screw you bad news, I'm off to the theatre

The tides wash in and they wash out. Living on a peninsula, I'm very aware of the motion of the seas. Far enough away where I don't see them daily, but they pulse and thrust around me. They affect my life. Bridges, tunnels, ships, ferries, wharves, jetties, docks. Beaches. Things change. The ox is slow, but the earth is patient.

Is it possible to become tolerant of bad news? Like living in a war zone, is it possible to stop noticing when the shells are raining down? So much bad news on every side that even I am avoiding the paper, the radio, but when things do come through, I can't even get very upset about it anymore. A WWII veteran frozen to death after the electric company shut off his heat due to an overdue bill. A woman going back into the Army because they'll provide healthcare for her premature son who has serious physical disabilities. People standing in line for hours to apply for part-time jobs. Soldiers back from Iraq who are committing suicide because they're not getting the help for PTSD that they need. I see all these things, and I worry. And my worrying parts get worn down, until I just can't do it anymore. It's not that I don't care. But if I cared any more, I'd go mad.

Kizzy is curled up next to me in the bed. He is sleeping the sleep of the exhausted because he spent all day at playcare chasing other dogs around. I should be so lucky--I'll probably take a sleeping pill to ensure I get a good night's sleep. It's nearly midnight. I need to get up in six and a half hours.

The world is sleeping. My favourite time of day. Just me up now, writing, thinking. The world is turning. The sunrise is getting nearer. I wish I could stop for a moment--not for me, but for all the other people out there who are hurting. Just a few more hours of sleep, a few more dreamless hours when you don't have to worry about bills or mortgages or...or anything, really. How funny is it--me, with my degree, with my dreams of a tenure-track career, here I am weathering the storm at my hourly job. Barely weathering, mind you, but we're doing okay. And the tides wash in, the tides wash out.

Next summer, when it's warm, Kizzy and I will spend our Sundays on the beach, enjoying the ocean and the sun. We'll absorb saltwater and avoid jellyfish and eat ice-cream, if we can afford it that week. I'll get a chart of the tides, to make sure that we're not going at a time when the waterline is low, the sand is long. Maybe by that point there will be good news on the radio again, there will be positive signposts to give people hope. Not everything the way it was. Not good times here again. Things change. But movement in a stable direction.

In the meantime.

I am going to New York City this weekend with an auld friend from London to see Michael Cerveris in Hedda Gabbler. I'll be back Monday night. I'm sorry to leave with such a downer post, but I wanted to write something before I left. And I'm just tired. Good, but tired. It's been a long week. I'm so looking forward to just taking off and enjoying myself. Have a good weekend, everyone.

Heralds of Spring

Last Friday we were sitting in the shop, happily stitching away our last hours when our intern, Emily, perked up her ears and said, "Is that a train?" "No," I trilled happily, "that's the Fife & Drum Corps!"

Which can only mean one thing: spring is on it's way! I know it's only the second week of February, but in Virginia, that is like the end of April, Wisconsin-time. The Fife and Drum Corps will start their programming up again in March, so now is the time to practise. Yay, spring. Warmer weather, more humidity and militia! Which means breeches and money. Huzzah. Two things I like very much.

I spent Saturday in Smithfield, exploring a corner of Virginia with a new friend. Smithfield is a preserved historical town, full of Victorian "painted ladies" that are covered in gingerbread and latticework. Unlike Colonial Williamsburg, the houses are still privately owned, but the city requires the owners to keep them up to the original standards. A nice way, I think, of keeping the feeling of the city without having to put all the expense on a single foundation. After lunch (although Smithfield is known for its ham, I had a turkey sandwich on sourdough and the best damme German chocolate cake evar) we wandered through an antique store that featured period shirts and shifts with period sewing, which resulted in major geekery--no, no, that's actually a backstitch, not a machine stitch. Wow. Then through an art gallery featuring historical artwork (including a cheeky portrait of Thos. Jefferson) and finally home to dinner on the James River.

