with photos from our indoor picnic...

...except Nicki forgot her stays, and all she can look at is her midsection.

Jesus H. Gay, how did I get this fat again?

Managing Fine

2011-06-17T23:13:00.003-04:00

It's quarter after eleven on a Friday night. I should be showering and going to bed, but I am enjoying staying up late, knowing I'll be sleeping in tomorrow. I have been baking and cooking all night. Tomorrow Jeff and I are going to a Shakespeare performance at Kenmore Plantation in Fredericksburg, VA. The company is encouraging folks to come dressed up in eighteenth century clothes, so that's what well be doing, along with about ten of our friends. Sounds like quite a party.

Last Wednesday was my first night as a Program Manager for a little show CW is offering to guests as a free bonus when they stay in a CW hotel. It's called "An Evening at the Playbooth" and it's basically three excerpts from three shows we have going on...the idea being that if the hotel guests like what they see they'll buy tickets for the full monty. As of six-thirty last week we had fifteen tickets in the system as being given away...and six people showed up. I told the attendant, who was watching the gate, "if anyone wants to come in, let them." We ended up having about forty people by the end (something about African drums just seems to multiply people...) Prior to that I had told him to go get a music stand out of a nearby house when it turned out that the music stand that should have been in the Playbooth's storage shed was AWOL.

It turns out those were bad decisions. My background as a theater person told me that the more people who wanted to see this show, the merrier! and if we're missing a prop--go get the prop! But that is not the way CW runs things. I have been kicking myself since then...independent decisions be damned, I want to fly under the radar, lockstep, and fall more in line with the way CW does run things.

See, I applied for this position? And got an interview? And then, after a three week silence, an email saying "Thank you for your interest, but..."? And, frankly, if CW doesn't think I am qualified for this position which was basically written for someone with my background...then it's pretty obvious CW doesn't see me as supervisor material.

But I don't want my show to fail. It might be a patchwork of evening programs, it might be designed to sell tickets and pacify hotel marketers, it might be annoying for performers to get dressed up to only "work" for fifteen minutes...but it's still my sodding foot in the door and if it fails, it's not going to be my fault.

Sarah Palin, Historian

2011-06-05T18:38:00.002-04:00

Recently, Sarah Palin has been on a bus tour, to...well, no one is exactly sure what she's doing, but she has a bus and a film crew, and hey, who wouldn't stop at some American historical sites if they had that? Here's a video of what she was doing in Boston

I'm sure most of my loyal readers have seen this video...basically Mrs. Palin tells how Paul Revere "warned the British" by "ringing bells" because they were coming to "take our arms." In her defence, the British WERE coming to steal weapons and powder at Concorde, but Revere was warning the American rebels. My beef is not with Sarah Palin's idiocy. My beef is with her appropriating American history in the cause of...whatever it is she's up to. (Running for president? Running for a seat in the Senate? Trying to get her job back at Fox? Keeping her name in the news?) As a patriotic American, I sorta resent Sarah Palin for co-opting 'merican history, and trying to use it in the name of Freedom, Values and the American Way.

Notice how in the previous paragraph I referred to the American patriots as American rebels. That's because, in 1775, they were rebels. They were freakin' terrorists. But gradually, as history has been written by the winners, they were transformed into Patriots, who, apparently, are direct descendants to the...Tea Party. I am much more comfortable with the murkier idea of rebels turning themselves into the Establishment...my brain is comfortable with the idea of governments permuting over time...it gives me hope that it can change again in future. The Founding of America was not a foregone conclusion. The Founding Fathers were men, same as us, who disagreed, a lot. And the country they spawned contains Tea Partiers and protestors, patriots and patriots.

Further proof of this co-opting and whitewashing of early American history can be found in a recent (ish) story about a woman dancing at the Jefferson Memorial. In 2008 a group of friends gathered at the Jefferson Monument to celebrate his 265 birthday by dancing, wearing headphones and listening to iPods. Sort of like a flash mob. But one of the women was arrested, and after she sued, the DC court ruled that dancing at monuments was illegal. National monuments are a place for contemplation and reflection...not dancing. Naturally, some people felt this was an infringement of their rights ("our monuments, our respect?"), so they protested, and more people were arrested. Article and video here. The idea of dancing at a monument (especially a monument to an anti-big government, freedom lovin' founding father!) has not lost momentum: most recently a group of people danced again in May 2011. This time, police showed up but arrested no one. (I especially like the part of this article where the former Marine pulls out the Constitution and says "I got yer permission right here!")

No one is suggesting we Macarena at the Vietnam Wall, or Charleston at the USS Arizona. But a little perspective on how we honor our history would be appreciated. Some people view our Founding Fathers as saints...me, personally? I get a little tickled when I think about how TJ had time to write the Declaration of Independence, be ambassador to France, get elected President and then start the University of VA...all while being a bad-ass violin player. Huzzay!

Memorial Day

2011-05-30T10:23:00.003-04:00

One thing I learned when I moved to Virginia is that I know nothing about the Civil War. Everything I learned about it at school was either completely Union-centric or wholly inadequate. Luckily, I live in Virginia, so I am learning heaps. And not only that, I live on a battlefield--well, near to one, anyway. There may have been skirmishes where our house is, definitely gunboats heading up the James to batter Fort Boykin, which is about a mile and a half away from here, part of Magruder's line of defences across the Peninsula. You can't take two steps in this state without tripping across a historical monument.

Memorial Day was started by Confederate ladies decorating the graves of their dead. Gradually, of course, it spread to encompass all servicemen and -women who gave their lives for this country. It is a day to reflect and remember those who gave all so that we can enjoy the freedoms we do. Yesterday I was walking into the grocery store when I saw a woman standing by the door wearing a pair of red, white and blue pinwheels sticking up from a headband, red white and blue beads--and I felt momentarily embarrassed, like I do whenever I see someone paint themselves up in patriotic colours and dance around screaming "USA! USA! HELL YEAH!" Yes, the USA is pretty awesome--but I prefer a more dignified approach, remembering that other people feel their countries are pretty awesome as well, and that may cause friction. Anyway, I soon realised this woman was collecting money for the American Legion, and I dropped a dollar into the coffee can she had decorated with patriotic fabric. She gave me a poppy, and I put it on my purse. Poppies come from World War I...it's amazing how history can roll along, symbols and days all melding together until we do things without exactly remembering why or where the initial movement came from. Yesterday at church we honored our veterans by having them stand while three little girls sang a song called "Thank you, Soldiers." But it's memorial day...

There was also a letter to the editor yesterday from a man who wanted the US government to honor fallen Confederate soldiers by placing Confederate flags on their graves. After all, that is the cause they died for. It is an interesting plea. Graveyards containing Confederates that are private or in the hands of local townships are usually honored in this way. But graveyards that are on Federal lands--i.e. graveyards where Union soldiers and Confederate soldiers were buried side by side and were then taken over as federal land by the US government--receive no such treatment. Everyone gets a Stars and Stripes. I can understand how awkward it would be honoring people who were, after all, rebelling against their government by putting a traitorous flag in a United States graveyard...but then again, Confederates soldiers might prefer to just have flags left off all together if the only option is a US flag.

What's in a flag anyway? Should we honor our 1812 soldier by having a US flag that accurately reflects the number of states at that time? Or is the point not the politics but the remembering--taking time out to say thank you and we remember? In Williamsburg there is a small cemetery containing French soldiers who died in 1781...part of Williamsburg's memorial day service includes laying a wreath at their graves, but no flags. A French flag would be appropriate, and less likely to rankle than a Confederate flag--but wait, these soldiers fought for the French king, and so a Bourbon flag would be used. Yet the Republican French government that sprang up shortly after our Revolution would have looked upon that as traitorous, and so it goes.

(by the way--one of the things I've learned is that the flag we think of as the "Confederate" flag was not as prevalent as we modern folk think. Yes, it existed, yes, it was carried into battle, and yes the South did use it as a symbol of oppression, but that was largely in the 20th century...the the Confederates fought under the three National flags...so the most appropriate flag would be the third National)

I don't even know if I have a point today, except I've been thinking about Memorial Day. Personally, I believe that an appropriate flag to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers might be their battalion flag--after all, many vets have said that what they were fighting for was the person next to them. It's not always easy to tell what battalion a fallen soldier has come from, however. And maybe, in the end, that's why it's just simpler to stick to one flag--our flag, the modern Stars and Stripes: "We remember. We may have changed as a country, but we remember your sacrifice. Thank you."

Wake up, wake up darling Corey...

2011-05-26T20:41:00.004-04:00

So I like bluegrass music. Yeah, I know, I know--there was a time when dad would put his Merle Haggard CD on and I would roll over and howl in protest but now...I like bluegrass music. Jeff and I even took a trip in January to West Virginia specifically so I could listen to some live bluegrass in the place where it was born. And I spent a pile of money on CDs featuring original bluegrass. My iPod has died (proper, dig a hole in the ground died), so I've been listening to these CDs lately, and even learning a few of the songs. Without a doubt, one of my favourites has turned out to be "Darlin' Corey" which is about a moonshine makin', gun totin', banjo pickin' West Virginny woman. Who dies. Why or how or when is never fully explored, but there are highway robbers running around, and yet people take time out to bury her, so I have no clue what's going on. I just like the intervals.

The folks who settled the Blue Ridge mountains mostly came from Ireland and Scotland in the 1700s...remember the whole "hey, stop settling in our territory, whitey, or we'll start a war" thing with the Indians? Yeah--it was the Irish and Scots who were pushing west past the Alleghenies. Mostly because the English settled along the coast didn't want that riff-raff in their neighborhood. And if you listen to bluegrass, you can definitely hear the echoes of eighteenth century songs. Especially the part where people get jealous and kill one another and then are on the scaffold prayin' for to go to heaven.

I tried to find a good video for Darlin' Corey, but YouTube only has tutorial videos or crappy live recordings of bands that are probably much better in person. Just YouTube "Doc Watson" or "Earl Scruggs" and spend an hour or two.

And while you're there, check out the other reason I'm not doing dishes tonight: A BBC production called "Horrible Histories." Slightly irreverant historical vignettes for kids that don't talk down to them...although I'm sure you can appreciate Roman toilets more when you're a ten year old. Still--Charles II alone is worth the price of admission:

All together now "ALL HAIL. THE KING. OF BLING."

Gettin' Stuff Done Before Work

2011-05-21T14:18:00.004-04:00

Just dangle an opportunity in front of me to earn an extra fifty bucks, and I'm there. Especially if it involves shooting the guns at CW...ESPECIALLY then.

But I have twenty minutes to kill before it's time to suit up. I was screwing around reading other people's internet pages, and I thought "Wait a minute, didn't I once contribute to the internet?" Yes. Yes I did. Well then, maybe it's time to see if anyone's still reading.

This morning I got up and went over to the farmer's market...I didn't put in a garden this year because a) I don't really have the time, working as much as I do and b) I am lazy. Taking care of a house and a huge yard is quite enough work, especially when you factor in how crazy things grow here in Virginia. Seriously. Most of my loyal readers are somewhere in early spring, here spring has come and gone and we are now in the early throes of summer. Prime growing time. You stick something in the ground and ZOOM. Keeping up with weeding is a full-time chore.

Happily, we have a farmer's market on Saturdays. I bought two pounds of potatoes, a tomato, some spring onions and some lettuce, plus two tomato plants for ten dollars today. Then I had to plant the tomato plants. Then I figured, while I was doing that, I might as well stick the rosemary bush that a colleague at work gave me into the ground, plus some other odd plants that have been floating forlornly around in little black plastic pots. Including mint. The same colleague who gave me the rosemary gave me the mint, with the warning "Don't plant this in the ground. IT SPREADS." I, however, have fond memories of waging biological warfare on my mother's snow-on-the-mountain with equally spready Chinese lanterns, so I stuck the mint in the ground behind the garage. There are prickers and weeds back there that could stop a cavalry charge, but I'm hoping this mint will be the scouts for a whole regiment to come...can't have mint juleps without fresh mint, y'all. And if it gets out in the yard...we'll just mow it.

It felt good to be outside, moving around, getting my hands dirty. I would really *really* like some pretty flowers to put on the porch, but plants are suddenly incredibly expensive. I mean, I can remember going to Stein's with mom and just chucking random plants into the wagon ("Gardenias?" Sure!) and we never seemed to have enough! But now, looking at some decent pots, plus soil, plus plants, plus cute animal-shaped LED solar powered lights...gardening is expensive. For now I am sticking with edible greenery (and our fig tree has two whole figs on it this year!) but if I see any sad, depressing petunias in a hanging basket on clearance at the grocery store, I'm definitely snapping it up.

The other project I have been contemplating is crab hunting. We live on the James River, and as such, have rights of access to fishing and crabbing on the river. Jeff has two crab pots, and another one washed up on the beach in the last storm, so now we have three. Crabbing is simple: purchase chicken necks, leave them in the sun for awhile until they're good and rotten, stick them in the crab pots (actually a chicken-wire basket with holes for entry that are difficult to get out of), stick the crab pots in the river attached to a line or float and check back the next day. I know the crabs are awake and enjoying spring because Kismet rolled on a dead one when we walked on the beach yesterday.

I am hesitant to crab however, because the cooking method involves steaming the crab to death in a pot of boiling water. I dearly love crabs and crab cakes, but I may be a bit of a hypocrite if I can't bring myself to commit crabicide. The only good thing, according to a coworker, is "they don't scream like lobsters do." THANKS FOR THAT.

However! Tomorrow I am going to the grocery store, possibly to buy some chicken necks, and if I can bear to subject some of God's creatures to a cruel, slow death, then I'll let you know how it went and try to post some pictures.

And now I'm off to work--we are hosting Drummer's Call this weekend and they need people to man fireworks barricades. And shoot guns. Did I mention that part?

Doin' it for the Books

2011-03-30T18:56:00.004-04:00

Oh look, fan art.

I never know what to tell people when, after hearing I work at the CDC, they gush: "Oh my gosh, I am sooo jealous! You guys do such great wooork!" Usually it's a pathetic half-smile and a "yeah..." Working at the CDC WAS great. But it's been the 1770s every day for the past three years--the same patterns, the same instructions, the same petty dramas, pathetic inside jokes...

So what keeps me going? Well, the paycheck, the awesome benefits, and the fact that I can listen to my iPod all day long. I have a subscription to audible.com, and I've been downloading the Aubrey/Maturin books one per month. It takes about two and a half days to listen to each book, and I usually listen to them several times (eighteenth century dialogue + wicked awesome literary talents make them a joy to listen to) before it's time to listen to the next one. Also, I check out audio books from the library. So, although I lament the lack of time I have to crack an actual paper book, I'm getting my literary fix quite nicely.

Books, once again, come to my rescue.

Oh, remember the bear that I dressed for the Salvation Army Christmas bear drive? One of the women who is on the Army's board called me up last night and wants me to make one for her son...who's graduating from the Fife and Drum Corps this July. Huzzay!

Bumper Stickers

2011-03-10T19:52:00.003-05:00

Have you ever seen those bumper stickers that just say "26.2"? Sure you have. They indicate that the person inside the car has run 26.2 miles, which equals a marathon. Yesterday I saw a car that had--no joke--five of these bumper stickers, plus a couple "13.1" stickers. Conceivably, the person (or persons) inside were putting stickers on their car for each marathon they had run. I wonder what they will do when the run out of tailgate...possibly cover up the other stickers that indicate their children are football players, cheerleaders, swimmers and that they "heart" their dog.

I also saw a bumper sticker a few months ago that made me want to get out of the car, stick my head through the window of the car in front of me, and start an argument. This one said "RESTORE THE FOUNDERS VISION." Instead of hauling the driver out of the car and lecturing him on Constitutional politics right there, I had to settle for banging my head against the wheel. The Founder's Vision, eh? Would that include slavery and the subjugation of women? Jefferson's agricultural ideal or Washington's strong federal vision? The Founders had no united vision...they started a conversation, one we are continuing today. Oh, am I holding up traffic? My bad!

Generally speaking, I'm pretty anti-bumper sticker. Except for the Packer stickie that's managed to hang onto my window ever since I got Chi-Chi. I am a fan of car-magnets however, and plan to purchase something funny and dog-related when I see one that I like. But bumper stickers are so...permanent. Even the bumper sticker indicating support for Obama was merely placed in my back window, not attached permanently to my bumper. And then, about six months after the election, it blew out the window. That pretty much sums up how I feel about the President: I have withdrawn my unconditional support, but continue to support the office of the president and hope he'll go for some of his larger goals in future.

Anyway. Segueway time! What the hell is going on in Wisconsin? I have been following the bill/fleeing of the Senators/three week protest/last night's skullduggery/today's storming of the Capitol with decided interest, since this is democracy in action in all it's most naked form. I am horrified by how far the conservatives* of the Wisconsin body have gone beyond the "ideals" our Founders laid down. Majority rules...but since they have to rule the minority you should at least listen to them. I am incensed at Governor Walker's insistence that "our constituents told us what they wanted in November, and we're just following through." No--the conservative voters (some of them members of the unions you disenfranchised!) put you in office to sort through money woes, not take away their rights. Let me hit the caps on that: TAKE AWAY THEIR RIGHTS.

Voters are also fickle beings. I should know, I am one! And we change our minds all the time! This is why I don't stick political stickers directly to my bumper but change them according to mood! If the sight of thousands of constituents camping out in the Capitol aren't enough to at least convince Walker to listen, to be open to the idea that maybe he's gone too far, then I seriously have to question his dedication to the democratic process. We are willing to sacrifice. (raise your hand if you haven't gotten a raise in the past two years) We are willing to make shared tough decisions, do more with less, make it over or do without, but we are not willing to have our rights un-recognized by an elected political body. Because we're not talking about the right to buy car insurance here, we're talking about the right to be heard.

But guess what? We can still be heard. We can still scream and shout and go on strike and demand to be heard. We can bring this country to a standstill and force those in charge to acknowledge that we are not voiceless and we will not sit meekly by while politicians--wait, "politicians"--decide that they know what's best for us.

Forget bumper stickers. It's time to start laying down in traffic and starting cars on fire.

*I use the word "conservatives" here, noting that four Republicans in the Assembly voted against the bill.

Energy Drain

2011-03-09T21:07:00.002-05:00

Do you ever have those days where you just don't have enough energy to do the things you need to do to get through the day?

Like laundry. Even with a washer and dryer en suite, I can't seem to get the clothes rumbled through the cycle. Getting them rounded up is impossible, remembering to put in the fabric softener on time has caused more than one repeat rinse cycle, and as for putting them away? Why? When the three-season room makes such a convenient walk-in closet (as long as the curtains are drawn)?

And breakfast. Lately I've been eating in the car on the way to the ferry, so I can get another ten minutes of sleep. And then, when I do get to the ferry, I put my seat back and sleep again.

The problem is, I'm tired. But the tiredness is not the problem, it's a symptom. Lately, I can't stand my job. Everything about it just drains the life out of me. Thinking about going is enough to send me into the blue devils. I know the solution is to find a new job, but I'm worried that anything I would apply for will have far, far more qualified applicants--even the receptionist or assistant jobs I've worked at before. Then again, I could go back and retrain for another career entirely, like being a medical transcriptionist. (It is truly depressing the amount of CW people who struggle on their minimum wages for two or three years and then go back to school for an associate's degree to pay the bills...fellow employees with history degrees and a deep love of interpretation) At this point, I would settle for a job where my supervisor actually spoke to me.

There's no point in whining if I'm not actually looking for a new job, but I just don't have the energy. All I see everywhere are brick walls. At least I have a paycheck right now...as long as I show up physically, if not mentally.

Speedbump

2011-03-06T13:12:00.002-05:00

Jeff and I are indulging in a lazy Sunday afternoon--together, for once, usually he works part of Sunday, but today he's making a new leather cover for his hatchet because the old one was "farby"--but to tell you the truth, loyal readers, we are a bit shaken around here.

Last night, after enjoying a delish fish dinner at a local dive called Captain Chuckamuck's with Jeff's folks, we returned home to two lazy beagles. I took them out for a walk while Jeff and his dad put together their new telescope, and then sat downstairs watching telly with the two dogs lazed out around me. Kizzy in the back bedroom, Lucy next to me on the sofa. When Jeff's parents came down to say good night, his dad bent over to pet Lucy, and she reared up and attacked his face.

Yeah, it happened just that fast. I don't even know exactly what went down, since I was turned toward the TV at the time, but she broke his glasses which scratched the bridge of his nose. Jeff collared her and put her in the bedroom. We tended to the cuts and apologized, but there is definitely a different feeling in the house. Lucy was adjusting well, fitting in with Kismet and our crazy schedules, she was interested and perky when we were walking, played like a small horse with Kismet, turning the house into a racetrack. And now this.

Jeff and I are suddenly on uncertain ground here. Uncertain because we cannot--cannot--have a dog that will attack people seemingly at random. Yet we adopted her knowing that her current personality was a product of an unknown past, and that we would have to work with her and her needs to help her fit in. I thought we were doing a good job, but all of a sudden we are faced with having a dog we don't trust in the house. I hate thinking about all the people who gave up on her before, but I also have to put my family first.

So for now we are starting over. I put in a call to the shelter where she was adopted from, and they were most helpful, offering practical advice ("get her off the sofa!") and numbers for dog behaviorists and trainers. We are trying to be more understanding and also more strict, showing her that we are in charge around here, and that whoever WE want in the house will be permitted. I don't know how this is going to end, but it makes me heartsick that my puppy doesn't yet feel safe enough in our family to be quiet, content and loving.

Springtime

2011-03-02T19:45:00.002-05:00

I know a lot of loyal readers out there (and you would have to be pretty loyal if you're reading this, almost two months after I apparently abandoned my blog) will be taken aback when I write a paen to spring. Spring is definitely here, according to the daffodils, some flowering trees, and the amount of fur coming out of my dogs. (Yes, dogs-plural, I know it's been awhile, hasn't it?) After enduring a rough winter, I am so grateful for warmth and spring, for going out in the morning and the sun is coming up. For not having to bundle into a wool blanket while I'm on the ferry. It's a deep, wellsprung gratitude, like a prayer everytime I step outside with my coat unbuttoned.

There honestly hasn't been a lot going on the past two months. I started this blog before I left for London, when every day brought new and magical experiences, and I was a lot more out of contact with people. Now, I have settled down into a completely mundane middle-class life, with varying levels of stress and drama. My days consist of working, eating dinner and walking the dogs. Do I really have anything to offer any more? Is anyone out there?

Jeff and I adopted another beagle a couple of weeks ago...her name is Lucy, and she is 40 pounds to Kismet's 26. They get along very well...usually roughhousing all over the living room while Jeff and I look on and smile fondly. At night we tuck them into the spare bedroom, which is overflowing with fleece blankets and dog toys...in the morning I am greeted by wagging tails and beagle stretches and we go out for our morning walk, sniffing the breeze and occasionally scaring deer.

Mah beagle babies

Lucy Hanover. The shelter gave her the name Lucy, I added "Hanover" because she needed an awesome last name.

That's mostly the news for now...new dog, it's spring. The re-enacting season is going to start in a couple weeks, and I hope to have some new clothes by then. I'll post pictures. I hope my loyal readers still find my life interesting enough to read about. :)

Going to Church

2011-01-09T15:23:00.003-05:00

I mentioned previously that I haven't been going to church much. Not since I moved to Smithfield, and before that, very sporadically. Honestly, I think I might have made an attempt on Easter, and that's it. But Jeff and I went to a little Methodist church on Christmas Eve, and I think I'm ready to go back to attending every Sunday.

Part of the reason I stopped going in Williamsburg was the church I was attending. With over 2,000 members, it was hard to feel at home there...even after a year people still stopped to shake my hand and say "hope to see you next week!" Part of it was the fact that the Williamsburg UMC is a huge church and it is very, well, let's just say wealthy. As I was leaving, a fund-raiser was underway to raise money for a new organ that was estimated to cost 1.2 million dollars. No one loves church music more than me, but I can't help but feel that 1.2 million dollars could do a lot more go out in the community than sitting in organ form in a church.

Another reason I haven't been going is just the sheer exhaustion at the thought of introducing myself to a new congregation, being sincere and friendly and non-threatening, when I feel like my relationship with Jesus is so complicated. How can I be a good Christian, and still feel so passionately incensed at the injustice of the world? There are signs around here--similar in size and shape to the ones put out in front of for-sale houses--that simply say "No Matter What, Trust God." The print is blue and red, perhaps suggesting the trust be put there even if the American dream is sinking all around us. Most of the people who go to churches I've attended have been middle-aged or older folks, family people who have a fairly stable life around them. They're friendly, but they're not interested in points of theological debate or even admitting that sometimes just believing is exhausting in its exhilaration.

So today I went back to Benn's United Methodist. The congregation is tiny, the building is at least a hundred years old with stained glass and creaking timbers. The pastor gave a sermon based on the premise that you can't borrow someone's baptism. You can't borrow their faith or their prayers or the time devoted to reading the Bible. The message spoke to me. It made me remember how, no matter how depressed or far away from home (spiritually and temporally), there is always a promise inside of me that I carry with me. I was also comforted by the familiar trappings of a Methodist service. Reaching into the back of the pew in front of me I found the familiar red hymnal with the familiar hymns laid out, even the same four colours of ribbon to mark places. Some people think it's silly to do the same thing every Sunday, I find it comforting knowing that no matter where in the country I am I can always find a traditional Methodist service to attend. I don't know if this is the end of searching for a church home, but perhaps the answer doesn't lie within a building, but finding a way to share my faith with other people who feel the way I do.

I feel like the person in the poem "Footprints." I find that poem sentimental and saccharine, but it's also true. If you'd looked "behind" me for the past year, you'd probably only see one set of footprints trailing behind me. For the first time in a year I feel like I'm ready to be set on my feet, and walk on side by side, holding hands.

Embarassing things these days...

2011-01-03T21:58:00.002-05:00

Have you, my loyal readers, heard about the embarrassment on the USS Enterprise? The aircraft carrier? The story goes that two years ago the second-in-command made a derogatory, sexist video that was shown repeatedly on the ship's closed-circuit TV channel. That's kinda embarrassing.

Well, the second-in-command is now IN command, and what's more, the Enterprise is about to leave for a six-month deployment to the middle east. He's under review, but I don't think anyone who's been caught on tape making fun of his own enlisted persons should be leading a strike group.

The modern navy holds less fascination for me for several reasons (lack of sails...breeches...cannons...Nelson...), but living where I do, I can't help but feel pride and concern for the ships that come and go in Hampton Roads. It's just flat-out embarrassing, and I hope the Navy does the right thing and puts Captain Honors on time-out.

Fo' mo' info: Navy SCANDAAAAAL...

Christmas 2010

2010-12-26T12:57:00.005-05:00

Did everyone have a good Christmas? I did! I was worried that I would be come over-emotional at the thought of the holidays and family far away, but several things conspired to make this holiday one of the best ever.

>
My Nativity scene, carefully shipped to me by mom and dad and set up in a bright spot.

First, I had a four-day weekend. CW give its employees eight hours of vacation as a birthday present, and since my birthday is on the 21st, I took it on Thursday, had Friday off for the holiday and voila. Secondly, Jeff had to work. Thursday, Friday, Saturday and today. So it was up to me to do the last-minute shopping, wrapping, cooking, baking etc. (I apologised for the carnage when he came home from work on Friday and he cheerfully said "That's okay, that will give you something to do on Sunday.") Creating food for other people, being out amongst shoppers and driving around listening to Christmas music helped me to get in the spirit, instead of feeling rushed and put-upon.

Christmas Day we drove to his parents house for dinner. At first it was chaos, with three Southern ladies and one Yankee attempting to get dinner on the table, but eventually we all settled down and dove in. Ham, turkey, chicken, sweet potato souffle, collard greens, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, corn pudding, dressing, and four different desserts: black forest cake, pecan pie, lemon chiffon pie, and German chocolate pie. For seven people. Kizzy was going beserk trying to get at the food. I bounced up and down so often to take care of him it was like having a two-year old at the kid's table. I didn't buy him anything for Christmas, but Jeff's mom gave him a present: letting him clean out the stuffing pan with some extra ham.

After dinner we exchanged some presents. Jeff's mom and grandma gave me some lavender-scented hand lotion, having cleverly deduced I like lavender after seeing it in the bathroom at Thanksgiving. The best present had to be the one given by Jeff's aunt to his mom: red, green and white Italian candy. Feeling generous, she opened the bag and tried a piece before passing it around. "I don't want to say anything bad, but this is the worst candy I've ever tasted!" Consternation followed, as we tried to figure out why. It looked like ribbon candy, it was brightly colored... "Maybe it just tastes funny because it's Italian and we're used to American candy?" I suggested. But the mystery was solved with Jeff's aunt examined the package tag. "Sissy, it's pasta!" she exclaimed. And we all realised that the "ribbon candy" was actually bow-tie pasta with spinach and tomato additives. Hilarity ensued.

After that we dug into the mountain of desserts and enjoyed a cup of coffee. Jeff's uncle has traveled extensively for his job, so we swapped stories of our favourite places. ("Ever been to South Dakota?" I asked him. "No," he said "Ever been to Maine?") But we got going around nine o'clock when the snow started falling. I wish that Jeff and I had had time to open presents earlier, because when we finally unwrapped about ten-thirty that night I opened a hand-held mixer (thanks mom and dad!) that would have been super-handy for my mashed potatoes...a little lumpy this time, but still tasty.

Our Christmas tree. Only about five feet tall this year but dripping with ornaments. Notice the pile of as-yet unpicked-up wrapping paper. There are some good things about not hosting the holiday...

I got up to make Jeff a leftover-ham sandwich and see him off to work today. The sandwich will either be for lunch or emergency provisions if he slides off the road, for the snow has continued to fall and has now swept up into a blizzard. Poor Kismet took two steps onto the porch this morning, peed, and has been inside curled up on the couch ever since. I washed the dishes in the kitchen, made a leftover ham omelet and toast for breakfast and have been pretty much curled up next to him. The snow coming off the river makes the house feel like a ship rounding Cape Horn. Wanna see?

The wreath on our front door. For the record, I know that most of the loyal readers perusing this blog have experienced massive snowfall like this, but here in Virginia many believe that this may signal the beginning of end times.

Jeff (On his way home from work, trying to convey the mess on the streets while his girlfriend tries to hang up the phone so he can concentrate on driving, already): "I mean, I have never, ever, EVER seen anything like this!!"

Me: "These are the kind of snowfalls I remember from my childhood."

Jeff: "Oh? (xylephone, Looney-Tunes eye blink sound) Really?"

Me: "Oh yeah. Now hang up and drive safe!"

My car as viewed from the front door.

The dock that leads to a staircase descending thirty feet to the James River. Not shown: the opposite side of the river, half a mile away, or the whitecaps that are ferociously pounding the beach.

Our neighbor's trees.

A view from the upper deck. This photo was taken by briefly opening the door, shoving my camera through, snapping whatever I could catch, and then slamming the door against the howling wind. But not before....

A hearty dusting was strewn all over the floor. Arg. But you know what they say! When life hands you snow...

MAKE SNOWMEN.

(About a second after this photo was taken the snowman pitched facefirst onto the carpet...so he's now gently melting away in the sink. That's the worst part about this storm: the snow is the perfect weight packing snow needed for snowmen and it's too horrible to go outside. Arg.)

Meanwhile, I know you're all wondering where Kismet is. He is right where he has been for the past couple of hours.

Although he did look up when I plopped down to start blogging:

And now he's snoring.

So that's where we are...snowed in, anxiously awaiting the return of the prodigal boyfriend and enjoying some darjeeling tea, NPR and internet, trying to stay warm.

Merry Chrismas everyone!

Christmas makes you feel emotional...

2010-12-18T10:14:00.003-05:00

It may bring parties or thoughts devotional...Whatever happens, whatever may be, here is what Christmastime means to me...

I guess I'm just going to have to deal with the fact that from now on, whatever happens, Christmas is going to be an emotionally fraught landmine field for me from now on. Between losing Grandma one year ago today and having to pack everyone's Christmas presents into boxes for shipping (including one that would have been used an excuse to steal Lily for a couple of hours instead of being described as "a present with some assembly required"), it's been kind of complicated. I'm sort of at sea here. We are not hosting Christmas this year, and as a childless couple, Jeff and I haven't really had to do any serious shopping or manuevering to deceive small people. Don't get me wrong I've been busy (I have a new respect for my parents, who managed to decorate, buy presents, deceive small people, enjoy holiday concerts, and still find time to bake sugar cookies for decorating) but the madness isn't nearly as great as it would be if I was at home, preparing for Christmas Day. This year Jeff valiantly volunteered to work so another employee could travel home to be with his family, and I'm staying too. I bought a tiny tree, which barely comes up to my shoulder, and we decorated it in stopgap plastic ornaments. I'm not used to having a tree that looks like it came out of a catalogue. We have candles in the window, which is a Southern thing, and Jeff's dad brought over his Christmas village for upstairs. My sole contribution to the decorating, apart from the tree, is a hollow snowman figurine that is being built by a little boy and girl. His hat comes off, and he holds red and green Hershey's kisses. Mom got it from her oldest sister. When I was younger, Mom would manage to fill up the snowman when I wasn't looking, as soon as I got it out of the box. I was so mystified by the fact that one minute I was unpacking the empty snowman and the next minute he was full of kisses that for a while I was fully convinced it was Christmas magic or possibly elves. This year I made sure to have the kisses on hand before he came out of the box.

One of the things I haven't been doing this year is going to church. I really enjoy the Advent season and the build up to Christmas Eve. But I haven't found a new church yet. Truth be told, I'm a little daunted and exhausted by the idea of finding a new church and a new congregation. When I stopped attending the church in Williamsburg, no one really noticed...and even after going there for two years, I still had people coming up to me saying "Welcome! We're glad to see you, are you new here?" So probably the next church is not going to have 2,000 members. It is very hard to find a congregation where I feel comfortable, being as liberal as I am. There are PLENTY of churches around here...unfortunately, most of them probably would prefer I was not living with my boyfriend.

Anyway. Sort of all to seek about what Christmas is this year. I'm trying to get into the spirit, but I sort of don't have the energy this year, you know? I'm looking forward to this afternoon, however, when Jeff and I are heading over to Busch Gardens to experience their Christmastown...even though this year has been oddly out of sync, there still is a small child in me who delights in lights, singing and drinking hot cocoa.

Agnosticism in the Checkout Line

2010-11-14T18:00:00.002-05:00

Man, is it easy to drop $100,000 at the grocery story these days! Strike that--I meant $100. Sam and Peter already corrected my last post and I thought about going back and editing it, but then I decided it would stand as a testament to a liberal arts education.

Speaking of which, apparently students at Goldsmiths are "occupying" school buildings, protesting having to pay tuition fees. I can sympathise, but since I was one of the international students who subsidized their "free" education, part of me feels that maybe the time has come for a little taste of higher education, American-style.

Where was I? Oh, right, the grocery store. I rolled up to the checkout, brandishing a week's worth of groceries, plus coupons, gift cards, etc, and I suddenly realised, "Ah, nuts, I forgot my bags!"

To which the sixteen-year-old cashier (who *had* to see my ID, because the register would not let him continue to check me out until he made sure I was legally able to purchase that $5 bottle of wine destined for the crock pot), "well, I'm glad you didn't."

Cue the xyelephone noise that Warner Bros. cartoons make Blink. Blink. "What?"

"Actually, they're kind of a pain, the plastic is easier."

"But the reusable ones are better." At this point, I'm still unloading--I told you I had a ton of groceries.

"Well, these are recyclable."

"Yeah, but the whole point of reusable bags is there would be no need for plastic bags like these." Visions in my mind of that huge island in the Pacific made of plastic bags and garbage...

"Well, I think that global warming is overrated..."

At this point, I let the bag of cans I was histing into my cart go crashing into position and just stare at him.

"Uh, I mean you know how the earth goes through warming cycles? well, this is just another warming cycle."

"Yes, but it's way more than has ever been recorded."

"Yeah, but recorded history only goes back, what, 2,000 years?"

Not according to my Chinese friend, but okay, "Yes, but there is an archaeological record that indicates that global warming--and by that I mean the natural warming cycles--has never been this severe before."

"Okay, but I think all that stuff is overrated."

"Whatever. It's your generation that's going to figure this stuff out."

I should mention that by this point I am getting a very clear picture of how I must appear to this young man. Tired from a weekend of cleaning and working around the house, hair scraped up into a scroggy ponytail, probably have to hurry back to my three or four kids while my husband is working at the Smithfield factory of porcine death plant... Suddenly I feel incredibly old. I mean, I'm not, believe me, I know that I am not an old person, but to a sixteen year old? Well, put it this way: I remember how it felt at sixteen to be talking to people who were thirty.

I am also trying to finish bagging my groceries, cramming as much as possible into each evil bag, cashing coupons, writing a cheque, etc, as we're talking. Cashier-Lad seems to sense that I'm getting a little fed up with him--not because I think he is too big for his britches, but because I admire his chutzpah--so he apologises, saying "I bet you think I'm just some dumb teenager, but I'm not, I--"

And I cut him off saying "I don't think so. I think you're a very smart kid, just remember to always question assumptions, especially your own."

Then he goes "I'm also an agnostic in a Christian family," and I feel my understanding of his picture of me is validated.

I just laugh and say "Honey, I'm a liberal living in Virginia. Keep up the good fight."

When I worked on a community show one summer, I remember one of the teenage stagehands coming out to me. I remember what a big deal it was for this kid to tell me he was gay, and how I sat there waiting for a chance to speak so I could say "And?" Talking to the Agnostic Cashier (ohhhhh, does that remind me of sixteen year old Nicki proudly declaring she is a communist!) made me feel good that I could still relate to the younguns. I hope I won't lose that.

And I hope that kid never loses his spirit of freethinking rebelliousness.

It's the economy, stupid

2010-11-10T21:12:00.003-05:00

So I was watching 19 Kids & Counting last night (hey, it came on after Cake Wars and the remote control was allllll the way over there), and TLC kept having commercials for Sarah Palin's Alaska. "An Eight Week Event!" the announcer kept shouting, in between shots of Sarah Palin rafting, Sarah Palin driving an SUV, Sarah Palin gutting fish, Sarah Palin being eaten by a bear... No, no, I'm sorry, I know that last retort was a little bitter. But when Sarah Palin goes "This is flippin' fun!" right before announcing she'd rather be doing this than spending time in any ol' office, one can't help but wish that she WOULD stay out in the wilds of Alaska instead of insisting on running for political office. Also, how can anyone who truly loves the wilderness so much support a party that seems bent on drilling into the ANWAR and melting the glaciers? I'm just saying.

The problem with writing about the economy is, where do you begin? One of the dis/advantages of such a long commute is now I have two hours every day devoted to listening to NPR radio. Sometimes they do tend to get sanctimonious and liberal, but they also do portray a lot of stable facts, and the facts indicate to me that the economy is not doing well. Sure, it's recovering from the current recession, but not very fast. I am encouraged by any sign of growing, but some people in our government are not, and that is why they want to pump another $600,000,000 into the economy. It's important to write the number out like that, otherwise sometimes people forget how much money six million is. I can understand how the current administration wants to hand out more money to people who need it it: printing money seems like an expeditious way to have more money, but I also understand that money is a Concept We All Agree On, and if suddenly there is more money floating around, we may start to agree that it isn't worth a hill of beans.

I am concerned that our politicians may be Out of Touch with the Common Man. I keep hearing about how there is little to no inflation--and for some reason this is a bad thing--and yet I can't help but notice that in the past two years the price of a bottle of coke has gone up from about $1.25 to $1.59...and as soon as I noticed that, Coke rolled out it's 12 ounce bottle for 99 cents. If that isn't the definition of inflation, I don't know what is. Yet, my income hasn't changed at all. And sure, I am enjoying receiving more money every month thanks to the Bush-era tax cuts, yet whenever I hear the president whining about how we need to spare the middle classes from higher taxes I can't help but wonder. Mr. President, we, the middle classes, are the ones with JOBS. The ones who can afford taxes. Go ahead, even if you raise the rate from 33% to 36%, you still won't get very much, considering how little I actually make every month. Once you get this recession thing figured out, and I get a cost-of-living increase, then we can talk.

Do I have a point to all this? Maybe not. Maybe just to show all my loyal readers that I am still closely following current Political Situations, even if I am living in the boonies and I haven't updated for awhile. Maybe just to say that if this country wants to fight two wars and have a flat-screen TV in every pot, then someone is going to have to start paying taxes. I certainly don't have any solutions to what to do about a slowly growing economy, except to remind myself whenever I get wound up for a good whine that I HAVE a job, and I should stop and be thankful. There's so much discussion at the federal level about helping middle-class Americans and small businesses, that sometimes I feel like they're not talking about me. Well, as a single person who doesn't own a home, they're NOT talking about me, and maybe that could be addressed too...Ya know, some of us who are currently renting, childless and underemployed might like a little tax break too, but whatever, I know y'all got your hands full.

It's all too confusing for a little ol' personal blog that hasn't been closely following the economic situation for the past twenty-four months, even if its author has. And I am one of the lucky ones who has actually read the Baroque Cycle and has a fairly good handle on where modern economics comes from. (Isaac Newton's inability to get his mother to love him and the pursuit of the Philosopher's Stone. Or something.) This might also be a roundabout way to endorse one of my new favourite things, which is the My History Can Beat Up Your Politics, a podcast that takes a historical context look at modern politics. You can find it on ITunes, or on their blog. Since I listen to up to eight hours of my iPod a day, I tend to go through content pretty fast...I am currently splitting my time between My History... and Binge Thinking History, a British history podcast. Also podcasts on how to learn German: I am determined that if my dream of spending a Christmas in Munich ever comes true I wanna do it auf Deustch.

Still no point to this post, and it's time to wrap up. I guess...basically I understand there is no money and meanwhile I wish I had some more. I did win $3 on the lottery today...only $600,000,000 more and I can build that replica of HMS Victory and sail around the world!

Speaking of people who are having babies, congratulations to Peter and Brenda who told me on Sunday that Baby #2 is on their way! Not sure if I'm authorised to splash this around the internets yet, but hey, that's what aunties are for, right?

Drips of chemicals

2010-11-06T23:57:00.003-04:00

It's a funny ol' thing, depression. Today was great. I took full advantage of Jeff being out of town to spend a day doing girly solo things, like getting a massage, shopping at the thrift store (cookie cookbook! $2!), walking the dog, spending two hours on the phone with a friend, made chili and cornbread...The sun was out, the sky was blue, the raccoons were for once not running under the wheels of my car. Life is good.

So what's the problem? The problem is yesterday I was about ready to take to my bed for the rest of the year. For some reason my depression has been getting bad again. Perhaps it is stress about the holidays already creeping in, combined with some challenging commuting to a job supervised by the Captain Ahab? I mean, things were going fine, but now, all of a sudden... I have experience with feeling like this. I know that it is Not Me, it is tiny little drips of chemicals in my brain, and I refused to be stigmatized for having chemicals, or taking pills to counteract those chemicals. But I feel bad. I am wondering if it's not time to medicate again. Or see a therapist.

One factor I can definitely point to is the fact that it has been a year since I last saw Grandma. Saw her, talked to her, hugged her. And the experts say the first year after a person dies is the hardest. So I am giving myself that year. But part of that emotional baggage has been eating, and this year I know I've put on weight: my stays and gown from CW no longer fit. (Why, oh why couldn't I have the kind of depression that manifests itself in loss of appetite? sigh.) I am eating to comfort myself, and also because Jeff and I love to cook and feed each other. So more exercise and some salads would probably help with the thing, and also trying to eat less Splenda.

It's hard to talk about this objectively. Yesterday I could have typed up a beautifully emo post about how I am so depressssed and how my liiiiife is full of uselessness... But today was a good day, and I embraced it fully. I love living in the country--walking the dog in all seasons gives me a chance to watch nature change, and right now the colors are spectacular and the pecans are in full flow. I don't even know what I want to say in this post. Life is good but sometimes I don't want to get out of bed? How can I reassure my loyal readers without worrying them? But this is what is going on, and this is what I wanted to write about. (it was that or the election)

Tomorrow I hope will be more of the same...Jeff will return from the wilds of north Virginia and maybe I'll do some laundry and enjoy a quiet Sunday. I think, more than anything, I needed a few days off to do nothing but catch up on some reading and bake.

Across the Water

2010-10-13T21:19:00.004-04:00

"Why does our house have a basement?
Underground is underwater...
This is where the Great Plains end
in the Gulf of Mexico...."
-Noah in Caroline, or Change

I am, and always have been, a waterbaby. H2O is my native element. I love living so near it and I love getting to take a ferry to work every day. The only thing that would make my commute more awesome is if I could get a powerboat and boat to the marina near CW every day, then take my car into work. This plan would work perfectly, except we have no dock here where I could tie up a boat. Also, while the ferry saves me twenty minutes of gas every day, a powerboat's consumption would have the exact opposite effect.

I thought I would try to do something interesting with my ferry time--about fifteen minutes each way--but so far it's mostly been sleeping in the morning and reading in the afternoon. So I'm starting another blog which will feature updates every day that I take the boat. (Sometimes working evenings I take the bridge home...it's a longer drive for me, but shorter timewise since I don't have to wait for the ferry) I am going to try to upload raw material: whatever I've written that day, unedited (let me repeat that for interested parties: unedited) and unexplained. Sometimes it might be chunks from things I'm working on, sometimes just some prose or poetry that occurs to me as I'm hoppin' across the water. I'm hoping that creatively writing every day will get me jumpstarted, as well as giving me a little discipline. I've become horribly lax since i haven't had the internets in four months. Also I can't find my journal...

But, anyway. Pen, Ink & Ferry is now open for business. Enjoy!

Alas, poor Sancho

2010-10-07T21:54:00.004-04:00

Jeff and I live in a neat cottage next to the James River, with the dog, in a dog-loving neighborhood. There is Munsen, the shy basset hound who nonetheless will come up to you and bay, bolting should you offer to turn around, and his girlfriend, Clover. There is the scary husky who barks at us when we go walking and who nearly chokes herself on her leash...she's always outside on her leash, which probably explains the barking. The Rottweiler, who I christened Brunhilde, very much an attack dog, silent as a shadow and ready to kill if it weren't for the steel fence disguised as a simple white picket and an invisible fence set to "stun." The herd of mutts who rush out to bark from afar. The beagle who sits twitching at the top of the driveway, silent but ready to jump, bark and terrorize if only the training would wear off. The fuzzy black dog who has a bark like a rasp on gravel. The bitchy beagle who barks at us as we cross the electric fence so Kismet can play with the friendly basset. The liver-colored Doberman. Snoopy, a Lhasa-apso who takes his ninety-year old owner for a walk every night. Cora, who only goes for a walk with both momma and daddy, not just momma. And more.