I took the ferry back to Williamsburg, over the James, and saw the second sign of spring: the Harley riders. Hordes of leather clad bikers, out for a spin in the upper-sixty degree weather. On the ship they were gathered together, comparing notes and talking shop before driving off on their solo ways again: at least sixty bikes, all of them polished so bright it was hard to look at them. Kizzy hesitantly sniffed a tire, and I made it very clear to him that these machines were not to receive his special blessing. Standing up, I caught a biker grinning at me: "What can I say?" I grinned weakly, "he's got good taste."

All in all, this was one of the most relaxing weekends I've spent in Virginia, just lazing around, no need to be anywhere on time. It reminded me of driving to Point at the end of August: the stress of summer jobs over with, the stress of classes not set in yet. The lack of AC compensated for by open windows, the open windows compensated for by a blaring radio, the smell of dried hay and dust getting caught in my hair. Virginia is beautiful. Life is good.

Just one thing.

I just want to say this, and then I'll get off my soapbox: I am really bloody tired of people referring to the $50 million earmarked in the current stimulus bill to go to the National Endowment for the Arts as "pork spending."

Attention people in Washington: THIS IS NOT PORK. You can either pay people to do their work and have a vibrant, thriving cultural America, or you can have a bunch of out of work, depressed artists on welfare. Your choice.

I haven't read the fine print on this bill, but the GOP must really be scratching at the bottom of the barrel if that is one of the programs they come up with as "pork." Oh, that and money for Planned Parenthood, which will of course immediately go to terminating pregnancies left and right and nevermind about preventing unwanted babies. Because women who are unable to afford daycare and so unable to go to work and therefore on welfare are a much better solution than handing out condoms.

Okay, I'm done. I'm just saying. I don't particularly like the idea of a stimulus package, but hey, isn't this why we all signed the "contract" with our government, so they could take care of us in our time of need? I don't want much--me, I'm okay with what I've got. There are a lot of people out there who are a lot worse off than me, who desperately need a little more cash on hand. I just want enough to be able to buy hair dye and maybe go out for sushi. Yeah. If this bill passes, I guess I'll get something. If it's another $300, I'm spending it on a plane ticket to come home to You.

victory!!!

Oh man. Have you heard about this? Apparently an American company, Odyssey Marine Exploration, has discovered the wreck of the HMS Victory--not Nelson's Victory, which is currently dry docked at Portsmouth--but it's predecessor, which was laid down in 1737 and sank in a storm in 1744. Heh, I said "laid down" like I knew what I was talking about.

Apparently they haven't brought any artifacts to the surface other than a pair of cannons, but there are rumors that there might be up to a billion dollars worth of gold coins down there. The British government technically has jurisdiction, since it is a military wreck, but I'm more interested in what else might be down there, anyway. Just think of all the artifacts that survived from the Mary Rose wreck--and that was in 1545!

It's just so damme exciting! I mean, I love ships, and a sunken ship like this is just like a big time capsule. There is no telling what might be down there. I hope that they're able to bring up lots of things, and maybe even raise the hulk in the future. According to the BBC website, there will be a Discovery channel documentary airing on the eighth...I'm going to try to catch it. Oh, it's exciting. I've been humming "Hearts of Oak" all day.

lower case

so i'm sitting here, enjoying the superbowl. kizzy is sleeping on my lap. hes not exactly a lapdog, but i dont mind. yeah my legs are numb and i only have one hand free to type with but, its ok. i have my computer here and the remote. my only regret is not grabbing a beer b4 i settled in. sigh.

go steelers!!!

This is what being an adult means to my generation.

Every day when I drive to work, the last thing I hear is NPR's financial report: how Wall Street is doing, how many jobs are being lost, which companies are failing or succeeding. It's not easy to listen to, and sometimes I just have to switch it off. I see the headlines reflected in my own life: colleagues, friends and family struggling with money matters. But more than that, struggling to gain acceptance of what is happening to our world, trying to get ahead, trying to get a piece of the American dream.

My generation--by that I mean we in our mid- to late-twenties--fall in between Generation X and Generation E. The grunge generation and the wired generation. We grew up with babysitters who wore bright colors and legwarmers, and we got the internet when we were in high school. Our world was surrounded by economic prosperity. Cocooned by it, you could almost say. Buffered by security and having enough. Not so much that extravagant lifestyles were within reach, but enough. Your parents didn't fight and worry about money or lose their jobs. If your boss didn't give you a weekend off from your gig at McDonald's, you could just quit and get another part-time job across town. There was enough.

All that has changed, and suddenly money is tight, tighter than we've ever seen. For the first time, we've had to make tough decisions about our lifestyles. I've heard it so much lately: when does this get easier? Sure, your first job out of college might not pay much, but surely by my mid-twenties I'll be getting a promotion, buying a proper car, contemplating a house...banking on the future. At twenty-two, twenty-three, you're not thinking about security, you're barely an adult, for heaven's sake. But now we're ready to be adults, we're ready for those grown-up responsibilities. Houses, cars, families. Instead we're worrying about finding jobs to pay off student loans, living with roommates, still existing on our college diets of ramen and Campbell's. We're so consumed with trying to make ends meet that there's no time, no money to save. A downpayment on a house? Try deciding between birth control and gas money.

I'm not sure why it's so hard. Is it because we were raised with that comfortable feeling of security, never had to scrimp to achieve what we wanted? Is it because we bought into the idea that life had a predictable cycle, that even those of us who are the most free spirited suddenly feel the urge to nest--but we cannot? When does it get easier? If we could only say: one more year, and then we'll have money in the bank, we can buy decent furniture, eat non-generic food, take that trip. But there's no end in sight. When does it get easier? When do we get to grow up? To feel like we've successfully completed that transition?

I worry that the current economic crisis will mark my generation, make us cautious and sensitive, in much the same way that the Greatest Generation emerged from the Depression with the urge to save and conserve as much as possible. Will this be a bad thing? Not necessarily. But it may retard my generation's full potential: instead of changing the world, we may be the generation who sires it, warning our children of the dangers of extravagance. Husband your resources, we will tell them, be creative and clever, but don't forget that it could all change in a minute. We might grow bitter and jaded, unable to optimistic about the future, unable to commit to anything long term, convinced that a thirty-year mortgage is just an invitation for disaster.

These feelings have probably always existed in new adults. When does it get easier? I'm sure everyone's asked them self that question. It's only magnified by the current economic meltdown. The truth is, it feels like it may never get easier, and that is terrifying to contemplate. We may miss out--that is what is scary. The cycles of life could pass us by as we worry about our day to day existence. When is it our turn? Where are our families, our houses, our American Dreams? When do we get to become adults? When do we get to stop worrying and start living? When will it get easier?

Road to Monticello

Part of the reason I've been trying to get my Tomtom to work is because we were going to Monticello on Saturday. Monticello is, of course, Thomas Jefferson's plantation home, over 600 acres near Charlottesville. The main house, famously built and remodeled over fifty years, sits high on a mountain, surrounded by the ranges of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We drove for about two hours west to get there, arriving about eleven-thirty. The sky was grey, and the grounds were fairly quiet. I figured it was just the off-season. A CW pass got us in for free, and a shuttle took us up to the top of the mountain.

As the house came into view, I snapped this picture, thinking how nice it was that the trees were bare of leaves so I could get a picture of the whole front of the house. It was only when I uploaded it I realised it looked like an abandoned, spooky building. Nothing could be farther from the truth, however--Monticello was sold after Jefferson's death, but three years after that it was bought by Uriah Levy, a Naval captain who was determined to keep the building as a monument to Jefferson. Subsequent owners had similar intentions, and when the house was taken over in 1923, a lot of the original furnishings, dishes, clocks, etc, came back to it. Items that had been sold in 1826, passed down through families and then given back to the estate. Very cool.