Then there's Sancho. Kizzy and I walk down to the pecan tree in the yard of Jeff's relatives...his aunt told me I could have the pecans once they ripen and I am determined to get to them before the squirrels do, they are tenacious. One evening, as we were walking back, Kizzy stopped to sniff n' pee (he does this a lot), and I noticed there was a little black Chihuahua following us. I stopped to make friends...it took awhile, but soon the Chihuahua was letting me pet him and sniffing Kizzy's rear. After a few pats, I stood up and kept walking.

He followed us. On the way I met Cora's mom, out by herself, and asked if she knew where the dog lived. She did not. We knocked on a couple of doors and discovered that the dog probably lived at that house over there with the porch. I assured Cora's mom I could handle it from here, went over to the house by myself and knocked on the door. The Chihuhahua was visibly happy to be home, scratching at the door and whining to be let in, but no one answered. Figuring he'd stick around now he was home, I tugged at Kizzy's leash and we turned around.

He followed us home. Somewhere along the way I dubbed him "Sancho."

Jeff was not happy. I have been working on him about getting another dog, with all the skills I possesses, honed over a dog-loving lifetime, but Jeff was having none of it. Never mind the fact that we can't really afford two dogs at this juncture (Kismet's doggy day care and organic treats really put a dent in the monthly budget), but neither of us particularly care for Chihuahuas. Plus there was the beagle to consider, and Kismet seemed exasperated by this small, black thing that kept barking at him, attempting to recreate some famous love scenes at every opportunity. I didn't really want to keep Sancho. I knew where he lived and I didn't want a dog smaller than some sandwiches I've eaten, but it was getting dark, and I had visions of his small black self getting hit by a car or possibly eaten by something. A raccoon, perhaps. I put him in Kizzy's crate, closed the door and tried to sleep through the unvaried whining.

The next morning, on my way to work, I dropped him off in front of his house. A week later, returning to check on the pecan tree, I heard shrill barking emanating from the porch: Sancho had made it onto the still and was howling for all he was worth, safe at home. I felt good.

Tonight Jeff and I were out walking once again, and this time we were accosted by a man in a van. Quite a respectable man, with shiny shoes and a button-down shirt, asking, since we already had a beagle, had we lost one? He and his wife had found a beagle after the ungodly flood of last week. It was obvious this was someone's pet and they were trying to find it's home, but no luck. I suggested he try the House of Beagles, next to the house containing the bitchy beagle and sweet basset, across from the ranch that contained the herd. He thanked me and drove on. After stopping to chat with Snoopy's mom, and someone else who, inexplicably, did not currently have his dog with him, we continued on to the pecan tree. Not quite ready yet. The man in the van pulled up next to us. "I found her a home!" he said. "I knew you'd be worried, so I thought I would tell you." Oh? He found her owners? "No, I stopped at that house there--" gesturing to Sancho's house, "--and they said they recently lost their dog, run over by a car, so I sort of said 'well, uh, are you looking for another dog?' and they said sure!" Seeing the surprised look on my face he hurried on. "They have lots of kids, I'm sure she'll have a great life there!" And we both sort of nodded in agreement and the man drove on.

I believe that dogs (and cats) come into our lives when we're ready for them. Or not. But they come into our lives of their own accord, clicking into place like a puzzle piece. Sometimes they go away. I also know there are about ten dogs for every person out there, and far more are euthanized than are hit by cars or neglected by their owners. But it hurts to think that, as easy as it would have been to erect an electric fence, or tie him up when he was outside, someone didn't care enough about little Sancho to keep him safe from himself. This part of the world is no place for some fancy city sandwich sized dog. I just hope this family takes better care of their new dog.

Shiny Computer!

2010-10-04T21:36:00.001-04:00

Something I've been wanting to do for awhile...video update to my blog! Yay, shiny MacBook!

Don't worry, there won't be too many of these...I know not everyone can see videos. (and some people whose name starts with a "P" and ends with "ete" should probably spend less time checking to see if I've updated my blog and more time working!)

More updates soon, yay!

Anybody out there?

2010-10-01T21:55:00.002-04:00

Holy internet blackout, Batman!

I'm so sorry that my loyal readers have missed most of the past three months of my life!

But this post means we have internet in our house once again! It only took three hours!

AAAAA

But, with the freedom of a home computer and time to share my thoughts, there will be more nickilovesdrama! huzzay!

Right now, however, it is late and I am going to bed!

More updates soon!

love, Nicki

Updating from work...

2010-07-26T12:11:00.002-04:00

Hello loyal readers. Jeff and I were all set to have internet installed today, until we realised that there is no co-axial cable outlet downstairs. And upstairs is still awash in plaster dust and construction. So there won't be any major updates for awhile, as I am using the computer at work to answer only the direst emails (Pleas for bank account information from Nigera will not be acknowledged.) We've rescheduled for the 7th...and I am going to try to find a wifi connexion somewhere soon. Until then, all is well. Driving to work in the morning is not as painful as I thought it would be, once I realised the seat in my car goes all the way back for optimum nappage, and sometime when we get home at night, there's a belligerent basset hound who is convinced our house is his, baying it for all the neighborhood to hear. Plus it's only 89 degrees today instead of 100+. Huzzay.

All is well.

Moving Day

2010-07-01T09:18:00.003-04:00

Hello everyone...I'm just about to pack up the modem and the wireless router, so this is going to be my last post for a little while, until we get internet set up in Smithfield. I'll be sending out my new address via Facebook, so if you're not on there and would like it, please email me.

See you soon!

Lawyers for breakfast

2010-06-24T21:52:00.003-04:00

Kismet and I went berry picking tonight. There is a school behind my apartment complex--their athletic fields are bordered by forest, so every morning Kizzy and I go walking there. I make sure he poos in the woods, away from any playable area, although last week we were accosted by a janitorial looking lady, accusing me of covering the field in dogpoopy. Uh. No. That would be the deer...have you ever been here at seven in the morning? Deer EVERYWHERE. Tonight the deer looked a little nervous as we approached, but they simply moved closer to the forest's edge and kept munching and pooping. I tied Kismet to an old rusty desk that sort of acted like a sheet anchor--he could move around as much as he wanted, but he couldn't move very fast--to make sure he wouldn't chase the deer from here to the Atlantic.

I must have looked like a crazy person: eighty-five degrees out, and here I am wearing jeans and a heavy fall jacket, pulling my socks up over my cuffs. I was afraid of two things: chiggers and brambles. In the eighteenth century, blackberries were known as "lawyers" because the briars dig into your skin and DO NOT LET GO. Blackberries grew in both Europe and the Americas, so they would have been familiar berries to the colonists...Native Americans cultivated them by burning off woodland undergrowth and letting the thorny brambles grow back. I had been enjoying a handful every morning as I walked Kismet, but I finally decided to take advantage of free blackberries and fill up...talk about organic.

The brambles, however, were worse than I had figured on. They would grab ahold of my limbs and wrap themselves right around, then the thorns would break off, lodged into denim. Nothing on the bushes were thorn free. The smallest branches had the sharpest, pin-like thorns, and even the leaves were deadly edged. The only thing I could touch without hurting myself were the berries, and they were often coyly hidden behind brambly canes. I'm talking Sleeping Beauty's castle here, people, surrounded by a moat of thorns.

Soon after I started picking, I noticed that wherever a thorn scored my hand, it puffed up and itched like scratches one might receive from a cat. I tried to be more careful, but I soon started to feel like Harry Potter in the the Lestrange's Gringotts vault...the more I tried not to touch any thorns, the more scratched me. I had little itchy puffy pocks all over my hands, and I could feel more developing on my legs where the thorns poked right through the denim. When I could stand it no longer, I grabbed Kismet and hurried home, where I washed off my arms thoroughly...most of the swelling has gone down, but the back of my right hand is still puffy and hot. It was stuck several times, so I'm hoping nothing is still caught under my skin.

But! It was worth it. An hour of prickings was more than worth the two pounds of blackberries I managed to score. Organic, sun-ripened blackberries, I might add. They'd be all of twenty dollars and more at the store. I'm planning on taking some re-enacting this weekend (Jeff and I are invading Williamsburg with Lord Cornwallis' army, again), and if anyone asks, they're lawyers. And if anyone asks WHY, I'll just show them my battle scarred wrists.

Huzzah for free fruit!

It's Hot

2010-06-22T21:24:00.002-04:00

Guess what I'm thinking about...

Moving Boxes

2010-06-21T21:06:00.002-04:00

I am slowly packing up my apartment, taking it piece by piece over to Jeff's house...slightly embarassed by the amount of stuff that I've managed to accumulate in two years. Most of it is books, and, surprisingly, fabric. (A few weeks ago one of the ladies at work was tasked to clean house, and all the garbage bags of fabric scraps she was tasked to throw away instead went into my collection.)

Some of the things are tossed into boxes with barely an aside: the table cloth I bought to cover up an ugly table, to cover yet another ugly table, bath salts (bought with hopes that I would have time to give myself pedicures and as yet, unopened), the copper-bottomed pots I fished out of the dumpster the first week I lived in this apartment. And there are some things I wrap carefully. The salt and pepper shaker that I bought in Paris and nearly left on the train, a price sticker still affixed to the bottom. My Nelsoniana collection, rum bottle, figurines and watch, which has long since stopped. Pictures of my friends and family still adorn the walls, they'll be the last to come down and the first to go back up. I'm proud to say I have a big pile of things to give away or donate...not nearly big enough, but good for me. And my giant suitcase, pressed into service only because it is an empty thing I can stuff my stuff into. It's too big now to to carry on a plane. I can remember dragging it up the steps at Victoria Station, piggybacked by my smaller Samsonite, a stranger pausing to help me carry it up the stairs.

I am nervous about moving to Jeff's house. Not about the house itself--a glorious home nestled on the James River, newly renovated (still in the midst of renovations, to be honest) a box made out of light, with appropriate spaces for things. No longer will my jug of windshield washer fluid sit cheek-by-jowl with my Pussar's rum. Now I will have room to set up not only my sewing machine, but also my computer, my printer, I will have the silence to think, the space to pace, and a fridge where all the distracting snacks are mine. What I am nervous about is living in a small town. Williamsburg is small--but with its transient, wealthy tourist population, there is still something that passes for nightlife, there are places where one can get sushi and see art-house cinema (not that I've done much of either lately). Smithfield (yes, as in ham) is a tiny community, slowly moving out of the farm-town phase, into the romantic B&B phase, the antique-store phase, the tea-shop and art gallery phase. I do love a touristy town, but even Smithfield might be too small for me.

And then again there's the fact that I will know no one...except for Jeff. I've already told him we must make it a priority to get involved in this community, either volunteering, going to church or starting a Friday-night banjo group. Whatever. It's a strange move this time, still having the same job, keeping the same friends but yet moving to a new place. I miss my old friends more than ever now...it seems like its been a long time since I've had people in my life I could call on twenty minutes notice and go out for a beer with...or better yet, walk in the front door and assume the people standing in the kitchen were waiting for me so they could go out.

Still, I'm more excited than anything. The prospect of getting out of this dank, dark apartment, away from toddlers and shouting footy fans is more exhilarating than the thought of once again being in a place where I don't know anyone. I will be living near my favourite element and watching the osprey chicks grow up as we finishing the painting and get the pictures hung up once more. And I can finally throw the laundry in the wash and work on that masterpiece while I'm waiting for it to finish before hanging it on a line outside to dry.

So I guess I better get back to packing...in addition to moving sometime next week, Jeff and I are also invading Williamsburg this weekend as part of the British Army...I have to wash up some petticoats and get out my beanpot. I won't be cooking, but I might have to "raid" the farmer's market this Saturday...

Weddings are Fun

2010-06-16T21:11:00.010-04:00

I had a great time in Wisconsin. Everytime I go to a wedding, I always say "that was the best" or "I had the most fun at your wedding, EVAR" when, really, it's only because that particular wedding was the most recent. The other exciting part about the week was introducing Jeff to my parents. Everyone seemed to like one another...which was a relief...although I think he spent more time with my family than I did. Good thing he's a shutterbug, because now I have lots of pictures of Lilybet. She has CURLS, ya'll. And as soon as I can borrow Jeff's camera and plug it into my Mac I will show them to you.

Meanwhile, here are some photos I nicked off of Facebook...

We got into town on Wednesday, and after introducing Jeff to my parents and cheescurds, I abandoned him to go out with the ladies of the wedding party. We started at a pottery place, decorating mugs for Sara's kitchen...along for the ride was the daughter of the bride and the son of the other bridesmaid, who took advantage of the fact the paint was non-toxic.

After that we ditched the kiddies and headed over to Margarita's, where the bachelorette party got started in earnest...

...But we didn't stay out too late, since the moms had to get their little ones to bed, and there were still centerpieces to arrange and bouquets to tie.

The next day dawned grey and dreary. "If I hear one more person tell me it's good luck to have rain on your wedding day, I'm going to slap them," growled the bride, as she gaze out the hotel room window, her perfectly coiffed hair falling over her shoulder, looking like a Victorian poetess. We kept assuring her it was going to stop, but the thunderstorm that rolled through right before we left for the ceremony was not assuaging her fears. But by the time we got to Apple Creek Inn, it had slowed to a drizzle...then stopped...and then the sun gradually started coming out. By the time we were taking pictures, the sun had almost dried the grass, and by the time the ceremony started, Nicki was wishing she had remembered to bring sunscreen, and cursing the fact she was wearing her good shoes on spongy grass. (oh well. No one was looking at me. They were all looking at the flower girl.)

The wedding party...

And Mr. & Mrs. Clark.

Sara had overprepared for the reception, since there were about a thousand kids running around...that's just as well, since most of the adults also wanted a colouring book and a glowing necklace. I ended up wearing several chair decorations, made for me by Jeff. The best part of the reception had to be having someone to dance with. And when he wasn't up for it, there were thousands of kids running around....kids are always good for the dance floor.

Also, there was a chocolate fountain, which they brought out after most of the kids had left, so it was up to me to eat as much as possible and smear the rest over adults standing nearby.

That's right, ladies, he also dances.

Saturday I got to spend with mom, dad, Peter, LilyBug and Jeff. We took a ride up to Door County. Mother Nature, having granted Sara's prayers for nice weather for an outdoor wedding, was not about to listen to my pleas for the same so we could go boating. But we drove up through the Door, stopping for more cheese curds and Wilson's root beer, hiking to the top of Eagle Tower at Peninsula State Park. Jeff was dilligent about taking photos...I'll put them up here when I can steal them off his camera...Saturday night we had a traditional Wisconsin brat fry, with Mom's award-winning potato salad and a Point beer for me. It was so good and so relaxing to be back in Wisconsin, if only for a couple days. I can't wait to take Jeff there again...this time for some Up North time and a boatride...

Here I go again...

2010-06-07T14:14:00.003-04:00

Last Friday I wore my bronze, t-strap high heels, to try to get the hang of them again. Upon finding out that I was "practising" for a wedding last week, most of the women at work were eager to compare my life to the movie "27 Dresses," with Katherine Heigel. I have not seen this movie. I don't have to.

This will be the third wedding I've stood up for in the last year and a half. I am happy to do it, and have had no problems with any of the brides or any of their choices regarding the wedding party, locations, colours, etc etc etc. No, what I am getting snippy with is the wedding mega-machine that dictates people must do These Things on their Special Day or they will Regret it FOREVERRRRR. Most of this modern "etiquette" is actually made up bullpoopies that the wedding magazine mega-industry has to keep pumping out so they have something to cram in between the pages of hideously expensive ads for wedding dresses. It's enough to keep a girl single forever.

The latest target of my ire is David's Bridal, who completely feeds off of this notion that all brides want their wedding party to be co-ordinated to within an inch of its life. Not only can you now get dresses and tuxes at David's Bridal, but they can also help you co-ordinate the invitations, plan your honeymoon, send out gift registrations, arrange hair and makeup the Day Of, and help your guests work together so no one shows up in the same gown (the horror). They will also sell you dresses for prom, which is a whole other rant. The problem with David's Bridal is that it is expensive. It takes advantage of people who do not understand that perfectly lovely gowns and bridesmaid ensembles can be found just about anywhere. Photos on the walls show bridal parties of six or more maids, plus groomsmen and assorted children. I know they're advertising. But seriously, who has six bridesmaids these days?

For this wedding, I was asked to go to David's Bridal, and I must admit I was fairly happy with the selection. I was ignored for the first twenty minutes I was in the store, allowing me to shop unmolested--I studied the poster with all their current fashions--picked out the dress I wanted, tried it on and was out the store fifteen minutes later. The shop associates seems staggered that I knew what I wanted. There were other people in the store--one young bride with her mom and grandma, all sniffling everytime she came out of the dressing room with a different dress on, another group of girls trying to find something they "all could wear" (not hard when your entire wedding party is a size zero). They were so cute when I mentioned this is my third wedding in a year...you're all twenty-two ladies, just you wait. But I'm not here to have the Bridal Store Experience. I want to look nice and support the bride and groom at the beginning of their married life together. That's all. I don't even feel comfortable shopping with other people when I'm just buying regular clothes!

When I went back to get my dress (no off the rack for David's Bridal--everything is special ordered), the women were astonished that I didn't want to try it on. "Suppose it needs...alterations?!" they twittered. I was not game for their brand of sales up-manship. "...I work as a tailor for Colonial Williamsburg," I said through gritted teeth. "If there's anything wrong with it, I can fix it." "Oh," they said, looking disappointed as a fifty-dollar alteration fee disappeared into thin air.

The dress I tried on fit me like a glove, and so does this one. It has everything I like in a dress: a flowy hemline, not too clingy, neckline and armseyes high enough to wear a real bra, no need for expensive undergarments... Except for the fact that the v-neck in the back vees just a little too deeply, so that you can see the top of my bra strap. I fixed that problem today--well, two birds with one stone actually. This dress also has--had-pockets. Pockets! On a dress! Why! Oh yes, I am going to ruin the perfect lines of this dress by shoving my camera, cellphone and wallet in there. ARG. So I fixed that problem by cutting out the pockets and then fixed the neckline problem by making a little "v" from the pocket fabric and stitching it into the lining of the dress. I'm goooood.

So the dress is ready, and the bridesmaid will be packed as soon as she stops procrastinating by updating her blog. I'm looking forward to going home and seeing some old friends from high school. Our ten-year high school graduation reunion is at the end of the month...I would much rather catch up with people at a wedding reception. It's hard to believe it's been ten years, and that everyone is getting married and having babies. But then, as I reflect on the three dresses hanging in my closet, I guess it's not that hard to believe. I'm glad this will be the last wedding for awhile though. The next one I stand up in will be my own.

And I'm not wearing white, either.

This is the day we stop and remember this thing

2010-05-31T22:28:00.003-04:00

I always feel vaguely guilty about having national holidays off, when the historic area is open three hundred and sixty five days a year, so my interpreter friends are out there regardless. I was determined to make the most of my time off.

This morning I participated in a Memorial Day parade, honoring the fallen war dead who are buried throughout Williamsburg. As we lined up near the Palace, the temperature was hovering around ninety...I can't complain though, I wasn't wearing a woolen Continental uniform, nor carrying a musket with a fixed bayonet. (the muskets we carry are about twelve pounds unbayonetted, about fourteen with) After laying a wreath at the Palace, to honor the Continental soldiers buried in the garden--Washington used the empty building as a hospital--we marched down the Palace Green to Bruton Parish Church, where more soldiers are buried. Three volleys there, and then the long march to the French cemetery, a tiny, out of the way, peaceful plot of land where some of Rochambeau's men were laid to rest. Far, far from home, probably not understanding exactly why the King of France would take the side of some upstart colonial rebels, but loyally here doing their duty. We had a good turnout--a large amount of guests who were attentively solemn, some who were more interested in getting a picture with the militia, a few locals who skirted the crowd with their dogs, and one idiot jogger who ran straight through the rope barricade, missing the yells of "you can't go there, there's live firing!" due to an iPod firmly screwed into his ears.

I sweated straight through my linen shirt and hunt frock. When I got home, I looked like I had jumped into a pool fully clothed. I had lunch, started some laundry and began packing. You see, loyal readers, I am going to be moving in with Jeff, so once again I find myself putting my life into boxes in preparation for another jump. Most of the books I have with me were lovingly packed before I went to London. The boxes still have "Books!" written on them with little hearts around the word--I have kept them, flattened and tucked behind my dresser for two years. They won't all fit into the three boxes I brought now. "Nelson and Napoleon" was bought as a present to myself for getting an apartment, and it sits weighty on the bottom of one box that contains all my maritime and English history books. A bag of winter clothes and a serious debate about whether or not to get rid of some of these sweaters. I love these sweaters. But I don't wear them, winter being so short in Virginia. A small pile of things to be got rid of or given back to their rightful owners. I think to myself that I must be in America for good...I would never have let my possessions get so out of control, so permeated throughout this apartment otherwise.

Then the grocery store. A friend has told me her husband went to the emergency room, and they are waiting on test results. Her family, his family, a sister, all are coming to help out with the kids, with the emergency, there's nothing I can do to help but pray, but Midwestern genes dictate I must make a casserole. I have never done this sort of thing before, so I fall back weakly on a Betty Crocker recipe for macaroni and cheese. I add a lot of cheese.

Folding clothes, walking the dog. I am hurrying to get everything finished by four so I can take a nap before working the evening program. The march through the historical area has taken it out of me, and I am fighting off a weird headache. I succumb to the joys of high thread count sheets and the AC blowing directly on me. A fan wafts beagle farts into my face as Kismet joins me in a nap.

Then, getting dressed again, this time in girl clothes. I must wear stays to fit into my gown, but it's not the stays that are hot tonight, it's the linen petticoat and gown skirt. They absorb the humidity in the air and stick to my legs, I feel like I'm wearing wool. Not much I can do, except pin my kerchief loosely, slightly immodestly, around my neck. I carry the mac n' cheese to work with me, cleverly hidden in an extra piece of fabric as a disguise. My friend and her family live next door to the Randolph House, where I work. At the break, an older man is sitting on their porch...I go up and introduce myself--he is the father in law of the sick husband, and he tells me that it's cancer. What the next step will be they're not sure yet. I lamely push my mac 'n cheese on him, answer a guest's question about the gardens behind the Randolph and then walk over to the office where the ghost tour leaders meet, to tell another employee what's going on. She hopes he's not at a certain hospital. I tell her he is. She starts telling me horror stories about her husband's experience there. I let her run on, then make sure she's okay and pat her hand before I leave.

As I'm walking back to the house, a little boy comes up behind me, crying. Sometimes they do this, the kids, they are having hissy fits or they are overtired. But he is overwhelmed with tears and looking frightened. I stop him and ask if he's okay. "Nnno," he says, hiccoughing, "I'm lost." So I take his hand and we go back to the office where I hand him over to one of the counter people. Luckily the little boy knows his mom's cell phone number. And, at the end of the night when I call my manager to let him know I'm leaving, he tells me the boy found his parents.

On the way home I stop for ice cream. I want a peanut buster parfait from Dairy Queen, but I will settle for a hot fudge sundae with peanuts. Rita's--the frozen custard stand on the way home--does not have peanuts. But I do not learn this until after the nice man behind the counter has triumphantly presented me with a scoop of vanilla custard slathered with hot fudge. I am disappointed. But I eat it anyway. It tastes cool.

My roommate has turned the AC off. I suspect she's had her window open all day--she is constantly cold--but by now it's cooled down enough that the fan will be enough for tonight. Tomorrow is a Tuesday--traditionally the slowest day of the week--but I feel rested knowing how much I have accomplished today. A hot day, a long day, a day for remembering and a day for doing.

How to solve a problem like Maria...

2010-05-26T22:17:00.004-04:00

The problem with having a blog is that you must have something to write about. Or you launch on your glorious adventure assuming (hoping?) your life will furnish you with enough material to keep going. I was never very grandiose in my blog attempts, this literary corner of the internet is just an attempt to keep my friend and family up to date on what's going on in my life.

Except that there's not much going on in my life right now except for work. And work is... Well, there's the rub. When I got this position I said that I wouldn't write about my current employer, except to share positive stories and potentially embarassing things I do. Except that work is... Well, what I'm trying to say is that there's only so many times your loyal readers want to hear about beagle farts and me running around in crazy costumes.

Work has totally taken over my life. Work means sixty hour weeks just to not make ends meet. Work means being underpaid to be underappreciated. Work means creative enthusiasms meeting an effective wall of silence and a corporate attitude of That's Not How We Do Things Around Here. Work is making me increasingly unhappy, tired, fat and stressed.

And I know--I know I ought to be grateful to have a job in this economy, working at a place that is at least slightly more creative than an office beehive. And I know too that I should chuck it all and start over, free as the wind, confident in my bohemian abilities to get by. Part of me is still tired of surfing that uncertain wave that is Temping+Writing and grateful for a solid workweek, part of me (the 18 to 22 year old part, no doubt) wonders what the bleedin' hell I'm doing here.

The single ray of sunshine that has been sustaining me for the past few months is the fact that my play has been accepted, is in rehearsals and will open July 3rd...but in two plus years, nothing has happened beyond that. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Work is going to continue to wreak havoc on my wellbeing and so... Well, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.

Or, perhaps, find another mountain...

Come to the shoulder

2010-05-25T19:25:00.004-04:00

Here's what I look like these days...The wind nearly took my hat off just as I snapped this picture. I managed to avoid another raging sunburn thanks to a major application of sunburn and this hat. I love this hat.

Jeff and I spent last weekend in Bowie, Maryland, at beautiful Belair Mansion. Saturday Jeff put his militia through their paces, and I got to use my brand new clay bean pot and cook dinner for t'lads over an open fire. It was a pretty sweet deal...for them. I spent the entire day out in the sun, hunched over a hot fire, simultaneously trying to keep the wood going and praying that I wouldn't give everyone salmonella. Thank God for the brisk wind that not only fanned the flames but also kept me cool. I really enjoyed the challenge of cooking over a live fire...it was such a departure from cooking on a stove. Most of the folks who stopped by were disappointed that there weren't more of us (apparently the local paper got our Saturday and a bigger reenactment in August mixed up), but a few of them spent a significant amount of time asking questions. Two teenagers who showed up as we were packing up actually got to pull the trigger on one of the guns that hadn't been cleaned yet.

It was refreshing to be at site that was so welcoming of reenactors. Belair was built in the 1750s and redesigned in the late 1890s. In 1957, William Levitt bought the property and set about converting the commodious lands surrounding the mansion into the newest Levittown. He used Belair as an office and left it to the local ladies' historical society upon his death. Bowie used it as a town hall until the 1980s, when it was turned into a historic site. Now they are working into returning it to its eighteenth-nineteenth and -early twentieth splendor. It was a little odd to be deep in the eighteenth century as 90s pop blared from the community pool a hundred feet away. But the private tour of the house was delightful--I especially enjoyed inspecting the original set of Hogarth's "Idle and Industrious 'Prentice" prints, and the original 1920s bellpull lights and dumbwaiter.

After a hard day's work in the sun, some of t'lads in Jeff's militia invited us to "the" local Annapolis hangout, Pussars Restaurant, where we sampled that fine company's most well known product and some local seafood. The heart of Annapolis is probably the most well preserved eighteenth century neighborhood in America...and as the night fell we drew stares walking around in our clothes admiring the architecture and a cannon from 1634 that had been dredged up from a local river. I, alas, had left my camera back at Belair, so no photos of Annapolis (or the ships that paraded up and down!) but here are some photos of the day...

Jeff with Belair in the background.

Dinner! Notice the lovely clay beanpot with chicken bubbling away. Notice also the broken cutting board on the wooden block. I attempted to crush some peppercorns on it with the bottom of my saltglaze mug...those buggers are tough.

The lads make ready.

Dyeing tonight

2010-05-20T22:52:00.002-04:00

I am dyeing my hair for the millionth time, but for only the second time this year. I think I started when I was thirteen or so...you can't buy knives or adult magazines when you're under eighteen, but apparently hair colour is ok. (Rebellious children take note!) I haven't had my natural hair colour since. It used to be a joke that I dyed my hair constantly so that I wouldn't have to know when it was turning grey, but the joke is on me. The past couple weeks, when I've pulled my hair back into the pompadour required for an eighteenth century lady, one determined grey hair has cheerfully poked up, defying bobby pins and hairspray alike. So for the first time, I am actually dyeing my hair to cover grey.

That doesn't mean I'm doing anything different...my method is slather-and-scrub, no matter what the box might say. And I do someday look forward to sporting a head of beautiful white-grey, like the matriarchs in my family. I will probably take advantage of not having to bleach my hair first to finally dye it purple...I hope so, anyway.

Urghhh...I wanted to say something profound but I have to go wash this goop out of my hair. Jeff and I are going reenacting this weekend...I hope to have some pictures to post and a proper update soon.

Save the Surprise!

2010-05-04T23:14:00.002-04:00

Okay, okay, so I know I haven't updated in what seems like three years...I spent a weekend reenacting and then a week hosting an old friend, which ended up in a trip to the beach that gave me a sunburn so bad I have been crying for the past three days. I know you all want to hear about that, but! A quick trip around the interwebs tonight brought me to the San Diego's Maritime Museum website, where their end of year appeal (for money) includes a plea for help in restoring HMS Surprise...

"You may remember me as that random person that sails the Surprise and posts pictures about these adventures.

Well, I'm coming to you in a time of need. We just got our favourite ship in drydock and have some bad news. Her hull is so rotted through, the Coast Guard can only approve her as a dockside attraction, and she won't be able to sail again unless we practically rebuild everything from the waterline down. Now, the Maritime Museum of San Diego is all about preserving historic ships in sailing condition, and I (and the rest of the volunteer crew) simply cannot see the Surprise just sitting at the dock and never sailing again. Especially not after all the work we've done to get her good and sailing-fit!

If you could help the Surprise out, we would be eternally grateful. There is a donation link here at the Maritime Museum's website, and any little bit can help. Tell your friends, we need all of the help we can get.

Cheers,
Katherine

EDIT: A lot of you aren't from the US and were wondering how to donate, since the online form calls for a state. You can contact the Development Office if you'd like to donate by cash or check (cheque...).

(619) 234-9153 x 141 or x 129
Development@sdmaritime.org

Development Office
Maritime Museum of San Diego
1492 N. Harbor Dr
San Diego, CA 92101"

HMS Surprise was, of course, a replica of the eighteenth-century sailing ship and was used in the movie Master and Commander. She was built here on the east coast and then--as soon as Nicki got wind of her--promptly removed to the other side of the damm country, so it's in my interests to keep her afloat as long as possible. A: so I can go see her and drool over hearts of oak and futtock shrouds and B: so we can hopefully see another Aubrey/Maturin movie!!!

That is all. More later.

Hands of Fate

2010-04-15T22:17:00.002-04:00

Colonial Williamsburg will be hosting Mamie Gummer for an Artist-in-Residence program on May 1st. Ms. Gummer will be portraying Lady Dunmore in a few scenes, and generally swanning around looking pretty. The Costume Design Center is in a right tizzy, trying to get everything ready. This is complicated by the fact that Ms. Gummer will not be here until May 1st, and, as all you designers out there know, trying to build something to fit an absent person is nearly impossible. Also, our manager is using her visit as an excuse to have a painted silk replicated...an original silk gown in the collection was photographed and then the pictures were sent to a firm in New York to be digitally printed on silk. The fabric hasn't arrived yet, but once it does, all heck will break loose. Silk gowns are fickle things at the best of times...trying to fit them to a fit model and not the actual body only complicates things.

We were invaded a week or so ago by the Products, Publishing and Learning Ventures division, who set up bright lights and filmed people talking in front of mannequins. They've edited little videos for release on CW's website, and I present them here: Colonial Williamsburg Video Player. Click on "Special Events" and then click on "Dressing Lady Dunmore." That's my boss' boss, the awesome one who got me the gig writing the play, talking about dressing Ms. Gummer. And, around minute 1:10, that's me! Wearing my ratty old purple sweater and repairing shirt cuffs. Too bad I had a curtain of hair hiding my face...

The only bad part about this is that Mamie Gummer is coming on May 1st for one day and one day only...so all the building, the pretty costumes, the New York silk, the excitement is really only for a few hours. Then the gown will go into stock, probably to be pulled out for tours. Still, it will be a lovely addition to our collection...I just wish our artist could stay in residence a while longer.

Spring is here

2010-04-08T23:00:00.003-04:00

Because it has been so insanely hot the past three days, spring is on mega-overdrive here. All the vegetation is going "WHEEEE, OMYGOD, OMYGOD, MUST REPRODUCE, MUST CREATE POLLEN, MUST CAST POLLEN OVER EEEEVERYTHIIIIING!!!!!! And now everything has a light dusting of electric green pollen. Good thing I'm not too allergic.

Poor Kizfiz is. He came home after spending the day with friends so covered in the stuff that he looked like a druggie rockstar who had done yellow cocaine. Mama took some pity on his sad little snorting though and hid a half a Benadryl into his peanut butter...now he is a happy, sleepin' puppy.

So everything that can flower, is. Which is too bad--usually they take their time and bloom for several weeks. This year it looks like spring will be over and done with and then next week we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming of 50-60 degrees. But on the other hand: I have a glass of lilacs next to my bed for beautiful, lilac-scented dreams.

Hot and it's monotonous

2010-04-06T21:05:00.003-04:00

It is hot today. When I got in my car after work, the radio cheerfully told me it was 93 degrees and then promptly melted. Kizzy and I only walked about a block before his tongue was dragging on the ground. (Granted, not hard when he's only thirteen inches tall, but still.) Today made me glad that I shaved under my arms on Sunday because I could go home and rock a tank-top without having to groom first.

But with the heat comes other annoyances. First there is the fact that I am breaking out like a thirteen year old--again--and also the fact that things keep melting and/or spontaneously combusting. Then there are the Mexicans. Yes, this is racist, but remember I am trying to be a good person and stay with me here. I do not actually know where they are from, but the people who live underneath me do not speak English and, when the weather is good, will set their stereos in the window, crank up Spanish hip hop and smoke outside, occasionally playing futbol and shouting at their buddies still inside to bring out more beer. It is annoying. First there was only one apartmentful of people--young, twentysomething men--then they apparently told their friends about this great deal, because now there are at least two more apartments rented out below me and another one above me, all to people who know each other. One of the apartments contains women and children, which is probably why the noise past eleven o'clock on a worknight has gone down, but this also means toddlers running around at all hours, freaking Kismet out.

We do not get along, the Mexicans and I, for a variety of reasons. I do not like walking through clouds of cigarette smoke on my way home. I do not appreciate the finer points of Spanish hip hop. I do not like calling the police at eleven o'clock on a work night for the third night in a row and asking them to come over and calmly explain to my neighbors that some of us have to work tomorrow. For their part, they probably don't like the uppity white woman living above them letting her dog pee all over "their" front yard. I don't appreciate them throwing fried chicken bones all over said lawn which I have to then fish out of my dog's throat. It's a little tense.

I can understand why people now feel the need to just go. Just leave, to not fight for your neighborhood, if people are moving in you don't like. If you can afford it, just go. Me, with all my liberal tendencies (see below), all my moral high horses about learning other languages and appreciating cultures, cannot wait for this lease to be over. I have no desire to get to know my neighbors better, or better appreciate their culture. I am ready to move out of this apartment which is fast starting to feel like a siege state. And why? Because I also do not appreciate being oogled everytime I step out my front door. Wearing stays and petticoats, bundled up to here? Then they can point at my posterior and hoot. Baggy sweatshirt, a lame attempt to disguise the fact I am braless? Sure to garner a few raised eyebrows and some excited chatter.

And God forbid I appear in a tank top, on a day where we topped out at 93 degrees. I may not speak Spanish, but I can certainly recognise eyes pointing ten inches lower than they should be, can certainly hear wolf whistles, even if I am halfway to the laundry room. It's not acceptable, it's not even funny. I've made it clear to my landlord that this treatment--having to run the gauntlet everytime I come home--is the reason I will not be renewing in July. Why I am white-flighting, I guess. I never thought I would...now I can't wait to. Feeling the way I do is not something I'm proud of. It's not to my credit that I feel this mean and spiteful and downright hatey. But I can't help feeling feelings.

Monday Night Lights

2010-04-05T22:02:00.002-04:00

I had to work tonight, but they sent me home early...something about a school group booking more tickets than they needed, so only three tours went out instead of four at eight-thirty. I thought--I could do a re-write on my play! Except that, in order to hang on to my sanity, what with working two/three jobs, plus militia, I imposed a limit of a thirteen hour workday. So now I am casting about for something to write about.

The play is going well. Quite a few people have seen it and commented on it and occasionally...changed some of my words...without asking me...but overall, things are going well. This is about as unusual a situation you can get for a playwright. Usually you have to beg on bended knee and promise all sorts of sordid favors to get anyone to read your work. I appreciate all the comments, I really do, especially when someone who knows slaps me on the wrist (metaphorically) and says DO NOT UPHOLD THIS COMMON MISCONCEPTION. Okay, fine. But the changing my words--even though it is done with enthusiasm and the best of intentions--rankles a little. Granted, we are only on draft two. I get to take the changes and either keep them, toss them or make them better. If I don't agree, I get to dig in my little dramatic heels and say "look, we ARE going to make fun of Jefferson, even if it's not correct, because people know who Jefferson is and IT'S FUNNY." I have spoken to other writers connected to the Foundation, and they warned me this was a problem. Too many people trying to make sure that everything is absolutely one hundred percent historically accurate. I want that, I really do. I also want to entertain the hell out of people and make them laugh. And if it's a choice between bending the historical record or having a boring show, I choose to toss history out of the window. I have done my research. And I choose to blithely ignore it.

Speaking of defenestration, isn't that a funny word? and isn't it funny that we HAVE A WORD for throwing things out of a window? I could say "I totally defrenestrated him!" and people would know I tossed someone out a window. Isn't that weird?

Back to historical interpreting...we historical interpreters/reenactors tend to fall into two groups. The daytrippers, who will use their sewing machines to make Simplicity patters with quilter's cotton, buy a mob cap and call it a day, and the hardcore or "progressive" re-enactors who spend far, FAR too much time and money on "authentic" fabrics and handsewing. No prizes for guessing which category I'm in. But this leads to some hysterical situations where grown men are openly admiring each other's clothing and accoutrements...a situation which this eBay ad perfectly captures:

thirty seconds of hilarity.

...for the record that coat is pretty authentic, as is the gorget he is wearing and the gun, but the wig? Sigh. Farby as hell.

ruminative cello solo

2010-03-31T22:20:00.004-04:00

I find myself wondering how Grandma would have felt about this whole health care reform debacle...the final bill, the endless debating and finger-pointing, the violence that has suddenly, spontaneously erupted. I would have liked to talk to her about this, since she is the sanest conservative person I know, and the things she said didn't make me want to chew on people's computers, or make me go all snarly and squinty-eyed. She was smart...she'd be able to pick through the bill and come up with things that she didn't like, and then find reasons why they might appeal to people. And she wouldn't back down from a good debate.

Even though she always advised me not to discuss politics with boys. Maybe that was good advice, but now, after a two-day, knockdown fight with my boyfriend about the federal government in general spurred on by a comment made by a hater on Facebook, I have to wonder if I should have listened. If I shouldn't have made it clearer: Date 1, I am a Screaming Liberal. Right now I'm so tired of the whole thing I'm ready to just shut up and crawl into bed. I am an Optimist, a Joyful Soul and a Believer in the American Dream. He is somewhat older and more jaded.

I would also like to ask Grandma what to do about this. We never talked about how she and grandpa worked through their political differences, but I suspect they didn't really have any to speak of. Should have asked her about how she felt about the major reforms that were pushed through in her lifetime--the New Deal, the Civil Rights Act, Medicaid. Although, she voted for Roosevelt three times, she always liked to remind me, whenever I accused her of being a Republican.

There are so many things worth getting passionate for, worth losing friends and yes, even lovers for, but I'm not sure the current administration is one of them. I support President Obama (even when he sold me out and withdrew a moratorium on offshore drilling!) but then again, he's not going to be waiting for me with a home cooked meal when I come home from work. I can probably guess what Grandma's advice would be--this girl is intelligent, but she also loooooves to eat--but I...I just wish I could hear her say it.

Fish Cakes of Perfection

2010-03-29T19:57:00.003-04:00

Mom sent me a card noting that Peter said I should update my blog more often. I say I'll update my blog more often if SOMEONE SENDS ME BABY PICTURES....

I know you're all probably wondering how I feel about the healthcare reform bill. (Let's note, by the way, that THAT is what this bill is--not some socialist plot to ram a public-option single-payer healthcare plan down our throats, thankyouverymuchglenbeckyoutwerp. ) Basically I feel like it doesn't do enough. Yes,thirty million people may suddenly become eligible for some kind of health insurance, but that is not everyone in the United States. A woman I work with morosely noted last night: "I don't know how we can afford to have universal health insurance." I don't know how we can afford not to. Forget the cost for a second, okay, and remember that we live in the best, A-1 country in the world, and yet we are...well, pick your statistic, that isn't this kind of blog. Not only do we NEED some kind of universal coverage, we DESERVE IT. Having conquered those pesky wants that we take for granted like running water and literate girls, we should extend our awesomeness to ALL citizens of this nation. And I am writing this as someone who will be paying taxes on her Cadillac plan in eight years. Sure, when I realised that, I sort of swallowed and went "but but, I'm poor..." But but I'm working and if my appendix explodes tomorrow as I'm being gnawed on by a polar bear and when I arrive at the hospital they diagnose me with gout, I will be covered. We, as Americans, owe it to ourselves by setting the bar high and reaching for it. Some generations did it naturally, existing without as war and depressions ran rampant...we need to work a little harder. So I'm gonna keep fighting for universal heath care. And when it arrives, I'm going off the Cadillac plan and buying American.

USA! USA! USA!

Hee, that felt good.

But, in the meantime, I'm poor. I'm trying to eat cheaply. (To save my money for Japanese steak houses and nachos at eleven pm. What? It was Saturday!) I also try to keep nonperishables on hand, since I tend to forget about fresh veggies, unless I eat them right away, and then I end up throwing them out. A few weeks ago I tossed a Betty Crocker "Helper" meal in my grocery trolley...I was seduced by the picture on the front for Cheesy Beef Taco and the fact that this box was All Inclusive, so I wouldn't have to buy meat. I think it was on sale for $2.

Well, I made it the other night. The "beef" was actually a can with a few beef crumbles, but mostly water and fat. (I have to be honest, it had the consistency of vomit) The "seasoning packet" was mostly a thickener. Last and least, a cup of rice. Less than a cup. When I pulled the packet out I couldn't believe how little rice there was, so I measured it before adding it to the vomit and thickener mess. I put it in the oven and re-read the box. First I noted how the slogan above the directions said "For an easy and great-tasting meal!" with nothing about health content. There was nothing to brag about however: According to the box, a cup of rice and a can of beef-vomit should be enough for four people. Each serving had a 45% sodium content. Now, if I had pulled my usual trick and eaten half, saving half for lunch the next day, I would have eaten nearly my entire daily recommended allowance of sodium in one sitting.

I couldn't do it. I might not be the healthiest person in the world, but the idea of subjecting my heart and my body to a sodium content roughly equivalent to that of the Pacific ocean made my vascular system twitch. Luckily Jeff called and took me out on a date to the Tokyo Steakhouse...while this may not have been the most sodium-friendly place, at least it featured some actual vegetables and fresh chicken. The Cheesy Beef Taco went into the garbage.

I started doing some research about eating cheaply. Along the way I found this article about foodie hipsters using food stamps to buy salmon and lemongrass at Whole Foods. And then I found Clara. She's a ninety-four year old woman who shares Depression-Era cooking via YouTube. Some of the meals she talks about, like the Poorman's meal, sound eerily familiar. Potatoes, onions and hotdogs...sounds like me with my potatoes and eggs. I want to try this recipe for fresh bread. I'm still enjoying learning the finer points of baking bread. Now I can see how women in the eighteenth century would brag about their baking skills if they could.

Tonight I made fish cakes and had them with a spinach salad, tossed with a homemade vinaigrette. Except for the spinach, everything was stuff I had on hand. It never fails to amaze me how one night dinner will be a colossal cock up (last nights biscuits 'n ham) and the next night it will be Food Network-worthy (fish cakes of perfection.) I'm working for the next three evenings, so I took advantage of a night off to cook properly. Here's the recipes...I didn't put measurements because I know all you cooks out there can finagle things to perfection.

FISH CAKES:
Can of tuna, mixed with bread crumbs, little dried parsley, Old Bay seasoning (present from foodie boyfriend), and egg. Mix together. Fry in veggie oil, flipping once or twice until both sides are nicely browned.

DRESSING: I frickin' love this dressing. I got it from a friend in Chicago and this recipe is the sole reason I keep balsamic vinaigrette in the house. Olive oil plus balsamic vinaigrette, a little mustard powder (use Colman's, it's British and it comes in an awesome little tin!) and dill. Fresh dill is best, of course. Toss over everything and enjoy the hell out of it.

I know I talk about food a lot, but it was either that tonight or a discussion about how I suddenly realised, as I was doing his laundry, that I have upheld gender-stereotypes with my dog. Both his blankets are blue, and the new leash and collar set I bought last week are blue. Granted, it's a lovely powder blue, but I wasn't thinking, as my coworker was, how feminine it looked..I was thinking how the little bees on it reminded me of Napoleon's imperial symbol. Yeah. I'm a geek. Now, if only I could get a collar that says "ENGLAND EXPECTS."

The next baking project I want to attempt is a green tea cake...I just need to figure out where to get matcha powder.

Conversations with Kismet, pt 14

2010-03-22T21:17:00.008-04:00

ME: Would you like a rawhide chewstick?

KISMET: YES! I LOVE RAWHIDE CHEWSTICKS!

ME: Ok, here you go!

KISMET: YES YES YES, OH BOY HOWDY.

ME: I better not find that buried in my pillow later.

KISMET: No'm.

ME: Hey, where are you going?

KISMET: Nowhere.

ME: You went in my bedroom to bury that in my pillow, didn't you?

KISMET: ... No.

But, in his defence, he did go dig it up later and eat it.

The CDC has been offering a series of workshops as part of the continuing celebration of our 75th anniversary, and last Saturday I got to host one on Pockets, Workbags and Market Wallets. It was a lot of work, doing research on the items I was going to talk about and getting all the materials ready, but in the end it was a lot of fun. The pockets were the most in depth part--more of them survive and they have a longer history and are better documented, but workbags were also interesting, meant to be heavily decorated and showed off. Market wallets are the plastic bag of the eighteenth century...everyone used them, but no one thought to save one or write about it. I even got to go into collections and take pictures of the pockets and workbags the had there. A huge room full of drawers and shelves, holding centuries worth of clothing, textiles and other fabric-related bric a brac. Drooooool.