Right inside the front door Jefferson had a museum of American artifacts--Native American art, fossils, and things that Lewis and Clark had brought back from their expedition. The coolest thing, however, had to be a clock over the door. The inside told the time, but it also had a pulley with cannonballs hanging off of it near the wall, to tell what time of the day it was. While we were there it struck noon, but since the gong had been disconnected, it was only a wheezy sound.

Our next stop was the office where JEfferson's daughter ran the household. Then into the library, where I was forced to stuff my hands under my armpits to stop myself from touching everything. It was such a lovely, cozy room filled to the brim with books and comfy chairs, connected to Jefferson's study by a little hallway that led into a greenhouse which featured cherry tomatoes, hibiscus and lemon trees. Jefferson's study was interesting too: all the desks and tables were carefully strewn with books, instruments and papers, making it look like the great man had just gotten up and gone for a stretch. Or possibly he was in his privy closet--one of the first indoor loos in America. Jefferson loved France and classical architecture, and it shows in his bedroom. His bed was tucked in an alcove between the study and bedroom, which had twenty foot ceilings, topped with a classical frieze. The space over his bed was his closet. Did you know Jefferson introduced hangers to America?

The next room was the parlor, and here Erin left us. She had filleted her thumb the day before, and was suffering from light-headedness due to blood loss. Thought briefly about following her, but the Monticello people were so nice I figured they could take care of her. Jefferson's parlor had a high ceiling as well, with windows looking out on a spacious lawn, the walls covered in paintings. Some of them were classical, copies of paintings in the Louvre, some of them were portaits of friends. I proved myself a smartie when I correctly identified Lafayette and Adams, and then went on to ask if that was a bust of Napoleon (it was). The next room was the dining room and tea room, an echo of the greenhouse with floor to ceiling windows. Busts of Washington, Franklin, Lafayette and John Paul Jones stared down at guests. The sides of the fireplace cleverly opened to reveal a wine-dumbwaiter which could bring up fine vintages from the cellar below.

The last stop on our tour was two of the guest bedrooms. More alcove beds, heavily draped in damask silk. Well, at least they'd be cozy in winter. But I was really struck by how small the individual rooms were. Very boxy and small to modern eyes used to open floor spaces, with tiny twisting staircases and hallways. We speculated on how Jefferson got his furniture upstairs, figuring he probably just ordered a window or two taken out. We didn't get to go upstairs, alas, but they have special "architectural" tours, so maybe we'll go back.

It was nearly one at this point, so we decamped back down the mountain for some lunch. Erin was feeling better, but still not one hundred percent, and we were all hungry. Monticello has a new visitor center which complements the mountainside beautifully--and it's far enough down that it doesn't interfere with the classical, historical layout of the plantation. And they have absolutely AWESOME turkey-apple-brie paninis. AND Sprecher root beer!!!


After lunch we headed up to see the grounds and gardens. This is the view most people know of Monticello: it's actually the back porch, looking out over the lawn, and two long porches called the north and south pavilions. Underneath are the kitchens, store rooms, smokehouse, icehouse and some housing for slaves. It was still chilly up on the mountain, but the sun had come out, and there were more people, so the atmosphere was more enjoyable.


Self-portrait! Nicole, Emily, Erin and I pause to record our trip. Don't we look like Mount Rushmore?



Jefferson's "garden" is a five-hundred foot plot that was carved into the mountain. It lies directly behind Mulberry Row, which is a road that goes next to the house. It is where most of the slave cabins were, as well as cabins for trades, like joinery, blacksmithing, etc. Jefferson built himself a little pavilion on the edge of his garden so he could have a place to read or play the violin at the end of the day, enjoying the best view of the place. I can't imagine what it must have felt like to be living on Mulberry Row and hearing a violin coming out of the twilight.



Finally we walked past the garden and down a short path through the forest to visit Jefferson's gravesite. He's buried next to his wife and daughters, in a graveyard that is still in use by his descendants. I had heard that it was tradition to throw nickels on his grave, and sure enough, the grass was littered with coins. We added our own, wishing that the Great American Experiment would continue uninterrupted.