(Here are some pictures...but please don't tell collections I posted them. They will find me.)

Flamework wallets. One of the volunteers opened this drawer, looking for more pockets, said "oh, you're not interested in this" and I quickly snapped a pic before she shut it again. Oh, the colours! Hard to imagine they're so bright after two hundred years.

Embroidered pocket. Notice the asymmetry. Pockets were one of a kind and individual.

Housewifes. Again, another drawer I "wasn't interested in." The one on the right is actually made out of a thin leather. The ones on the left have tiny mirrors in them. Why, I don't know, but they were gorgeous. Oh, I tell you I could have spent hours in there.

But, I'm glad it's over. Now I can focus on working on my play and the evening programs. And walking Kismet. And giving him baths when he attempts to dig to China.

Slightly Deafer than Three Days Ago

2010-03-14T22:45:00.005-04:00

And the reason I needed silicone waterproofer was because Jeff and I attended a re-enactment of the Battle of Guilford Courthouse down near Greensboro, North Carolina last weekend. And it was wet. Very wet. But still a heap o' fun. I don't know if I mentioned that I joined an artillery unit on my blog--the Fourth Royal Artillery, a crack unit that fought all through the revolutionary war and is active in Iraq today. (Not the same soldiers, just the same unit)

Guilford Courthouse, as far as I understood it as explained to me, occurred because Lord Cornwallis was told to "secure" Georgia, North and South Carolina and Virginia, which had been "won" by the British. In 1781, General Nathanael Greene began to harass his army, as Cornwallis attempted to march north through North Carolina to a river whose name escapes me, picking fights and then running away--excuse me, skirmishing and then retreating. Finally, Cornwallis (who had wisely eaten through all the supplies and even burned his own luggage, convinced he was going to get to the British Navy soon) said "Screw it, I'm taking my ball and going back to New York." He did this by securing a deepwater port at Yorktown and waiting for the navy to arrive...and we all know it never did. The rest, as they say, is history.

Jeff and I arrived after a four and a half hour drive with another artilleryman, Joey, and quickly got to work setting up our tent. This takes about five minutes: it's a bit of canvas thrown over a ridgepole and then held in place by the stakes holding out the sides of the tent. The ground was wet, so we threw down about a half a bale of hay, then a waterproof groundcloth, then our mattress, which was filled with more hay. It was pretty comfy, except we were sleeping on a hill. So all weekend I had dreams about rolling out of the tent. And Friday night it rained some more...a downpour for about ten minutes, then a light misting rain for another hour. I tossed more straw into the gap between ground and tent to ward off rebounding raindrops and went to bed.

That's the great part about re-enacting: there is no expectation that people will be clean. Oh, sure, the Royal Marines camped next to us were up at six thirty going through manovers, their poncy red jackets and perfectly crossed white belts gleaming in the sun, bayonets flashing gaily, but no one expects you to shower or even change clothes much. Maybe your linens...or if you're a girl, you'll change clothes to show off your sewing, but otherwise, it's dab on a bit of deodorant, splash your face with some water, brush your teeth (or not) and you're good.

Or is that too much information?

Anyway--the battle on Saturday went off without a hitch. The best part about having an artillery piece to haul around is that we could hitch it up to the "mule" --a red Subaru--and haul it up the hill to the battlfield, insulting Continentals all the way. We placed our gun and then placed ourself securely behind the infantry, marching behind as they made their way through the forest down to meet the foe. Once the redcoats got out of the forest, we pulled our piece up into position, and began pouring it into them. I was cartridge handler (or "powder monkey" if you prefer the Naval term), so it was my responsibility to grab a cartridge from the box, run up fifteen feet, hand it to the wormer, who slid it into the gun. Then the sponger rammed it down, the picker 'n primer picked 'n primed and the person with the lint stock fired the gun. And I yelled "GUN FIRED!" just incase no one had seen it or heard it. The battle was pretty incredible. Most of the infantry units--red and blue--had several dozen people, so they were able to form up into three lines, shoot, reload and march pretty much as a unit would have back in the day. Of course, the redcoats were mostly advancing and the rebels were mostly retreating. Just when it looked like we would take the day uncontested, CAVALRY appeared and began riding around, hacking at the infantry. Artillery hate cavalry, but they didn't get near enough to us to pose much of a threat. (some delicacy about exposing modern horses to cannonfire) As the redcoats advanced, we advanced too, attaching drag ropes to the cannon and pulling it forward, causing some "corpses" to nudge each other hurriedly and advise them to "cover your ears"! But, after fourteen rounds we were too close to the spectators to get off another shot and we retired in triumph with the rest of the British army.

Here's a photo of some of the lads in my unit...note the snazzy blue/red/yellow uniforms. This is right after the battle, we were all exhausted. Luckily there were scores of photographers about.

I was worn out from running back and forth, mostly up a hill, so I was grateful when we got back to camp to discover dinner was almost ready. (one of the advantages of re-enacting with people who actually want to portray gendered roles: women who stay behind and cook, huzzay) Saturday night we sat around reliving the battle and engaging in another soldiering pasttime, drinking and singing songs. It was quiet, warmish and peaceful. After we went to bed, the rain started up again, leaving the ground extra muddy for Sunday, but it left before sunup. Jeff and I attended a camp church held by the Royal Highlanders. In the afternoon, we held a cannon demonstration, since the battle that day was going to involve another part of the actual battle, where no cannons were involved. This day, I got to handle the lintstock. This is a piece of wood with a metal thing on the end that has two holes, through which are pushed a piece of slow match. The lintstocker is supposed to keep the slow match going at all times, then, when given the order, gently sweep the match across the priming powder on the cannon, causing it to go BOOM. Because you need both hands for this operation, the lintstocker is unable to cover their ears during the firing...I never realised how loud a cannon could be until I was standing right next to one when it went off. Next time, I'm bringing earplugs, farby as they may be.

Although rain threatened by the time we were done with our demonstration, we managed to get all the canvas folded and packed while it was dry. A quiet ride home was punctuated by a visit to Smithfields in Henderson, NC, a faster-food type place that has the best. bbq. I. have. had. in. quite. a. long. time. MMMM. Then home. De-mudding shoes took fifteen minutes, but I only had one load of laundry. I'm looking forward to doing this again, although next time we're not pitching our tent on a hill.

God save the King!

Meanwhile, in Embarrassing Moments in Consumerism

2010-03-10T21:43:00.002-05:00

That last post was supposed to be slightly sarcastic, can you tell? I don't know how--since I am actually more organised now that I am an adult--deadlines still sneak up on me. So I'll be cruising through the week when holy crap, you mean that re-enacting event is this weekend and I have to bake bread tonight?! In some ways, re-enacting in late spring is easier, because the foodstuffs you can bring are limited. Dried peas, potatoes, tea, sugar...things that would have survived the winter in a cellar. And maybe an illicit box of chicken stock.

Evening programs have started up again, and I am enjoying it so far...apart from the fact that I have gained so much weight this winter that I look like a sausage stuffed into a green 'n gold casing. Now, CW tends to turn a blind eye to employees wearing their clothes places that aren't CW. Stopping by the grocery store after work, or running to the pharmacy on your break. It happens. Just don't get your clothes ratted up. So last night after work I had to run to Target. Normally I love swanning through stores in stays and buckles, but last night the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself because I had to buy a toilet plunger. While not as embarrassing as, say, a box of Depends, it is still slightly mortifying. One of my roommates has moved out, taking most of the necessary items in the house with her--like the plunger, flour, kitchen table, the key hooks and most of the dishes--but also the wireless internet router. So, not only was I swanning through Target last night in costume, with a plunger tucked under my arm, I also had to ask one of the sales clerks if he knew if this here router would work with a Mac. Arg. It reminds me of the game we used to play when I was an undergrad: "What is the strangest combination of items you can buy at Wal-Mart at two in the morning?" It would have been even funnier if I'd've remembered the third thing I wanted to get: silicone waterproofing for my shoes.

A Month of Sundays

2010-03-07T20:10:00.004-05:00

OH MY GOSH I HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN MY SCHEDULE WHERE I LIKE IT:

All the Time: Spend With Boyfriend (putting off important things)

REWRITING THE PLAY (and trying not to dally since I am getting paiiid to reviiise...YESSS)

Creating a Workshop. On Pockets, Workbags and Market Wallets. All of which I have made, all of which I currently own and am pretty much in complete understand of UNTIL...I start doing research on them and realise that once again: Everything that can be said. Has been said. It's Hamlet all over again.

Beagle: Walked enough.

Car: Needing some tire balancing. SCREW YOU POTHOLES!!! Tomorrow morning I will be sober and you will be ASPHALT'D!!! HAHAHAHAHA

Re-enacting. We're going next weekend, but first I have to figure out where exactly it is we're going. North Carolina...somewhere.

Working Evenings! I love getting the overtime pay until I have to actually, you know, work evenings.

Blogging in my roommate's room. Because one roommate moved out and another one moved in and we don't have a wireless router yet.

Sewing a bedgown. All the best sewing projects start at seven PM on a Sunday night.

New resolve to be a vegetarian. Thank you Paul Watson for saving baby seals. Have you ever seen a seal being clubbed to death? I don't recommend Googling it.

And Oh yes, singing in choir. I may never be less busy enough to go to church, but by God I'm going to make it to rehearsals.

And that is my life.

Also there is rioting in Greece. Part of me supports the protestors, part of me wonders if maybe they're a bit too much government run. It's like my socialist and my capitalist selves are fighting within my soul. Who will win? Well, both of them feel they need to do some more research before coming to a decision. Preferrably on a Greek island somewhere...

New Article

2010-02-22T22:02:00.001-05:00

Hello everyone...here's a link to my latest article for Examiner.com...it's an interview I did with Bill Chrystal, who will be interpreting John Adams this weekend at the Suffolk Center for Cultural Arts. Enjoy!

"Bill Chrystal: An interview with John Adams of "An Evening with John and Abigail Adams."

Beaglin' on a Sunday Afternoon

2010-02-21T20:57:00.003-05:00

I have been going to choir. Making it a priority, as they say. From the days when I first started going as teenager, I've always been in the choir...going to church means singing in the choir. It is interesting that my church chooses not to stand during the reading of the Gospels...but we stand during hymns. Hm. That's Methodists all over for ya. I haven't been going to church in the past year because of working in the evening: working means I need someone to beagle-sit, so finding someone for one, two, three days is challenging. And it's not fair, after all he's my dog. But I decided I would rather cut back to two nights a week and do choir than have that extra money. For now.

So this Sunday was the first Sunday I sang, even though I've been to a couple rehearsals. Last Wednesday I attended the Ash Wednesday service, but I was so overcome that I left halfway through. I was reliving the week before Christmas, leading up to Grandma's funeral, and that, coupled with a serious attack of depression left me unable to do much. Thursday I left work early (depression is not just mental--it also makes my joints ache, and since I'm crying I usually have headaches), and Jeff had to come over and literally pry me out of bed and then force feed me fajitas. (okay. Maybe not force feed. He's a really, really good cook) But by yesterday I was fine again. Totally myself. It's this quick recovery that keeps me going in the darkest hour--knowing that in my case depression is just a hit and run summer shower. And when it came time to sing this morning's anthem, "Almighty and Everlasting God," I could stand up and sing joyfully, purely and praisefully.

My good mood is also probably due to the weather as well: fifty degrees yesterday and sixty today. Both Kiz and I were anxious to get out of the house, so we spent two hours at the dog park. Then I indulged in a proper car wash, one where they vacuumn your car and wash the inside windows and (temporarily at least) spray something inside to keep the beagle farts at bay. I also got an oil change, and was a little shocked when the technician suggested it was time to change some other fluids: power steering, transmission flush, coolant, engine flush...to the tune of $300 or so. Uh. Maybe next week.

Sunday means pizza for dinner, although I managed to stop myself with four pieces and instead have salad. Then I shoved a load of laundry in the washer and went for another walk with Kismet. Today really was just about enjoying the blessed sun--and wearing the beagle out. (It worked too...he's been chasing bunnies on the end of my bed for an hour already) I do like Williamsburg, but I like it a hell of a lot better in the spring and summer.

Very Exciting Writing News

2010-02-16T19:21:00.003-05:00

Wow, I could get used to this whole paid to write thing!

Several exciting projects on the horizon/happening now/happening soon.

Firstly, I am now the Norfolk Theater Examiner on Examiner.com! I see plays, write reviews about them, offer advice about upcoming plays, bash Ticketmaster whenever I get the chance, and occasionally get paid for my work. Mostly, this site is an opportunity to get my name out there, but also to put a little pressure on me to write every week. I'm supposed to submit 2-3 articles a week...I don't think there is that much theater in this area, but we'll see.

Secondly, a tour that I wrote for Visual Travel Tours about Colonial Williamsburg is now available (sort of)! Visual Travel Tours is a website where one can download pictures and audio onto a mobile phone and walk around while a person in the know (like me) narrates the things you are seeing, the stories behind the visual. You can download the text and photos now, the recorded version is coming soon. I am hoping to write more tours for this company, including a spring tour, focussing on all the plants and baby sheeps in the historical area.

And lastly--for everyone happy that I'm writing but sad that I am not writing theater--Colonial Williamsburg is going to produce a PLAY WHAT I WROTE, opening sometime in July. SQUEE. I wrote this play at the request of my boss after she heard the VP of the historical area say it might be a "good idea" to write a play "with clothes." Two weeks later the rough draft of "Fashion Before Ease" landed on her desk, and after two months in limbo, it got the green light to be included in the evening programs lineup. SQUEE PART DEUX. This show will be opening sometime in July, running one or two nights a week for a couple months...so there is definitely adequate time for everyone to see it...AND I KNOW YOU ALL WANT TO.

Very happy, very excited...and now you must excuse me, I'm off to IHOP for pancakes and working on the Billy Lee Project...we all know the muse needs coffee to keep going.

Blogging from DC

2010-02-14T13:46:00.004-05:00

Hello loyal readers. Well, I've made it to Washington DC successfully, even after the Snowmageddon. The streets and sidewalks are mostly clear, but there are huge piles of snow on every street corner. To cross the street, one must stick to the little rat runs--packed down paths of snow a pedestrian wide that cut through these snow piles. This makes it easier and harder to walk around--there is no jaywalking, but on the other hand, the cars are strictly restricted to the open lanes, so you know exactly where they're coming from.

I met my friend Alison here, she came down from New York. We're staying at a Radisson near the airport...it is a business oriented hotel, but very nice. Yesterday we spent all day indoors at the Smithsonian--first at the Natural History Museum, then at the American History Museum.

The Natural History Museum was for Alison, who likes dinosaurs. So we waded through all of the children (no doubt made even more crazy by a week's prison sentence) and admired the all the skeletons, sniggered at the dioramas dating from the sixties, and I learned that a brontosaurus was actually a made up animal. The Natural History Museum also had a traveling exhibit called "Written in Bones" which featured forensic science applied to skeletons dug up around the Chesapeake Bay area including--surprize!--Jamestowne. I'm sure Alison appreciated all my whispered asides during the introductory film on how accurate or not all the costumes were.

Then we went out to lunch at the Elephant and the Castle, a British-themed restaurant that wants to be a pub. It succeeds...sort of. Does it have British beer and fish 'n' chips? Sure. But the basketball on the television and the lack of brown sauce on the tables was sort of a downer. Cider was good though.

In the afternoon we visited the American History Museum, which re-opened in 2009 after some extensive remodeling. I'm not entirely sure it's done being remodeled actually, some of the exhibits were incredibly small for the amount of attention they got. Putting Kermit AND the ruby slippers in the same room for example--is that really how it's going to end up? I'm sure not. I was fortunate enough to see one of Martha Washington's day gowns, where I helpfully corrected another visitor's erroneous assumption upon seeing Abigail Adam's dancing shoes: "No, American women never bound their feet...she actually did have feet that small, she was probably only five foot two to five foot five." arg. I also got to see George Washington's uniform. Stepping close to examine the buttonholes, I came to within a foot of his breeches flap, steaming up the glass that separated us. *history geek shiver*

Afterward, still full from our British lunch, we stopped for tea, then headed over to Ford's Theater, where we took in "The Rivals," a show written in 1958, using the transcripts from the Lincoln/Douglas debates, which had happened a hundred years before. It was a fantastic show--if Abraham Lincoln was really as friendly as the man onstage last night, I think I would have liked him. It was also a little eerie. We got the $12 restricted view seats, which happened to be in the balcony, right across from the box where President Lincoln was shot. At the end of the show, as a recording of Lincoln's plea for unity and common sense played, they brought the lights up in the box. It was just about 10:30, right when Booth had shot Lincoln, leapt the twelve feet down to stage (no wonder he broke his leg) and made his escape. Almost saw the elephant then, only the cluster of source-fours prevented total immersion.

Then home. We stopped for Chinese food and took it up to our room...and now Alison isn't feeling well. Too much walking, not enough humidity in the air, Chinese food at eleven pm, she is happy to stay in bed and sip on ginger ale. I'm heading back out, possibly back to the Written in the Bones exhibit. Although I don't begrudge a day in. At least we have HBO--and I don't have to head out into the wind to take Kizzy for a walk every fifteen minutes. And isn't that was vacation is really all about? Really?

hey everyone guess where I'm going!

2010-02-02T22:19:00.002-05:00

Nah, it's nothing like what you're thinking...going to a much less historic place, albeit one that has free museums.

Washington DC!

Whoo!! I love traveling so much...

Winter Wonderland

2010-01-31T21:48:00.004-05:00

It was very weird--very weird--to walkabout the historic area today. When the snow hadn't arrived by eleven pm Friday night, I went to bed convinced it would never come. I woke up to five inches, with more to come. All day Saturday it snowed, petering out around ten with a dusting of snow fine as mica flakes.

The snow put a pretty effective stop to traffic, indeed to civilisation as Virginia knows it. Poor Kismet was up to his chest in snow, which it made it rather difficult to potty, especially since the person at the other end of the leash was shivering so badly she could barely clutch the loop. Jeff and I spent all day tucked inside cooking. First crepes for lunch, then a hearty potato soup. We only went outside once, when my roommate talked us into seeing "Young Victoria." That required a slog through unplowed roads, wearing makeshift Wellies to keep my feet dry.

I remember, vaguely, weeks of this, snow and cold, with only more snow to follow. Here it's a marvel, a wonder, something to talk about in years to come. And it will probably be gone in a day or two. Already today the sun was out, heating up roofs and cars until snow slid off, drying plowed roads. Jeff and I, and Kismet (who was suffering from mega-cabin fever), took a long walk around the historical area. It was amazingly beautiful, even though the snow had been pretty trampled already, but still lovely. The historical area looked nothing like itself with a thick coat of white all over and a shield of pure blue sky above.

Best Potato Soup Recipe EVAR:
6 white potatoes as big as your fist, peeled and cut up to bite-sized pieces
Fresh fried bacon, cut into bits
Spring onions, chopped fine
A quarter of a red onion, chopped fine
2 cans Campbell's cream of chicken soup
1 quart chicken broth
Pepper to taste
Rosemary (which we did not actually put into the soup, because we did not have any, but I would have liked to try it...the chicken broth seemed to want a savoury herb)

Put everything into a crockpot and let it simmer while you and your sherpa slog through knee deep snow to see a historical drama. (approx. 3 hours) Mash up the potatoes with a hand-masher and let cook for another hour. Serve hot. Eats hearty enough for a meal, but try it with some Jiffy buttermilk biscuits for a real treat.

Smells like snow

2010-01-29T20:09:00.004-05:00

The entire state of Virginia is in a state of mass hysteria because we're supposed to get snow tonight. Anywhere from four to fourteen inches. I sigh, because people keep freaking out all around me, when they could really benefit from some Yankee wisdom: get your beer and toilet paper and just hole up for a couple days. Really. Who wants to go anywhere any way? If it's cold and snowy and crappy. So there's no reason to panic...unless the power goes out. But hey, at least we've all go our laptops charged, right?

So it's eight-fifteen and no snow yet...any second now I expect the flakes to start falling...I just took Kiz out and it sure smells like snow... I'll keep you posted. If there's anything interesting to look at when I wake up tomorrow, I'll post some pictures

Snap to It

2010-01-21T19:57:00.004-05:00

Allright, politics first, cookies second.

While I was jaunting over to blogspot to update, I happened to catch a headline on Yahoo! news that read "Obama Grade From Historians Will Drop Without Healthcare Bill." *sigh*

I'm sure most of my loyal readers have been wondering what I, liberal, Obama-supporting, healthcare-for-all-with-women's-rights-advocating Nicki, has thought of the recent developments that have occurred on Capitol Hill. Well, I'll give you all two cent's worth of opinion, which is I am thoroughly disappointed. I have to admit I thought that Obama would take his majority and get something slammed through Congress. I know he said--and we all want--he would work with Republicans, throw away all the partisan bullpatties, but the fact of the matter is: The Republicans are not playing ball right now, even though Obama is trying. So instead it's politics as usual and nothing is getting accomplished. The thing I am most disappointed in is universal healthcare being thrown away (I know, I know the problems with it, but still). There are many people (like myself) who would love an opportunity not to be tied to a job just for the benefits...but we will not see that opportunity in this lifetime apparently.

But this article is a little upsetting. The bloody Nobel peace prize committee did the same thing: can we please let him finish one term in office before we start looking at his tenure through history's lenses, please? I'm less enthusiastic about Obama, even though I still support him. Right now I just want people to stop analyzing his every move so he can actually get some work done. I still trust him--hell, I put him in office because I knew I could let him do his work without me needing to prod him every step of the way--and I still believe he can do great things.

I just wish he would stop acting like such a bipartisan nonentity, go a little Red and draw some blood. Just sayin'.

Okay! Who wants cookies!

On New Year's Eve, Jeff and I rented Julie and Julia, the movie about a woman (Julie) cooking her way through Julia (Julia) Child's book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In a fit of romanticism I went into Barnes and Noble a few days later with the vague idea of purchasing said book and working through some of the easier recipes. (Although I did want to attempt the stuffed duck at the end of the movie...mmm, pound of beef wrapped in boned duck wrapped in pastry with butter...mmm...) When I got to Barnes and Noble I discovered two things: One, Mastering the Art of French Cooking is bloody expensive--at least eighty dollars for at two book set with the "vintage" original cover. Two, I really have no interest in learning French cooking. I am a jolly jack tar after all, consumed with cooking the perfect roast beef over an open hearth, using the drippings to create the perfect Yorkshire pudding and following it all up with the perfect Boiled Baby.

So instead I bought Betty Crocker's Cookbook. I thought it was the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, but it's very similar, red binder, lots of "how-to-melt-butter" kind of advice and pictures of the different cuts of meat. It's a lot more practical, and the recipes are a lot easier to follow. I have enjoyed several meals already, and I've got the ingredients for Tuna Salad for this weekend.

Each week at work someone is assigned to make and clean up coffee, and this is my week. Generally, people bring in a treat one or two days as well. It's a chance to show off baking skillz and try out new recipes. I was going to bake up a pan of box brownies, but instead I was brave and tried out the Gingersnap recipe. They turned out pretty good...I watched them like a hawk, mindful of the Great Cookie Carnages of time past, but this time...I don't think I have anything to be ashamed of.

PS: If you are following the events in Haiti and want to contribute, please consider donating to the United Methodist Committee on Relief. Their overhead is not as high as some groups, like Red Cross, and they already have long-term missions and groups established in Haiti. Cheers!

The First First

2010-01-18T19:17:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was Jeff and my's anniversary. (and yes, for those of you who got The Christmas Card, that's not his real name, but he likes his anonymity...it allows him to carry out his spy missions more covertly). It's slightly incredible to me how I went from being super single for twenty-seven years to slipping into a long term relationship so easily. Especially when at first glance it appears we have nothing in common: he's a Virginian who can trace his family back to 1634, I'm a hated Yankee who has only legends to plant my family tree in. We are on opposite ends of the political spectrum, both today and two hundred years ago. But that by itself is a good indication of why we work so well together--instead of arguing about people currently in office, we fight about the policies of "T.J." versus "G-Dubs" We cook a lot together, we spend time dreaming about historical clothes and walking Kismet. Basic, domestic stuff...I guess I sewed--I mean sowed, geez--my wild oats in London. Now I'm definitely all about the domesticity. With a few occasional jaunts overseas, of course. But for right now...very happy just cooking, working and writing.

Mom and Dad were making fun of me last Sunday when I called to console Dad about the Packer's loss. Poking fun at me for being so giddy about an anniversary. Until I pointed out to them that this is the first time I've ever made it to a first anniversary. So let me enjoy it while I can. Jeff and I spent it like we do a lot of our weekends: we went out for Mexican food, then took Kiz to the dogpark and then came home and watched a movie. It's been a happy first year...hopefully, the first of many.

Dating the Fork Fantastic

2010-01-10T22:10:00.007-05:00

This is why I love doing historical re-enacting. Every now and then you run across an actual artifact that's of the period, but is still in good enough shape that you can continue to use it for its original purpose. Case in point: my fork. Forks--well, eating utensils--were carried by soldiers or sailors, in lower-class households, every person might have had one that were taken care of and kept track of. No taking a real fork to work and then losing it in the utensil drawer because you've got more at home. Every reenactor needs their own utensils. When you go to an event and someone offers you a piece of chicken, you whip out your plate and dive in with your own knife and fork.

So I bought a fork. I found one (okay, Jeff pointed it out to me) at the local Antique Mall, a big, barnlike structure where individual merchants rent cases and you can spend hours wandering around fondling everything from vintage prints to vintage clothes. There were five forks, originally, pewter, with three tines, the initials I.C.R. stamped in the handle. For $25, with a twenty-five percent Christmas markdown, a piece of history could be mine! So I bought one.

This is what my fork looks like:

(Can I just interrupt myself here to say again how truly awesome this computer is? I was bemoaning the fact I'd have to get out my camera and cables and dig up some rechargeable batteries when I remembered that my computer has a camera on it! So now y'all get to see my fork AND what I look like in my pjs!)

Jeff and I were slightly disappointed to discover (once we got the fork out of the case) that the fork had "JAMAICA" stamped on the back...clearly this eighteenth century fork had been exported in the twentieth century. But it was still a good investment...$25. We figured it was from ca 1715-1760, so definitely something that a lower class person could have used in the Revolutionary War.

BUT THEN THE PLOT THICKENED...

Remember the Real Pirates exhibit I went to last weekend? (Yeah, I'd hyperlink it, but all you have to do is scroll down) Among the artifacts that were recovered from the pirate ship Whydah was...wait for it...A FORK. Which looks like this:

Look familiar? Yeah, I thought so too. The Whydah went down in 1717, which gives me definite cause to think that my fork was made before 1717...so Jeff and I did some more research and came up with another shipwreck. This one was the Belle, and it was recovered off the coast of Texas. One of the things the dive team pulled up was a chest of mysteries--here's an interesting article about it--and one of the things in the chest was...guess now!...a FORK.

Belle's fork looks like this (you have to click on this one, it won't let me put a photo on here)

Notice how this one is even more similar to my fork. Three tines in a squared off setting. The three scrolls on the handle. But the crazy part about this? Belle went down in 1686. That puts the "circa" dates for my fork anywhere from the late seventeenth to the early eighteenth centuries.

So with those dates, and the modern export mark "JAMAICA" I am seriously thinking this fork may have come from the ruin of Port Royal, Jamaica, which sank under the waves during a tremendous earthquake in 1692. Whether it's a recovered artifact from an archaeological dig or something that someone finally dug out of grandma's attic, there's no doubt that it's a genuine piece of history...

That is at least THREE HUNDRED YEARS OLD!!!!

I am planning on harassing some of the archaeologists at CW about possibly working out the maker's mark on the back (I can't read it, it's too faint), or at least definitively telling me if I'm on the right track. Either way, it's a very special fork...one I still plan on taking re-enacting with me, although not until I make it a safe little pouch to hide in my pocket in.

hate pigeons so much

2010-01-08T18:11:00.003-05:00

And the reason why this is funny is because the book has a map of the Tube on the back, so it's clearly a London pigeon...ugh, they are such filthy, filthy birds!!!

Pirates! Right behind you!

2010-01-06T20:15:00.003-05:00

As a loyal member of His Most Imperial Majesty's Royal Navy, I, of course, abhor pirates, which is why I don't play pirates on Facebook. I'd rather wear a shiny blue uniform than a gold earring and parrot. Last Saturday Jeff took me to Nauticus, a huge maritime museum in Norfolk Virginia, where the USS Wisconsin is parked, to see the Real Pirates! exhibit. It was cold and windy and miserable, which are three of the best reasons I can think of for traipsing around a museum exhibit.

The Real Pirates! exhibit is hosted by the National Geographic Society. It is comprised solely of artifacts lifted from the Whydda (say it like a Southerner saying "widow" --widda) which went down in 1717. Originally built to be a slave ship, the Whydda was captured by Sam Bellamy of New England, an out of work sailor who turned pirate so he could earn enough money to marry his sweetheart. Unfortunately the ship sank on his way back to Cape Cod. I'll let you read about the rest of it on the website. Nauticus has actually hired some real pirates, the Moody Crewe, to come and set up their gear every other Saturday and explain things to guests, letting them touch original tools and guns. I was hard pressed not to point out the inaccuracies of their clothes (one guy was, I swear, wearing his Civil War shirt), but they did make me snigger.

What made me laugh the most though was Jeff's careful examination of a model of the ship: "Why does it have a British flag on it along with a Jolly Roger?" I replied, merrily, "Oh, to confuse the enemy. 'Hum, hum, hum, just a British ship, here we are, being British, just sailing---OH NOES, WE'RE REALLY PIRATES HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, GIVE US YOUR BOOTY.'"

I can see why people like pirates, just as long as you remember that pirates are not Johnny Depp in eyeliner. Pirates are apparently a very democratic crew, but they like to kill and pillage and drink far more than is good for anyone's health.

I'm in a better mood today...I came home to two emails about the Billy Lee project, one with an attachment that contained all the sources mentioning Lee. Love historians so much. You get someone who shares your passion, and you can geek out for hours. I also got an email from a person at CW, saying how the play what I wrote for them has a "sparkle we haven't seen in the evening programs before." Ooooh, I'm gonna print that out and put it in my journal. Little bit o' praise goes a long way.

le sigh...

2010-01-05T20:59:00.002-05:00

Now that evening programs are over, I suddenly find myself with ungodly amounts of time on my hands. I thought that my room would be cleaner, projects would get finished, beagles would get marathon'd, but instead I find myself playing despondently with my new computer. I'm taking it to the Apple Store next weekend for a tutorial, and to have them transfer all my old files since I don't have a cord that will talk to my external hard drive. In the meantime, icanhascheesburger.com has never looked so good.

I'm slightly depressed tonight. I was filled with excitement about finally being able to devote some serious evening time to the Billy Lee Project, but after doing some research tonight I discovered not one but two plays dealing with that very man. One of them musicalized. Before you say it, I know--no one else has done it from my viewpoint, and that's true, but it's depressing nonetheless. So, beyond getting Office installed in preparation for beginning the Great Work, not much else has happened.

Well, that's not true. I walked Kismet and plunged the toilet and made hot cocoa. It's still thirty degrees out, and every time I have to go outside I shake uncontrollably. Until I remind myself it could be worse: it could be snowing.

UNGH the soliloquy....

2010-01-03T11:25:00.002-05:00

Mom and Dad bought me a new MacBook Pro with a seventeen inch monitor for Christmas. I was not expecting this: I had asked for a robe. And when mom prompted me with a "that's it?" I thought for a moment and went "oh, and slippers. Slippers would be nice." When I got home from the funeral, a box of Christmas presents was waiting for me...I unpacked it and set them all under the tree to await Christmas morning. I thought the funny thin heavy box with a handle on the top was maybe a toolkit...possibly for my car? And ironically that was the last box I opened. Jeff had moved on to discussing how we were going to handle food for our party that evening when the look of shock on my face cut him off...I couldn't believe it. Sitting here now, wearing my new robe and slippers, typing on keys as smooth as butter, I still can't believe this beautiful machine is mine. THANK YOU MOM AND DAD. So much potential opens up before me. I can actually take this laptop places, since it actually holds a charge. There's plenty of room for music, movies and writing. So far all I've done with it is surf the internet...next weekend I'm going to take it down to the Apple Store in Norfolk and have them give me some tutorials. It's like having a Mustang in your garage...you need someone to show you how to shift properly. LOVE IT SO MUCH.

I feel like I owe everyone a big ol' blog post to get you all up to date. Recently, a blog I follow didn't update for nearly a month and I panicked, thinking the writer had died in a horrible fiery car crash...turns out she was busy. I know the feeling. So where to begin? Let's not go back to the funeral, even though now that I'm here in Williamsburg I keep forgetting Grandma is gone. Keep thinking "oh, I have to tell her about this" or write her name down on my Christmas card list...then I catch myself. I guess this will continue to happen for a little while. But that's okay.

Christmas Day was spent with Jeff and his family. We went over to his godparent's house for Christmas dinner, Virginia-style, with turkey AND ham, collard greens, cornbread stuffing, cranberry relish, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes, dozens of other dishes I can't remember and three kinds of pie to finish. I was stuffed. We couldn't linger too long, however, because we were planning on hosting a little party of our own. Only seven adults here, but I had instructed my guests to come hungry and we had made enough food for a regiment. Jeff made his rum balls and salmon dip, I made mom's meatballs and whiskey weiners, and our guests brought over their Christmas specialties, padded out by chips, veggies, and a big ol' crockpot full of wassail. We finally had to kick them out around midnight. I had a bridesmaid dress to finish.

Boxing Day was a laaaazy day. Jeff and I worked our way through the six-disk set of Monty Python I had bought him for Christmas while I frantically tried to finish my 1930's bridesmaid dress and attach buttons to my coat. I also had to pack. It was luxurious, being able to throw as much stuff as I wanted into the car, including most of our Christmas leftovers. But alas!! Apparently Gladware isn't waterproof!!! Oh, how sad was I to get down to Florida and discover my whiskey weiners and meatballs were completely saturated with ice!!! The saddest day ever...

But I'm getting ahead of my story. December 27th, four-thirty AM, I jump in Chi-Chi and begin the drive down to Florida. I stop and pick up Erin and her husband Mike, who are also in the wedding, and we begin the trek. Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, all pass by in a blur as the sun comes up and begins to slide down. We are in holiday traffic, occasionally slowing and stopping. Then we hit our biggest slowdown yet--for two hours we are creeping until we finally pass by a horrific traffic accident. We are thankful for our safe journey and take it easy, arriving two hours late, but in one piece.

Nicole and Evan's wedding took place at the Beach Club Resort, which is one of the Disney hotel properties. It sits on a little lagoon with the Yacht Club on one side and the Boardwalk on the other. It is huge. Airy, blue with white trim, it really looks like a giant version of a nineteenth century seaside resort. We check in and are promptly whisked off to Disney Downtown (what used to be Paradise Island) and have a late, late supper. The next day I am awoken at seven-thirty and by nine-thirty I am on Big Thunder Railroad at the Magic Kingdom. I seem to recall Big Thunder Railroad being a lot more intense when I was ten years old, but I scream and throw up my hands anyway. Magic Kingdom is brilliant when you're an adult. We make fun of the animatronic animals on Splash Mountain, squeal like girls when the water from Pirates of the Caribbean splashes us and run to the Adventure River to catch Princess Tiana's Showboat Spectacular, knocking over several small children on the way. Magic Kingdom is hellaciously busy. After the eleven o'clock parade the park is suddenly overrun with parents pushing strollers and little kids wandering hither and yon. Little kids meaning kids under two years old who are never going to remember this, and are only going to exhaust their parents with their nap-deprived demands for toys and food. Disney has a new thing called Fastpass, which allows you to scan your ticket at certain rides and receive a time when you can skip the line and get straight on the ride. A one-thirty scan for Space Mountain spits out a Fastpass time of eleven-fifteen at night. We opt for dinner.

Dinner is at O'hana's, at the Polynesian, another Disney resort. It is a set menu: BBQ chicken and potstickers, salad, steamed broccoli and noodles, then skewers of steak, turkey, pork and shrimp, with pineapple bread pudding to finish. We all overeat and stagger back to the hotel at nine-thirty.

The next day the only one up and perky at seven is the bride. I manage to stay in bed until nine. Then we pop over to the gazebo to scout out where the ceremony will be held before Erin and I head over to the salon and get our hair done up for the wedding. A nineteen-thirties hairstyle that leaves me looking like Eva Peron's mom from the movie Evita takes two and a half hours. I hurry back and get into my dress and shoes. I have been worried about these heels for weeks, but anything less than two inches is not an option. Somehow I manage to stay upright for the walk over to the gazebo, the brief but beautiful ceremony (I cried), and the pictures afterward. Nicole arrived at the pavilion in a 1958 white Rolls Royce...Erin and I enjoy a brief ride down the boardwalk to the spot where we're taking more pictures, earning more than one double take as people notice the "Just Married" sticker in the window. We take a boat back to the Yacht Club and the shoes come off. Dinner is a small, intimate affair...with less than thirty people at the wedding, including the wedding party, it is easy to get to know everyone. Not much dancing (not that my legs would be in any sort of shape for dancing), and by nine-thirty we've sent the couple off to start their honeymoon. The wedding party changes and takes one last walk around the lagoon. A brief walk...never seen Florida so frosty.

Then home again. This time it's the traffic what cooperates and the road-trippers who are dallying. We turn off the main path and have lunch in Saint Augustine, which is a tiny little town, the oldest one in a America, full of cute little stores, cobblestone streets and farby pirates. And good pizza. The rest of the drive home is uneventful. I am in bed by two-forty five, so I get nearly four hours of sleep before I have to go to work.

But it's only one day and I have a three day weekend. Jeff comes up to Williamsburg, bearing a freshly-washed Kismet, and we watch movies until it's time for the ball to drop. I finally have someone to smooch on New Year's Eve, and it's wonderful. The next day I meet up with him down in Norfolk and we go see The Real Pirates exhibit at Nauticus in Norfolk. It is wonderful. There are chests overflowing with silver, guns, tools, pieces of clothing and even smells floating around. You can tell it was put on by National Geographic--it's done incredibly well. Some of Jeff's friends are there, guys who rent themselves out as pirates occasionally, and they add to the atmosphere by doing demonstrations and letting kids handle their reproduction guns. I have to correct a small child who attempts to cock a flintlock by making a modern "chk-chk" sound.

We go see Sherlock Holmes, which was pretty good. Not quite sure how I felt about the story, but the acting was good and London was pretty underneath all its dirt...the same could be said for Jude Law and Robert Downey Jr. of course.

Now it is noon. January 3rd, 2010. It is freezing: the temperature is probably in the teens with the windchill and the wind is howling. Kismet is bugging to go out, so we'll probably head to the dogpark this afternoon. (His chomping of a pork bone seems to have affected him not at all, little stinker) Life is good. I will put up some pictures of the wedding as soon as I get any...and I promise to post more liberally in the new year.

Ringing in the new year

2010-01-01T21:04:00.002-05:00

I wanted to write about the emotionalness of a funeral so close to Christmas...waking up to my first Christmas without my family nearby...celebrating with Jeff's family, the triumph of meatballs on my own (next year: not lean ground beef)...the shock of unwrapping a MacBook Pro with a seventeen inch-screen (THANK YOU MOM AND DAD) traveling thirty hours to attend a fairy-tale wedding in Florida, managing to stay upright in two and a half inch heels for nearly three hours...finally having someone to smooch on New Year's Eve...discovering a new Deutsche restaurant on the first day of a new year...

But, idiot Nicki saved the pork chop bone from dinner. Knowing that her beagle had a love of pork but also a killer chomp, she hung on to it while he chewed gingerly until WHAM--and she was holding a half a pork chop bone in her hand. A very sharp half. Which leads her to believe that the piece of bone now traveling through Kismet's digestive system is also very sharp.

And that is why this blog post, instead of being about the emotional crazy last two weeks, is about Nicki spending the evening of New Year's Day feeding her beagle some cotton balls (wrapped around leftover cheese curds) so that it will cushion the deadly splinter of bone in his stomach and cursing her momentary stupidity. ARG.

with mirth and good liquor we'll lead merry lives

2009-12-26T11:14:00.003-05:00

In the end I made a flying trip home to Green Bay for the funeral...which happened to be on my birthday. After cancelled flights, diverting into Chicago and renting a car I finally made it home about eleven fifteen on Sunday. No one was surprised to see me home. It felt right to be there, to be able to say goodbye and grieve with my family and the people who knew Grandma best. The funeral was simple...afterward we went over to Bethany United Methodist and had sandwiches...then we went back to my parents for more reminiscing and I worked like a fiend trying to get Lily's stocking done in time for Christmas. I only hope Santa was able to fill it since I wasn't. Tuesday I flew back to Virginia, which was much less of a headache.

A day and a half of work later and it was Christmas. My Christmas present to my friends was a party Christmas Day evening, so Jeff and I spent Christmas Eve cooking and getting ready. Today we are relaxing. I have a bridesmaid dress to finish, laundry to do and a car to clean out for my drive down to Florida tomorrow, but I'm not stressing.

It has been an interesting holiday season. I don't know if I care to repeat it, but never before has so much joy and sadness been mingled together. Thanks everyone for your prayers and thoughts...I'm doing okay, looking forward to some quiet time in 2010.

a melancholy walk

2009-12-18T20:18:00.002-05:00

Kismet must be walked, come rain or wind or sleet or snow...all of which we are getting tonight. So before it got too bad, I slung him into the car and we went down to the historical area. The snow surprised me when I walked out of the building. It was the fat white fluffy flakes, the kind that melt. Kizzy looked a little nervous at first, glancing up shocked at the stuff falling out of the sky. By the time we got downtown it had switched to the small, half melted sleety snow. Sticking to the grass and buildings, the first time I've seen Williamsburg sheathed in snow.

Today is my grandmother's ninety-fifth birthday. Her last. All day I've had a feeling, something jerking me from behind, something needing my attention. So when we got out of the car--familiar houses swathed in cold sticky snow--I called home. Aunt Bettie answered and told me the news. Platitudes about no more pain and being in a better place. I agreed. Could you ask my parents to call me when they got home from the hospital. Heaven. Walking without pain. Reunion. When I hung up the phone, I doubled over like I'd been disembowled. Screaming in tears would have wrecked the peaceful night, so I gasped for breath instead like I'd just been pulled out of the bottom of the ocean. My hood turned into a cowl sheltering my face, hiding it from people walking by (do they think I have a stitch in my side?) so that all I could see was marl, snow, and a happy beagle, tail wagging. He looks out at the historical area, nose twitching at the promise of sippets from Chowning's, treats from interpreters, fat, inattentive squirrels...

So we walked. Him, back and forth like always, me straight ahead, mechanical. Feet are two little iceblocks inside totally impractical shoes. Kismet loves the snow. I am getting a hold on myself. What now? What plans? What's next? I shouldn't be here walking Kismet, I should be-- But beagles must be walked. Hail, snow, sleet, death.

We come to Market Square. In the summer, I pretend to be in a militia here. Now it is a field of white, reflecting those snow-pink clouds, making it seem warmer than it is. Turning to go past the Randolph house a sudden snatch of song finds its way into my ear. "...Christ the Saviour is born...Christ the Saviour is born." A choir is singing "Silent Night." They repeat the first verse, faint across the green. Cressets are set up, blazing away, and a crowd is gathered. I don't wait for the path, but plunge across the virgin inch of snow to the courthouse, where a choir is singing from the steps. (imported from England. 1772. my brain reminds me) By the time I reach them, they have moved on to "I Saw Three Ships" and I am calmer. I am reminded that life goes on. My life goes on. I am not disembowled, I am freezing. I move closer to a cresset and feel warmth on my face.

The music follows us down the street. People stop me and fawn over my beagle like they always do. At Chowning's, Kizzy gets two treats to keep him warm. People are friendly. The music is hovering like a warm vapor rising from a cup of cider, keeping people content in the cold. I am very sad. But it is the sadness of acceptance, of laying down a burden too great for any person to bear. I suppose I prayed as I walked, although if I did there weren't any words. I stop to compliment the choir--they are from a Methodist church--and they invite me to service on Christmas Eve.

I wonder if there will ever be another Christmas that isn't tinged with melancholy. Some of the best secular songs have it--that dose of melancholy that evens out the unabated joy. "I'll be home for Christmas...if only in my dreams." "Through the years, we all will be together...if the Fates allow." If I'll ever join another family gathering without making a mental list of who is not with us. It hurts almost as much knowing that my children won't get to meet her, know her like I did. But that's me being selfish again. Maybe this is what growing up is. Now I am the adult, it is my turn to buy the presents and bake cookies. To leave the receiving and frosting to the kids. Now that I am the adult I have to walk the dog, no matter what.

Here's hoping everyone is staying warm.

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin, mother and child.
Holy infant, tender and mild.

Sleep in heavenly peace...sleep in heavenly peace.

Hanger moment

2009-12-10T18:18:00.003-05:00

I'm sure other sewers will appreciate the moment when your project goes from a pile of fabric strew about the room to a garment that can be hung on a hanger. I call this moment "the hanger moment." Original, huh? It's like reaching the top of a hill and knowing that from now on, you can just sled down the other side. Usually this is where I get hung up...I get frustrated with the finishing (in reality, I have no patience) so clothes go unfinished, details get ignored in my hurry to get the garment on my back.

The hanger moment occured today around three fifteen...I'm standing up in a wedding in late December, and the bride asked me to find something vaguely 1920s as a bridesmaid. I finally found a pattern in Norah Waugh's "The Cut of Women's Clothes 1600-1930," a Poirot Dress. Nicole was able to upscale it, cut out a muslin, and then drape the actual dress for me...I'm just putting it together. It was hard finding a gown that was not bias-y and plunge-y, yet one that was flattering to my voluptuous shape. I like the dress I found...I just hope that it's going together okay. Sewing silk crepe after months of wool and linen is proving challenging.

Man, it is cold up in here today. I am working on a writing project that I may get paid for if I do not screw it up, but all I really want to do is cuddle up with Kismet, who has a much better handle on this Saturday thing. He is lying in bed, snoring. Man. Wish I was a beagle. Then I'd be warm. sigh.

It's the little things...

2009-12-02T22:05:00.001-05:00

[[Dot]]
Are you working on something new?

[[George]]
No

[[Dot]]
That is not like you, George

[[George]]
I've nothing to say

[[Dot]]
You have many things

[[George]]
Well, nothing that's not been said

[[Dot]]
Said by you, though. George

[[George]]
I do not know where to go

[[Dot]]
And nor did I

[[George]]
I want to make things that count,
Things that will be new...