And we weren't the only ones who felt that way: this card was attached to a bouquet of flowers that had been tied to the gate of the graveyard.



A short walk back to the visitor's center led us past this tree, which was being hugged to death by a parasitic vine. Isn't it beautiful though?

The trip back was two hours again...we were quieter on the way home, happily sighing at the historical overload. "It takes a special breed of geek to be a fangirl for Thomas Jefferson," I commented happily. I enjoyed getting out of Williamsburg for a day, seeing something new in Virginia and learning about our third president. I can see now why Jefferson never wanted to leave home.

driving ms crazy

YAY!!!! Friday! Can't wait to get outta here! Yay, car! Yay, driving!

Hey, the person in front of me seems really old and slow. That's cool. I'm not in a big hurry. Wow the weather is nice, maybe I'll roll down the windows---

WHOA, brakelights! *slam* Oh man, that little old lady in front of me must have seen a squirrel or something, there's...oh, wait, more brakelights. *tap* Oh...

Wait, do you think I'm tailgating you? Lady, you're barely doing twenty at this point, and I've OBVIOUSLY got plenty of room to stop, as evidenced by the fact that I am able to do so everytime you *slam* slam on your brakes.

Oh, great, now you're gesticulating angrily at me. Don't you think you should keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road? Ya know, instead of on the car behind you?

Hey, I've got time. Even driving twenty-one miles an hour I'll STILL get home in twenty minutes. Tum tum tum.

I can wave back at you. Notice how I choose not to use my middle finger.

Damnit, stop waving at me and DRIVE.

GO THE SPEED LIMIT.

(which is twenty-five)

Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm going to put on some music and enjoy this ride.

"I need something else...to get me through this...semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby."

Oh man, this song takes me back. Maybe I'll sing along:

"good byeeee...good byeee...good BYEEEEE! do do do, do do do do..."

What, you think I'm going to crash into you because I'm singing along with the radio? At least I'm not slamming on my brakes and waving my hands in the air all the while watching my rearview mirror.

YES, TURN. Good. BYE.

Go home and tell your children about the psycho who tailgated you all the way home.

I've got some blogging to do.

tomtomathon

The best part about having a car is learning fun new things. Like where to put in the windshield wiper fluid! And how to get gum out of the carpets! Tonight takes the cake though. I got a Tomtom--a GPS locater for Christmas--but I've only been able to use it once in my actual car because the cigarette lighter doesn't work. Hence, I can't charge the Tomtom, so no tomtomming around town. Luckily I have a friend, Erin, who lives with three nuclear electricians. "Could you," I asked on Monday, "ask your roommate if he could come look at my car? If he's not busy?"

Better though, the roommate explained to Erin how to figure out what was wrong. So we trooped out to my car and I meekly held the flashlight as Erin flipped through the manual, said "right," popped the hood and started jamming tools into random important looking fan-thingys. Who knew the manual was so helpful? I just thought it was there in case of emergency--you know, when your partner has gone into Seven-11 and you've got nothing to read. Seriously though, we were looking for a blown fuse. And we found it...not under the hood, but in the fusebox by the door. Well, Erin found it. I was, as I said, holding the flashlight. The fuse was very much blown, so hopped in Erin's car (with Kismet strapped in on my lap) and headed over to Wal-Mart.

I'm sure there are other places to buy car fuses at seven o'clock on a Wednesday, but neither Erin nor I know how to find these places in Wmsbrg. And I haven't been in a Wallyworld since college. Undergrad college. I was completely overawed by the sheer temple of STUFF that awaited me as we walked through the door. Overawed and yes, seduced--hey, we need tables! A pitcher! A new dog bed! A copy of "The Mask" for eight dollars?! Hell yeah--but Erin grabbed my elbow firmly and with a ferociously hissed "Focus!" steered me to Auto Parts. The fuses were bought. We returned to Erin's car and Kismet, who had displayed his displeasure at being left in her car by farting it up, and then home. Slotting a new fuse into place was almost ridiculously easy. I cheered as the green light on my Tomtom came on and silently thanked the heavens for handy friends. $2.47 for a box of five fuses versus a auto store commission and withering looks from condescending grease monkeys? Yeah, I think I can stand out in the cold holding a flashlight for half hour.