[[Dot]]
I did what I had to do...

[[George]]
What am I to do?

[[Dot]]
Move on...

Stop worrying where you're going-
Move on
If you can know where you're going
You've gone
Just keep moving on

I chose, and my world was shaken-
So what?
The choice may have been mistaken,
The choosing was not
You have to move on

Look at what you want,
Not at where you are,
Not at what you'll be-
Look at all the things you've done for me

Opened up my eyes,
Taught me how to see,
Notice every tree-

[[George]]
Notice every tree...

[[Dot]]
Understand the light-

[[George]]
...Understand the light...

[[Dot]]
Concentrate on now-

[[George]]
I want to move on
I want to explore the light
I want to know how to get through,
Through to something new,
Something of my own-

[[Both]]
Move on
Move on

[[Dot]]
Stop worrying it your vision
Is new
Let others make that decision-
They usually do
You keep moving on

--Sunday in the Park With George

The weight of history

2009-11-28T22:02:00.003-05:00

There is a phrase that re-enactors use when they are so into a living history situation, so totally immersed that they actually begin to feel they are living the century they're interpreting. It's called "seeing the elephant" and it has only happened to me occasionally--like when I arrived at the Randolph House tonight. The path through the gate has been a muddy quagmire of late, even though the staff has thrown down sticks and firewood, but tonight, with my breath in the air, the first thought I had when I arrived and saw the path was "Well, one good thing about these temperatures--the ground's frozen, no more mud." Thinking like a colonial, when muddy roads and quagmires were a part of daily life.

My storytelling site has moved approximately twenty feet, from the backyard of the Randolph, to the passageway between the house and the kitchen. (why aren't we in the house proper? Loong story dealing with politics between the Randolph and evening program people) The passageway isn't heated, and since we have to leave both doors open due to fire policies, it's little better than a sheltered lean-to in the cold, windy weather we're currently having. I dressed for work tonight like I was going to a football game: two pairs of stockings, flannel undergarments, shift, stays, (I wear my stays, because it's uncomfortable to tie petticoats around my waist otherwise) underpetticoat, petticoat, sweater, long-sleeved tee, bedgown (it's amazing what you can hide under a bedgown, which is a baggy T-shaped jacket), kerchief and two caps. That's right, two caps. And here we have the eighteenth century solution to keeping warm: More layers. Over all this I threw my heavy wool cloak, which is so heavy it gave me back problems last March when Jeff and I went camping.

Wool is warm, and honestly, if I was sitting down in one place and could tent a cloak over me, it's no problem. But when it's hanging off your shoulders--and you're already wearing twenty pounds of clothing--you can really feel it. I already cheated with the modern sweater under my bedgown. In the eighteenth century, it would have been another bedgown, another petticoat...I can't believe that women never wore some kind of breeches or bloomer like garment to keep their upper legs warm (apart from my hands and feet, that's the part that gets cold soonest), but apparently they didn't. I try not to wear anything there either, because I try to keep the vestiges of authenticity, but on nights...like this...I'd rather just throw on some old flannels than deal with cold on top of all the other complications from my site.

But as for everything else someone might see...everything else that is visible...perfectly authentic. So when I show up in someone's holiday snaps, they'll marvel at the accuracy and maybe, just maybe, spot the elephant.

Happy Turkey Day

2009-11-26T17:17:00.003-05:00

Well, turkey day is over here. I spent it with Jeff and his parents, at a local restaurant...this is the first time I've ever eaten out on Thanksgiving Day. The food was great, but I felt a little guilty about making people work on a holiday. And work really hard--although we went to a buffet, so the chefs were mostly concerned with making sure the tables were full--it was obvious that the waitstaff were running ragged, trying to keep up with drink orders and clearing plates.

The food was incredible though. Along with trying to learn more about eighteenth century cooking, I'm trying to learn more Southern-style cooking. This is mostly different foods (like collard greens and oyster stuffing), but there are a couple techniques involved we didn't learn in Wisconsin. Like frying. I fried up some chicken the other night, and it turned out beautifully. Fried with egg and flour in vegetable oil, mind you. But, I'm afraid it might not count, since it was chicken breast strips. Not a whole chicken, or even bones-in pieces. Baby steps though, I'm on my way. I even contemplated buying lard the other day so I could do biscuits properly. (yeah, yeah, I know--Sam's over there talking about making healthy Indian food from scratch, and I'm frying chicken and cooking with lard)

I also have to work tonight, which is another reason we went out. It's weird not cooking on turkey day, but it's also nice not having to deal with the dishes. Kizzy got left out though, he had to settle for some leftover spoonbread (another Southern delicacy) mixed in with his kibble. I am thankful for a good year--a new boyfriend, a beautifully behaved beagle--good friends, a steady job and now new opportunities. It's been a good year. Next year, though I'm cooking. And I'll definitely be incorporating all my new receipes.

happy dance!

2009-11-24T22:41:00.003-05:00

Guess who just got hiiiired! To write a podcast walking tour of CW!!!!

And whooo is getting their script produced!!! Probably sometime next summer! In some kind of format, tho I don't doubt it might be slight unrecognizable!!!

hint hint

It's ME!!!!

I loove getting paid to write!

it's not going anywhere

2009-11-23T22:10:00.006-05:00

Suddenly everyone seems to want to convince me to move to London. That would be a great idea if only I had money and I wouldn't be so far away from my friends and family and if their economy wasn't in the toidy and England suddenly had a great need for another unemployed playwright. I'm not moving to London. Let's stop talking about it.

But visiting! Ah, visiting, now that is another kettle of fish altogether. I just happen to have consulted the magic eight ball over at Travelocity and I discovered a fare out of Washington DC to London Heathrow (angelic chime!) for three hundred and fifty dollars. Allow me to use numerals: 3-5-0. Dollars ($). For next February.

Oh so tempting. Just a click...a single click and I have reservations, a few emails and I'd have floors all over the city I could crash on...decent tea and love for my favourite Turner only a few months away. I could finally visit the Transport Museum, what was closed the entire time I was studying there! I could take the Tube--to the Tube museum! London in February is a lovely time to visit. It's cold, rainy, snotty, no one likes to go. I'd have the Nelson Room all to myself at the NMM. Oh, all this possibility with only a click, a single TAP of my FINGER...

"aaaahlll you have to dooo is...moooove your little fingaaaaah...just a single little finger can...mmmm.....CHANGE THE WORLD."

(that of course being a quote from "assassins" about shooting a president. i just want to flyyyy)

Three fifty I could do. I'd live on tea and cheap soup, hit up Sainsburys for some PB and live on peanut butter sandwiches all week. Sleep on floors. Make my boyfriend take care of my dog. Screw the fact that I ain't got no vacation time saved up, I'll just eat the hours...say a thousand dollars. Yeah. I could do it for a thousand dollars...I have a thousand dollars...get my FIX...

...sigh.

I hate being a responsible adult.

Walking at night

2009-11-19T22:06:00.003-05:00

Another friend mentioned how weird the time shift is...I find it hard as well to spend all my free time in the dark, while looking longingly at the sun through a window at work. (although the sun has been hiding quite a bit lately...and, having taken the beagle out between writing that last sentence and this one, I can tell you it is raining cats & dogs out there right now) If I hurry home from work, we get about a half hour of greyish twilight for our walk. Now that I'm working less evenings, I'm enjoying actually exercising my own dog again. An hour every evening, if I feel up to it. The darkness is annoying, but familiar. I like looking in to the windows of the houses I pass, catching glimpses of paint colors and paintings. Walking through New Town means a lot of similar condos and row houses, and it's incredible how different every owner makes their own property. I don't take my iPod when I'm walking--I rely too much on my sense of hearing for traffic and other people--and that keeps my head clear to think. Tonight I caught a whiff of London, that particular smell that is a mixture of bus fumes, unchanged fryer oil and concrete. One whiff to sense it, one whiff to recognise it, one whiff to savor it and then it was gone.

Home smells like wool and cigarette smoke. That's what I remember from mom coming to pick me up from daycare--the scent I picked up as I hugged her hello, burying my face in her heavy eighties wool power suits. Home smells open, it smells like a house that has routinely had new carpet and adequate windows, properly working central air, unlike our apartment, which has none of the above. Walking at night at home smelled like grass--green and seedy if it was spring, hay if it was fall. There is one spot on the highway here, turning on to 199 from 64, where there is a lack of streelights, and I am always surprised by the constellations suddenly leaping out at me. At home, they were more consistently bright.

I'm not going home for Christmas this year. I am standing up in a wedding, in Florida, four days after Christmas, which would make a trip home very short. It's not responsible to spend money on airfare when I'd only be home for two days, so I am saving that money for when I can come home for a proper visit. This will be the first time I haven't been home for Christmas, the first time I won't wake up in my purple bedroom, or help roll meatballs or re-arrange my nativity after Mom has set it up for me. My roommate and I decided on getting a real tree this year (the money goes to the Lion's Club), which I am glad about, since I'll be here to enjoy it on Christmas Day. I will sneak out early in the wee dawn hours of Christmas morning and put Kizzy's presents under there, then pretend Santa has come. Not because he's my surrogate baby, but because I want to get him pizzle sticks, and he will eat them, paper and all, if I try to put them down earlier. I think I know a place where I can get some kringle. I will go to church here Christmas Eve and cry when we sing "Silent Night" just like I do at home--and I daresay Jeff will come over and we'll cook a big Christmas feast, if I don't get kidnapped by his family. It will be weird waking up on Christmas morning by myself, but once every twenty-seven years isn't a bad ratio.

In the meantime, I have Christmas presents to finish sewing and a bridesmaid dress to put together at some point...so I guess I better get to bed. Good night everyone.

Friday Night

2009-11-13T21:15:00.003-05:00

Last week we had a nor'easter, which was pretty hellacious. Worse than Hurricane Hanna, with flood levels near Hurricane Isabel, although most places managed to hang on to their power. It hasn't stopped raining in three almost four days...I'm starting to feel like a character in a Don Bluth film.

Gosh, there's so much to write about. A few weeks ago we at the Costume Design Center had an open house, for the 75th anniversary of costume design at CW, and one of our VP's was so impressed he suggested we should do some kind of evening program based around costumes. Our manager asked me to write it since I am A) intimately acquainted with all of CW's clothes and the historical time periods B) It is a slow time and they could let me go read eighteenth-century Virginia Gazettes without work piling up C) I have a wicked sense of humor and --oh yeah, D) I am a trained playwright. Hyaaaah! Trained like a NINJA. It was so frickin' GREAT to write--and to do it while I was ON THE CLOCK--and barge into Linda Baumgarten's office like I was a professional and question her about stomachers--and let me tell you, the high I got last Friday as I finished that first draft and mailed it in was fantastic. I'd forgotten what that feels like. THIS is what I needed: a clearly defined goal, a deadline and someone who believes in me. The next step is seeing if we can do it..do we have the space, actors, budget, etc, but I will surely keep you posted.

That's the most exciting news...the reason I haven't been posting much is because I've been an overworked, stressed, cranky Nicki lately, and that doesn't make for exciting blogging. The evening programs are slowing down though--I'm getting cancelled more--which is both a blessing and a curse. It's bad, obviously, because it means less money, but it's a good thing because it means I can spend more time working on Christmas projects, walking Kismet and sleeping. Last night I actually got to bed by ten, and I can already feel the difference an extra hour of sleep makes. And I have time to make dinner tonight, so I'm making hotdish. Does anyone out there listen to Prairie Home Companion? I usually catch it Sundays after church...it makes me homesick, listening to all those Midwestern accents. Last time they were talking about hot dish, which got me hungry, even though mom never made it when I was growing up. I had to explain to my roommate that hot dish is a casserole made by a Midwesterner.

I'll try to post some pictures of some projects soon...but some of them are Christmas presents, so they may have to wait until after December 25th...

spooooooiled beagle

2009-11-02T21:48:00.004-05:00

I was going to stop at the grocery store after work tonight. Then I thought "ninety percent of the reason I'm stopping at the grocery store is so I can get a roll of quarters to do Kismet's laundry." Then I reasoned: "If I stop at Hancock fabrics and buy him some more fleece, not only will I not have to do laundry tonight (which will take forever) but if I buy two pieces of fleeces, I will be prepared for the next time he wees in his crate."

So that's what I did.

I promise I have been doing stuff besides working, buying food, doing laundry and spoiling the beagle...

...but it all seems a very long time ago already...

It's not Wellington

2009-10-20T22:56:00.003-04:00

My budget is going to hell this week because I WANT THIS T-SHIRT.

want want want want

shhhh nobody move

2009-10-10T23:04:00.003-04:00

Somewhere in the last year my computer has gone from "creaky" to "outright old and cantankerous." A few days ago it decided it could no longer find the music in my iTunes library. Oh, I was waving my fists and screaming, let me tell you--half my music collection has been lovingly stolen from libraries all over the world. (what, you think I OWNED over seventy musicals? pffft.) Meaning, I don't have the original discs to re-download them. But, after a comprehensive survey, I discovered my music was on the computer, it just wasn't being recognised by iTunes. So I reintroduced the two, got iTunes talking to my library again, tried not to get depressed over the fact that I also lost all my playlists (sigh) and am now getting track names from the internets.

I am very concerned my computer might shut down at any moment and destroy the whole delicate procedure. So, shhh, no sudden movements.

Also, pray we make it to next April...I think I know who's getting my tax refund check next year: APPLE COMPUTERS INC.

holy cats...

2009-10-04T22:10:00.003-04:00

...I had no idea it was two plus weeks since I'd updated. I always had this thought in my head like it was "last Tuesday" or something vague like that, but two weeks? I am ashamed.

So, what have I been up to?

First, Jeff, Nicole, Erin and I went to the Chickahominy powwow last weekend! (and, sidenote, Blogger does not recognise the word "Chickahominy"! Just like the Federal government! whoo!) It was lots of fun: we had Indian tacos (taco stuff on frybread, YUM) and then wandered around looking at the vendors. Lots of cheap dreamcatchers and neon coloured feathers, but there was also some gorgeous wampum jewelery and goods for making costumes, leather, furs and such. But my favourite thing was the dancing. I could watch Native American dancing all day long. As we were walking up to the area where the powwow was, Nicole leaned over and said "Could you imagine being an English settler and suddenly hearing this coming out of the woods?" She was right--it would be spooky. At least we, as Americans, have some kind of experience with Indians, but for a Englishman fresh off the boat it would be terrifying. The costumes that people wore run the gamut from pre-European, all natural leathers, furs, feathers, horns and turtle shells to flamboyant modern satins on the lady fancy-dancers. Just beautiful. We felt sort of out of place, you know, being white and all, but having people whirl past us gave us an excuse to gawk.

And then! Erin, Nicole and I went to see Grease! Not because I have a heartfelt longing for the fifties, but because when you live in Hampton Roads, you take whatever is coming through the Norfolk theatre. Also, Erin got free tickets from a buddy who's working the tour. It was okay. Well, the singing, the acting, the dancing was fantastic. The writing was awful. If you've never seen the show, it's nothing like the movie and for once--the movie's better.

And then! Beagleman got sick. Which wasn't thrilling, but it was worrying, so I dropped him off at the vet on Friday, and they checked him out and sent him home with some pills..they must be akin to the miracle pills of "Princess Bride" because one day later he's back and raring to go. Huzzah.

and speaking of Huzzah! Guess who went to the firing range on the Chickahominy Nature Preserve and shot off her boyfriend's new black powder 1760's reproduction fowler? I did! It was (wait for it---) a blast! At first it felt kind of funny, shooting a black powder gun (which goes like this: prime the pan, shut the pan, pour powder down the barrel, ram wadding, pour birdshot, ram more wadding, take the hammerstall off the frizzen, fully cock it, hope the vent hasn't gotten blocked and pull the trigger.) standing next to a husband and wife who were sporting three Confederate flag motifs between them and totin' a gun painted with hunting camo. But we soon got used to it. Between Jeff babying the gun, cleaning it between shots and the length of time it took to reload that baby, we only got off a dozen rounds between us. But! Guess who's target has more holes in it! Mine!

Then, last but not least, I am on Day Six of the South Beach diet. Something I've been thinking about doing for awhile, and decided a wedding in October would be a good excuse. I don't know if I've lost any weight yet because I haven't weighed myself, but I do feel a little odd eating eggs and bacon for breakfast. Yet--Special K hasn't worked, so what the hell. The hardest part was giving up sweet stuff. Then today I looked through the menu of allowable foods, and I realised I could have Fudgesicles. Damme, Fudgesicles have never tasted so good! I am so freaking sick of dieting, but the "hardest phase is only for two weeks" and I can do anything for two weeks. Yayyy!

Things have been busy around here: I am scheduled to the hilt. I am flying home a week from Thursday and then Jeff and I are going camping at a primitive rendezvous the next weekend, so that necessitates a round of sewing. But! I am excited for October! Which is here! Already! Where HAS the time gone?!

which it will be READY when its READY

2009-09-17T20:55:00.003-04:00

Friends, I am in the throes--the throes, I tell you--of a serious Patrick O'Brian infatuation. The last month or so I have been doing nothing but reading, sleeping, thinking and dreaming Aubrey/Maturin. And now, thanks to the book "Lobscouse & Spotted Dog" I will soon be eating and drinking it as well. I am so obsessed with these books I've even picked up steward Killick's habit of inserting the word "which" at the beginning of sentences. One of my favourite things about these books are the loving descriptions of the food. But there are no receipts, a glaring omission that "Lobscouse" rectifies.

I checked the book out from the library today just to get a flavor of it (flavor, you twig? har!)--far easier to follow than my Wmsbrg Cookery, with its oven settings and measurements in modern cups and tablespoons--but with a lot of the original nineteenth century sources cited. Wistful thinking about cooking on a spit over an open hearth became wistful no more when I looked up and saw our brick fireplace--with a lovely large hearth just begging to be roasted upon. And I can think of no better delicacy to bring home to this year's Christmas feast than a Christmas pudding...although if I was to do it absolutely correctly, I should start it now and let it hang unmolested in the corner for the next three months. And then light it on fire. Wheee.

I don't know why all of a sudden I'm so obsessed with historical cooking (why I'm obsessed with Aubrey/Maturin is perfectly obvious) except I think it's something to do with the hearty, historical way receipts are put together. Lard, flour, eggs, suet, all combining to create something glorious. The tastes aren't as rich or as subtle, but they're easier to appreciate. You put rosewater in custard and by God, it tastes as rosy as a spring morning. I'm looking forward to mastering pudding...not only because as an Anglophile it's a duty, but because apparently it's Patrick O'Brian's favourite dessert.

distinctly uncomfortable

2009-09-15T20:49:00.003-04:00

The pie...was not a success. (the Yorkshire pudding, pt 2, was however. Unrivalled in its glory) I think the problem was I didn't cook down the blueberries enough and then added frozen before I let them thaw. The water from the frozen threw off the water/flour ratio, and the result was pie-soup in a graham cracker crust. Disgusting! Except when you scoop it over delicious vanilla ice-cream. Mmm...

My roommate, Jordon, is a W&M student, she's going to be a physical therapist some day. She is a dedicated academic, cleans the kitchen without prompting, runs marathons for fun and she babysits Kismet when I have to work. And she's watching "The Biggest Loser" right now. I got into the show last year, mostly because Jordon watched it, but I came into the season when people were losing dozens of pounds left and right, spouting feel-good maxims and it was mostly equal, harmless fun. Tonight's the series premiere, when America is introduced to the freak show that is this year's crop of losers, pre-losing. And suddenly I don't quite have the stomach for ice cream and pie soup.

It's not that the contestants are anything new--some of them are scarily big, and they've already had to take one person to the hospital after running a mile. But some of them are not much bigger than I am. And I am sitting here, squinting, confused, watching while women wail into their hands and swear--swear--that they will lose the weight and never, EVER allow themselves to get that big again. Okay. So how is that supposed to make me feel?

Apparently pretty crappy, according to the trainers, who are gushing about how "oh, this is the biggest show we've had so far, but this is how America looks now." So even though I'm at the small end of my size spectrum, I'm supposed to feel ashamed of my body because I'm still not small enough for mainstream America. And now we have a doctor who's point blank telling these people they're sick. Overweight, yes, but that's a "disease" you can take care of. Arg. I'm already feeling bad because the weight is slooowly piling on (I blame Jeff, who likes to take me out and feed me well) and with two weddings coming up, I've been eating salads for lunch and trying to walk Kizzy for an hour each night. Like yer supposed ta. But I'm not trying to become obsessed about my weight. I will lose ten pounds, get back to the post-London weight, and then I'm done. And I won't feel ashamed because someone on The Biggest Loser is starting out at my target weight.

At least, that's the hope...

the universe does not want me to bake

2009-09-12T20:39:00.003-04:00

Remember last November when the great cookie carnage of '08 occurred? Little did I realise that this signaled the beginning of a trend. I have been trying to up my game a little, since my roommate can turn out the most amazing treats with little more than butter, sugar, caramel and showtunes. But whenever I attempt anything more challenging than a Krust-Eaze box mix, the results usually go horribly awry.

It doesn't help that Jeff is trying to get me interested in period cooking. As a colonial woman, of course cooking would be my responsibility, and it's one that I genuinely AM interested in, especially since I get to play with fires. But it hasn't been going so well. I'm trying to master a Sally Lunn receipe, which is flour, water, eggs, sugar, uh, salt, and yeast. And I have yet to not kill the first batch of yeast, so I always end up using twice as many packets. Then of course there was my unintentional over-spraying of the pan, resulting in a lovely puddle of...whatever it is they put in non-stick cooking spray. (not historically accurate, I know, but then again, neither are electric ovens) Jeff even bought me the a copy of the Gentlewoman's Companion, a CW publication that has over five-hundred receipes, all printed in the original eighteenth century dialect. Which is nice, except for the baking times: "Bake in a moderate oven." Ooookay. Thank heavens for margins where I can scribble modern interpretations and notes. (1 pint=2 cups. Bake at 350 for approx. 20 minutes...)

Jeff was off at a workshop today, so I decided to try to find something I could make for dinner. Most of the receipes called for ingredients that I didn't have ("take a piece of lard the size of a goodly egg...") but I finally settled on breaded lamb chops and Yorkshire pudding. I love Yorkshire pudding, but I haven't had it since England, so I was excited. And the receipe was easy: three eggs, well beaten, a cup and a half of sweet milk, three tablespoons of butter, melted, a cup and a half of flour, sifted. Mix together well, pour into a shallow pan, bake in a hot oven. ("400 degrees for 30 min/425, 25 min?") The pudding, baked in a Pyrex pie pan, turned out glorious. It bubbled up in the middle, butter pooling around the edges, and then sank back down when I took it out of the oven, just like I remembered. Finally, I thought--something right.

Then Jeff and Nicole came over. Nicole is learning how to build men's waistcoats from scratch and Jeff is her guinea pig. I directed him to the bangers I had bought for dinner and started the process of reducing potatoes to mash...until Nicole asked if the pudding was supposed to be smoking. Jeff had turned the burner on under the pudding, not the burner under the pan o' bangers, and the pudding was burning. I grabbed up a towel, moved the pudding to another burner to cool off and turned off the offending burner. I stood there, towel in hand, intently studying the pudding to see if it had been burned when--

BANG

The Pyrex exploded. Shards flew everywhere, hiding themselves in corners and liberally dusting the scones I had made earlier. My heart, moments before preoccupied with beating normally while I saved the pudding, moved instantly into overdrive. Kismet came over to investigate, until Nicole grabbed his collar. I was so shocked I couldn't speak.