This is what history looks like

Someday I'll be able to tell my children about this day. About how excited I was, about how excited we all were, all the millions of us freezing in the mall, or gathered together in rooms around the country. The world, I will say, was going to hell. Later that day, the Dow Jones would close below 8,000 points. But for a brief half-hour, all Americans were focused and united on a new leader who had a plan and a vision for a new America, a peaceful America that used its strength to lead instead of bully. President Obama didn't make any sweeping promises about a shiny golden age, but instead asked us all to sacrifice to work together again to make this plan come true. We were built on hard work, I will tell them, and we were not afraid to get to work again.

So go do your homework and quit bitching.

As expected, the inauguration ceremony was quite moving. About ten-thirty we went over to the auditorium and watched Sesame Street until PBS switched over to inauguration coverage. It made me think of Lily, for some reason: with any luck she'll be eight when Obama gets out of office. The first eight years of her life, she'll have a black president. She won't think it's weird or odd or historical, he'll be just another fact of her little life. How marvelous. The camera couldn't seem to stop sweeping over all the different faces in the crowd--so many different colors of people, a sea of waving American flags.

When it came time for the actual oath, Senator Feinstein asked the crowd to stand up. From behind me I could hear the "thump, thump" of theatre seats swinging shut as the sitters stood. I stood up too. We were about two hundred people, silently watching as Barack Hussein Obama took the oath of office, neatly stumbling over the same oath that most presidents manage to get through okay. The same oath that Washington took, on the same Bible that belonged to President Lincoln. I was bowled over by the sense of history. We Americans may not have much, timewise, but what history we do have is deep, rich, loamy, soaked in multiple layers of meaning and importance. It's impossible to do it any sort of justice any more. All we can do is stand and bear witness.

Afterward, I felt tired. All afternoon, as I stitched up torn shirts, just exhausted. More than two years watching, waiting. Same as the election: so much buildup, then the epiphanic release, only to realise the work's just begun. Things are not instantly better. I tried to carry the excitement through to the end of the day, but the financial report that was playing on NPR burst that bubble pretty quick. California Tortilla was giving away a free taco to anyone willing to do a silly dance, so I went over and got one...the counter help by that time was unimpressed with the smattering of Obama fans that were still dribbling in, jaded by our enthusiasm and our wide-eyed optimism. But the free taco tasted pretty sweet all the same.

Victory tastes pretty sweet. All the fear that I felt from the previous administration is gone. Lifted, replaced by anticipation. The apathy, the skepticism, the sheer horror, the embarassment, it's all gone. President Obama asked me to hang in there, sacrifice and work hard to make a better day for America? For him, I'll do it. I will trust that he is holding up his end of the bargain: if I can just hang in there, he will be working on his end to make a better future for us all. Maybe that's the difference between him and President Bush, I trust President Obama. It's scary times we're living in, we need someone who can lead us in the right direction. I trust that we've made the right choice.

The road goes ever onward...

come on SNOW!

My boss asked us if we knew the inclement weather number for CW today--the number you call to see if CW is closed. "Why?" I said, "are they expecting inclement weather?" Apparently, the forecast calls for between three and five inches, accumulated...which means Virginia will come to a screeching (and I do mean screeching! har!) halt. I doubt work will be cancelled--the last time CW closed it was Hurricane Isabelle--a proper hurricane that, not lame like Hurricane Hannah.

The thing I worry about though are all the people in Washington DC for the inauguration. Oh man. Who's excited?! I am so excited. SO FREAKING EXCITED I WANT TO DANCE AROUND AND SING THE HAPPY SONG. Which goes like this:

I am so happy!
I AM SO HAPPY!
happy happy happy
HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY

Repeat, etc.