We cleaned the kitchen up. Pyrex may be indestructible, but once it destructs, it is some nasty edges and sharp pointy bits. HOT sharp pointy bits. But we got it cleaned up. I threw away the pudding, and a couple of scones, not wishing to inflict a horrible lingering death on my dinner guests, but oh, how my heart ached for that lovely, golden brown pudding.

Now, I was angry. I knew, logically, that it was an accident--that our stove does not make it easy for you to know which knob to turn--had made the same mistake myself once or twice--roommate had shattered a Pyrex lid only last year--but all the same, I was angry. I stomped around and held back tears, and in the end, just hugged Jeff and apologised.

"I'm not angry at you," I said, he looking earnestly and apologetically at me, "I'm mad at the universe. Apparently the universe does not want me to bake. Just when I thought I was going to succeed, the universe notices and says "oh no you don't!" and snatches victory out of my grasp."

Little does the the universe know I'm going to attempt blueberry pie tomorrow...

better today

2009-08-31T20:59:00.002-04:00

It's amazing how cold seventy degrees can seem. Today I'm feeling better, especially since the temperature has dropped and the humidity has disappeared. Why, we're even sitting here with the windows open! And I took Kismet for a walk tonight and didn't come in the door wringing wet. And I made soup.

I never thought a Monday would be better...but I'm glad the weekend is over.

This has been a shitty, shitty day

2009-08-29T16:58:00.003-04:00

How shitty, you may ask? Well, I'm sitting here, eating chocolate chip cookies straight from the tub and using the word "shitty" in my hertofore PG-13 blog.

Jeff was supposed to come up today and spend the day with me...until the brakes on his car exploded. So instead of spending the day with me, he's spending it with a mechanic.

Undaunted, I ventured out into the historical area with Kismet. I tried to return his birthday present--a designer collar and leash--only to be told that I could only return it for store credit. Since the only thing I wanted from the boutique was a designer collar and leash, there's no point in returning it...but I could really use the money for the new tire. (remember the new tire? Oh yes, last Saturday was a winner too.)

Decided to be productive this afternoon and do a little cleaning. Stopped by the Dollar General for some cheap cleaning supplies and when I returned to the car I discovered that Kismet had thrown up all over the backseat. Now, I have a towel to protect the seat where he climbs in before he jumps into his little booster seat...but guess which side he threw up on? Good thing I had all those church bulletins in the backseat to clean up what I could.

Did I mention I hadn't eaten breakfast yet? I had planned on coming home and making myself a big brunch, but instead I grabbed bucket, brush, paper towels and my new bottle of extra-strength Febreeze and cleaned out the backseat. Discovered that last week's rainshower (did I mention I left the windows down Sunday night and it poured and my car smells like dead rat, hence the Febreeze?) had turned some magazines in the backseat into mulch and that was probably why Chi-Chi smelled like a dead rat. I managed to get the mess cleaned up, with much diligent application of paper towels...and a liberal spraying of Febreeze.

At last I got to eat breakfast. Whipped up a batch of Martha White's self-rising biscuits, which looked like hardtack next to the apple cake my roommate made to celebrate her wedding. (fine. Not her wedding--she's re-enacting a wedding that took place two hundred years ago) The hashbrowns I made from scratch were undercooked and tasted horrible and the meatless sausage was a joke. (I hate being vegetarian sometimes. I'll do it, but I'm not happy about it.) I couldn't even enjoy pretending that my biscuits were hardtack, because that just made me think about how many Aubrey/Maturin books are out there that I haven't read yet and never will because I have no money either to buy them for myself or pay the astronomical fine at the library.

Then I got busy with the cleaning. I even moved some furniture around so I could vacumn, but when I unhooked the hose I discovered that it was smoking. Something is wrong with the belt, but I'm not touching it today. Luckily we have the extra vacuum (thank you Dumpster Gods), but that shining moment in the afternoon was quickly overtaken when I attempted to wet-vacuum our sofas. Not only is the one cushion I attempted to clean still wet (thank God I stopped after only one), but it STILL smells horrible. Horrible but with vinegar, because I was trying to be green. Screw it. More Febreeze!

Then, the worst thing of all happened. A few weeks ago Jeff made me a present of some glorious blue wool and silk fabric, to match some eighteenth century chintz I had. I was planning on turning it into a beautiful upper-midding class outfit, something I could wear when we were promenading and making everyone jealous. Jeff had even offered to make it for me, all I had to do was cut it to length. Cutting out a petticoat is not hard: it's two straight cuts straight across the width of fabric. Yet I managed--because it is just that kind of shitty day--to screw it up. Instead of cutting 38", I cut it at 36", and when you're talking about hemlines in the eighteenth century, yes Virginia, two inches matters.

At that point I gave up, cried, put everything away. I have to go to work in twenty minutes (going early so I can try to return Kizzy's collar...he deserves so much better than me) and it looks like it's going to rain. So I'll probably have to perform inside tonight, which is hot, small and miserable.

The one high point of the day came when I checked the mail...I was bitter when I saw the fat envelope, figuring it was more love for the roommate, until I saw the return address. Inside: baby pictures. Thank God for baby pictures. Mom, Dad, Lily--you have saved the day.

parallel parking only

2009-08-22T22:06:00.002-04:00

Nothing makes me long more for the public transport system of London than a car breaking down. My car, specifically, Chi-Chi the regal Buick, beige arrow of the Williamsburg byways, scourge of squirrels and students alike. When last I had an oil change the mechanics warned me that I would probably need a new battery before November. "November" became "August" Tuesday night, when I turned the key after work and instead of a purr was greeted with a pathetic clicking noise of an unsuccessful starter. Damn. I called the boyfriend to give me battery a jump, and while I was waiting called dad and cried into the phone until I felt better. Honestly. I felt like such a girl about the whole thing. I knew perfectly well that the battery just needed a little help, and then I could get it to the shop and they'd change it for me--or better yet, I'd get my own damn battery and then dive in there and change it myself--but not having a set of jumper cables or a portable battery sort of put a crimp in my style. Jeff arrived and we successfully got the car started...and then we had the brilliant idea of turning in off to see if it would start again.

It would not.

And, in our continued attempts to get the car started a second time, we managed to melt the positive terminal off the battery. So instead of driving my own car home, I got a lift from Jeff. The car was so dead, I couldn't even get the key out of the steering column because the car had died when the anti-theft device was activated. When I got home, I called dad again, and cried until he suggested that maybe a shower and bed would make me feel better (It was nearly midnight at this point), and he would call AAA in the morning and see what he could do.

He got me hooked up with the AAA Roadside assistance, so the next afternoon I called them to come and tow my car. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the interpreters heading home from a work as the gate swung open (by the way, did I mention my car died in an employee parking lot? It died in an employee parking lot, safely behind a keycard gate. arg.) and a bloody great flatbed tow truck rumbled in, diesel engine growling. It's a very humbling and yet thrilling experience to see your car slowly hauled up on to the giant hydraulic lift like a whale onto the back of a Japanese trawler. I had the guy take Chi Chi back to my apartment, since the AAA people said that they could send a battery truck. But when the battery truck got there, the guy popped the hood, took one look at the corrosive streak left by the acid slowly dripping out of the battery and announced that he couldn't help me.

It's a very thrilling and yet annoying experience to see your car hauled up onto a flatbed truck by the brilliant light of a new morning. This time, I had them take it directly to a professional shop. By 10:40 on Wednesday I had a message saying that my car was ready. I was so relieved to finally have my own car back. Oh, it was glorious to get behind the wheel and be greeted by the purr when I turned the key.

I had two full days to consider and contemplate the innumerable joys of having personal transportation, especially in the light of the fact that the William and Mary students are back in all their blinkered, pedestrian glory. Driving to meet a friend for lunch in the historic area today, I made sure to go extra slowly, avoiding a freshman with a goatee that would have made Tesla jealous. It's the one year anniversary of Kismet's adoption, so we were headed down to the historic area for a walk and some ice cream. It's about a hundred degrees here. A cold front is holding Hurricane Bill off of the coast, but the humidity is ninety-eight percent, and the dewpoint is in the seventies. Not too hot, but wet as the inside of a pitcher of water.

I was lucky enough to find a parallel parking spot in front of Barnes & Noble...I haven't parallel parked in a while, but when I was in driver's ed, I was the class star. Today I had a bit of trouble...banged in to the curb once..or twice...but I figured, since I was very nearly parallel, that a little more gas would slide me along the concrete and I'd be fine. Not so much. When I got out of the car, I discovered that instead of sliding along a concrete curb, I had been firmly jamming my tire into a steel sewer cover. When you hear "pssssssss..." coming out of your tire...you know you are in trouble. I took a deep philosophical sigh and went to eat lunch. On the way back, we stopped for ice cream. I prepared to call AAA (again) and then realised I didn't know the street I was parked on, so I stuck my head in the Baskin Robbins and asked the lady behind the counter what street it was. "Do you need directions? Where are you going?" "No, I...I have a flat tire, I'm calling AAA." "Oh, well, Dave could fix it for you. Dave! C'mere!" And this stringy sixteen year old came trotting obediently around the corner. I mentally weighed up the pros and cons of handing the welfare of my car into a complete stranger, figured I had nothing to lose and five minutes later Dave was laying under my car, wiggling the jack under the axle. And twenty minutes later the doughnut was on. Thank God for mechanically inclined sixteen-year olds.

So now the wheel is sitting at the mechanics shop, waiting for a new tire--I'll get it back Monday--and Chi Chi is Williamsburg-bound for the weekend. So no Yorktown for Kismet on his birthday...but we did get over to Maggie Moo's for some ice cream, and he looks very handsome in his new collar and leash.

here we go again

2009-08-06T22:12:00.004-04:00

Thinking about going back to school because, well, when the economy is crap, that's what people do. Either that or the government puts them to work digging ditches. Basically, I want to become the kind of professor I had at Point: family-oriented, a sane voice in the drama-filled vacuumn of theater, someone who teaches during the winter and enjoys gardening in the summer. I realise that if I enter the world of collegiate academia armed only with an MA, I would probably be adjuncting and have a second job on the side--but I'm hopeful I can get my foot in the door somewhere.

And I also want to start my own community theater. Not a theater company, not a grown up serious regional theater, but a community theater, a space where people who are not theater people can come and create theater. A million years ago I wrote a paper for a class about a hypothetical, ideal community theater, prompting my professor to comment that it sounded like this is what I should do with my life. I brushed him off, convinced I was going to be the next Sarah Kane...but funnily enough, I've never forgotten that comment. Nor that paper...

So onward perhaps. I knew when I moved to Virginia and started working at CW that this was a temporary thing, a place where I could lick the wounds Chicago inflicted and figure out what the hell to do next. I'm ready for the next leap now, but this time I'm doing it the smart way--before I even start any classes, I'm going to have a list of jobs I can apply for when I'm done.

The Bounty

2009-07-31T22:24:00.003-04:00

It's moving out time again, and between the two of us, Amaree and I have managed to pick up the following stuff from the dumpsters:

1. A microwave (about twenty years newer than the one she got last year)
2. A vacuum (which we don't need, so we'll take it to the thrift store)
3. Wire shelves
4. A dining room chair
5. A full-length mirror in a wooden frame
6. Two under-bed storage containers from Target
7. A drying rack for clothes
8. A bag of men's shirts, large, mostly from Banana Republic (again, off to the thrift store)
9. A book of American history
10. An anthology of black American drama
11. A headcollar and instructional DVD for Kiz (and there's a crate in the laundry room...could get it for Jeff's house)
12. And last but not least, a three-volume box set of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Still in the plastic wrap. I felt like I was adopting Kismet all over again--come here, baby, I want you when no one else does.

I mean, we're talking about useful, practical stuff here. We could have had another vacuum, a couple of lamps, some shelves, a dollhouse...quite apart from the fact that this stuff could have gone to the thrift store, some of it was quite literally cash in hand--a box set of Tolkien, unopened? Ever heard of Amazon, idiot? honestly. Mine now!

Speaking of the beagle...I had to buy him a new harness today because he'd outgrown his other one. Before I got him, I bought a "medium" size, optimistically, but he was so small and underfed that I had to take it back to Petsmart the next day and get the small. Well, a year later, he fits into the medium (barely), and I'm feeling something akin to what moms feel when their babies outgrown newborn onesies. Next thing I know he'll be driving and applying to college. *sniff* They grow up so fast.

Back to Virginia

2009-07-27T20:26:00.003-04:00

And I'm back. It was a whirlwind week, that was for sure. I'm not exactly clear where it all went, but I remember being home and seeing everyone, and I remember flying back, so clearly I had a vacation in there somewhere.

The flight home on Friday was uneventful. Both parents were at the airport to pick me up, and then we went over to see Grandma. Who was happy to see me and hear about Virginia and give me the third degree about the boyfriend. And then, of course, we went out for fish, meeting up with Mr & Mrs. Lemery and Lily, better known as the bug in some circles. She is the perfect baby. Charming, always ready to pose, crying only when she is hungry, sleepy or when Grandpa stands between her and a red cut glass candy-dish. At the restaurant she attempted to help herself to Grandpa's beer when he wasn't looking, only to have ever-vigilant mom take it away from her. "It's okay," I said consolingly, "When I take you to England we'll make up for it." I don't think her dad appreciated that.

Saturday my folks hosted a family picnic at their house. It was cooler than we would have liked, and occasionally drizzly, but the pool is heated, so I spent most of my time in there, playing with my younger cousins. It was wonderful to see everyone, and catch up with everyone, and I'm so glad that most of the family managed to make it--we had thirty four people all told, coming and going.

Sunday...I honestly can't remember what I did Sunday. Oh yes, dinner with the family again, only this time salmon and salad, and two very needy chocolate labs snotting up the window as we ate.

Monday I was thwarted by the EAA in my attempts to rent a car, so I left GB nearly three hours after I intended to. I drove down to Fort Atkinson, picked up Laura, and we met up with Sam in Madison. The first time the three harpies have been together in over three years...it was wonderful. Cackling away and swapping stories we've heard in the news and rumors about old classmates. Laura even commented on how "quiet" Sam's fiance is, and I had to gently point out this was probably due more to the fact that he couldn't get a word in edgewise. Sam had to go back to work on Tuesday, and Laura was working on the organic farm co-op, so I drove up to Wanaukee and caught up with yet another bride to be. (for those of you keeping score, this'll be my fourth stint down the aisle...as a bridesmaid) Laura and I caught up with Sam in Spring Green that night, by watching the American Players Theatre production of A Comedy of Errors. It was hysterical, even with the occasional rain. REAL Shakespeare geeks stand out in the rain, because we're HARDCORE INTO THE BARD.

Wednesday--Sam was working again, so Laura and I did Spring Green, where the theatre is located. Spring Green is small, but fascinating. Lots of cool little shops and galleries and organic stores. But, eventually, you've seen all the arty jewelery you care to see, so we headed over to that Wisconsin standby, the tavern. After being carded (more for being outsiders than looking underage) we proceeded to order Leinies and then rail loudly against guns and Republicans which, I'm guessing was probably not really appreciated in a small rural Wisconsin tavern. They did not, however, have cheese curds, so we went around the corner to the bar where the theatre people hung out, and proceeded to repeat the process of ordering beer and railing. This time with a huge basket of curds. "There ought to be a road movie," I said, "through Wisconsin, and the whole time one of the main characters just keeps saying 'Man, we gotta stop and get some CURDS, man.'"

Then we picked up Sam and whizzed back to Madison to see the sixth Harry Potter movie. Even though none of us confirmed it with the others, we all knew we'd be seeing it with each other. Oh, and Sam's fiance, of course. Oh I cried. I cried so hard. Even knowing was was going to happen, I cried so hard. Definitely a good movie--I don't know if I'd say it was the best movie, but definitely in the top three.

Thursday I had to say good-bye to the girls and come home. It took a lot longer than I had planned, but then again, I wasn't really looking forward to saying farewell either. Got home around six and was immediately taken out for more food at Pasquale's, despite my protests that I wasn't in the mood for more cheese. (Cheese curds for an afternoon snack, movie theatre popcorn, Burger King at midnight and cheese curds for breakfast do not a happy tummy make)

Friday was a shopping day: stopped at the bank, got a new cell phone and raided Lane Bryant for some new jeans and tops. Then I got to see the fabled Lenny's, the tavern where my dad will spend the odd hour watching sporting events. Dinner was fish again. 'Cuz its Wisconsin. And that's just what you do on a Friday night.

Saturday was supposed to be the boating day, but it was (you guessed it) drizzly and windy again. So we ended up going to the Outagamie County Fair, where we wandered amidst the prize calfs and hogs, admiring the skills of the local four-aitchers. And had some more cheese curds.

Packing up and leaving was incredibly sad. I miss my family a lot, especially right now. But getting home was wonderful--it was nice to step off the plane and see unadulterated sunshine for the first time in a week. And Kismet has been amazingly well behaved ever since I got home, probably because he's afraid I'll ditch him again. Not forgetting of course, coming home to boyfriend kisses. There's nothing I wanted to do that I didn't get to do. Except next time I come home, I wanna take a boat ride.

brb

2009-07-19T19:30:00.003-04:00

I was going to talk about how much I love being back in the Land of My People, the land of cheese-eatin', beer drinkin', Packer lovin' Wisconsonintes.

But mom just poked her head in the room and told me that Lily's about to take her first dip in the pool.

Talk to you later!!!!

Things We Share

2009-07-16T22:41:00.002-04:00

The jacket that I was working on when I had my accident was sent to the laundry, because of a few drops of blood, and it came back today. So I had the chance to conquer my nervousness about the eyelet attachment, get back on that horse and finish the project. The only twitch came when I accidentally nudged the presser foot switch, making a small noise, causing me to jump some feet in the air. Without moving my hands, of course. The wound is surprisingly nondescript, healing well. The only indication that major trauma occured is the gouge in my nail...that'll take some time to grow out, and in the meantime I get a nice reminder to keep my hands clear of the needle everytime I look down.

Tomorrow I am flying home to Green Bay. Today I ate watermelon, which I love, and pondered on the things my family has passed down to me. Love of watermelon comes from my mom, who craved it when she was pregnant with me. Craved so much, that when she sent dad on a run two years later, the grocer asked "Liz pregnant again?" I also inherited my chin from her, a chin which has been neatly sculpted after a decades long assault by modern orthodontia into Greek statue like perfection. I'm incredibly vain about my chiseled jawline...also a little sad I don't look as much like my mother as I used to. I also found myself thinking about my mom the other day when I bought a bedskirt from the thrift store. We had a fight once about bedskirts: I was in the strictly anti-bedskirt camp, on the basis that they are dust-catchers and just get in the way of my favourite storage space. But then last week I found a lovely beige one, a flat-hanging bedskirt without all the dusty ruffles, only three dollars, so I brought it home, washed it, ironed it and put in on my bed. I can't quite get it to lie flat without pulling the mattress all the way off, so part of it is squashed underneath, but from the front, it looks lovely.

From my dad I get my ability to understand the complication that is modern American football, even being able to lecture people about the intricacies of punting vs. going for the endzone. I think of my dad when I listen to classical music, even if it's a piece he's not familiar with. I am pleased with myself that I genuinely enjoy classical music, as if I am joining a long list of people who have enjoyed this music century after century, and I have dad to thank for this, for dragging me out of bed to listen to the three tenors. Thanks to him too, for being able to tell them apart by just listening, and being able to smile stiffly when people gush about Andrea Boccelli being "just as good as Pavarotti!" We also share our love of kids, of being able to honestly enjoy the company of small people, of patience, of doing goofy things, but not realising they are goofy until the parents arrive and say slowly "what...are you doing?" Playing. It's fun. You should try it some time.

Now that I live here, away from my parents, they have much less influence over my life, although the lessons they passed on to me when I was younger are still very much engraved on my personality. Everytime I cuss I hear my dad's strict rejoinder. Everytime I eat cookies I see mom's raised eyebrow. I look forward to inflicting my own personality on a small person some day, hopefully passing along the best parts of what my family gave me.

All this meandering, however, hasn't helped me figure out how to say what I want to say. I am going home to visit my family, and, just as importantly, catch up with friends, some of whom I haven't seen in a very, very long time. And some of you, loyal readers, will no doubt be aware of something else that is going on at home. Grandma, rock of our family, is not doing well. I am very afraid to look at her and tell her how much I love her, knowing that it could be a lifetime before I get to say it again. There is so much joy and pain wrapped up in me now I don't know how to express it. It feels wrong to dissemble to you, my people out there in the dark, who have been with me for so many years, and yet I don't want you to think that I am going for drama (for once) I simply wanted you to see what this vacation will include. This is my life, my family, and I need to be home.

punch

2009-07-14T20:56:00.005-04:00

Now I know what it takes to see a doctor immediately in today's healthcare environment: put a needle through your finger.

Yeah, it finally happened. Today I was using the eyelet attachment on my Bernina, trying to ensure that the linen wasn't bunching up under the needle, when suddenly there was an almighty crunch and the machine came to an abrupt halt. The kind of halt that usually happens when there's too much fabric bunched up under the presser foot, only this time it was the index finger on my left hand. Blood, yeah. I started to yell, and then realised the needle was still there, so I cranked on the flywheel and got my hand free. At that point, coworkers had rushed over to see what had happened--Nicole said that she realised something was wrong because it wasn't a "spider scream"--and pretty soon I found my finger doused in hydrogen peroxide, wrapped in gauze and encased in ice.

It was pretty shocking. The pain was tolerable, the worst part was the sound of the needle and having to free my finger. I had to fill out an accident report (well, alright, dictate an accident report) and then we went to the doctor. He was satisfied I hadn't sewn my fingerbone, and then went into an explanation how my finger hurt because of a trauma to the subcutaneous nailbed. "If you can imagine," he said, sitting back, "severe trauma to your nailbed..." And I sort of waved my finger in his face: "I don't have to imagine it, Doctor, it happened." I was glad to see my sense of sarcasm was coming back, it meant that the shock was wearing off. And then, when the nurse came in and gave me my tetnus shot it was all I could do to stop myself bursting out laughing when she warned me the needle might hurt a little.

Bwahaha.

I went home, confusing Kismet, and spent the afternoon napping in bed. Jeff came over after work and let me relive some trauma on his shoulder, and then Erin and Nicole came over to keep me company. I'm feeling a little tired, a little weak, but my finger doesn't hurt nearly as much as you'd think, looking at the punch through the nail. Hopefully it won't fall off...sigh.

Oh, and I also dropped of my car this morning so they could take care of the "SERVICE ENGINE SOON" light. Eighty dollars later it turns out the gas cap was broken.

I am so ready for vacation

being american is rad as hell

2009-07-08T21:29:00.003-04:00

The reason I don't post often is because I am working nights. Also, I spend a lot of time at my boyfriend's place, and he doesn't have the internets. Also, part two, I sit in front of a sewing machine all day instead of a computer, so I really, really don't get much time for checking emails and updating my blog.

This last Saturday I was back at CW, participating in the military programs for the Fourth. How far we've come in a year! Last year I could barely march and wasn't cleared on a musket, this year I was tossing a Brown Bess around with aplomb and muttering under my breath at people who couldn't stay in step.

Things are going well here. I'm tired, and I'm looking forward to going home in a week, to visit with my family. My grandma is not feeling her usual perky self, so I'm anxious to visit her--although she manages to mention everytime I call how adorable Lily is. I guess I have a little competition for favourite grandchild now...