People keep asking me if I'm going. Uh, no. I'm excited, not insane. It may be historical, but it's still only twenty degrees out there. People keep saying they want to BE there...well, hells, what on earth did they invent the CNN for if people were going to keep on insisting on still BEING there? I will be at home, surrounded by all the creature comforts you're not allowed to take into the security zones (lawn chairs, handguns, commemorative pictures of Sarah Palin, Fiesta Dip), happily surfing between CNN and ABC, checking Twitter occasionally to learn firsthand what it's like to Be There ("still cold. No Prez in site.") and using Kismet as a footwarmer. At least, that's what'll happen if we have a snow day. Otherwise, the costume shop will be closed down for a couple hours while we all go over to the auditorium (some of our offices used to be a high school...) and watch the inauguration. Seeing it in a group will probably be better. I'm sure I will cry, as I've been spontaneously bursting into tears from just watching inaugural commercials for the past week.

Oh, it's going to be a party. I hope everything goes okay.

And the best part? I heard today that can't-be-president-soon-enough Barack Obama has scheduled a meeting with the joint chiefs for the day after the election, to discuss a sixteen month timetable for pulling the troops out of Iraq. I'm not even saying "yay, end to war" or "while we're at it lets go after the 'leaders' who put us there," I'm just impressed with Mr. Obama's sheer ability to show up to WORK the day after the inauguration. I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it. This, more than anything else, shows me that he's serious, and that we've made the right choice. Someone who'll dive in and get right to work. So happy. SO FREAKING HAPPY!!!!!

happy happy happy
HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!

dogpark mafia

I finally took his Kizness over to the dogpark yesterday...mostly because I was too lazy and too cold to walk his furry butt around, and I figured this way other people's dogs could wear him out for me. I sort of forgot about the part where I'd be standing around doing nothing except slowly losing feeling in my toes, but Kiz had a good time. (And, I am happy to say, it is no longer too cold to snow in Virginia, as evidenced by the brief scattering of snow we had this morning, snow that promptly melted from fear as it hit the ground) Kizzy spent the forty-five minutes we were there happily chasing after the other dogs who were chasing a ball and racing a big golden lab named Marley up and down the fence. The people who were there were all dog people, sharing ball-throwing duties in between catching up with each other about dogs, family, friends, etc. They made me feel welcome, even helpfully pointing out when Kizzy was off in a corner pooping so I could go pick it up. We had such a good time that after church today we went back. This time there were only two people and three dogs, but, like yesterday, the dogs had a fabulous time chasing each other around while the people chatted. That is, we WERE having a fabulous time until I let it slip that I hadn't registered Kizzy yet. Faces grew long and disapproving. "You might want to do that," the man said unhelpfully, "sometimes they'll come down here and CHECK." "Yeah," the woman piped in, "And sometimes other people will go and tell the ranger."

Pause. Then me, mumbling, "oh, well, we were just going to...come for a few minutes anyway, we were gonna, go for a walk...he's got all his shots, you know, he goes to playcare and everything, uh. Well, I guess...KISMET! C'MERE!" And we left, opting instead to go for a stroll by the water.

Now that we've seen the awesomeness of the dogpark, I'm more determined than ever to get his seasonal pass. But my car needs an oil change this week, so it'll have to wait for a little while still.

The spiral continues...

Our boss's boss called for a mass meeting today to talk about the current state of things. Better, I figured as we gathered, to have a big meeting rather than to be called singly into said boss's boss office, but it was still slightly nerving.

But the news wasn't stellar. Our BB has been asked to reduce her budget, and part of her solution is to cut everyone's hours by four. We'd shut down the building for a half day every week, or one day every two weeks. The other alternative, of course, is to start cutting people, but the BB would rather cut hours, because if she starts cutting positions there's no guarantee that we'd ever get them back. And we stay busy. Even during the slow season, we're busy. More building now that simply altering things which have come in from contractors, which is nice. I'm finally getting to build a pair of breeches from scratch--but I digress.

Another solution might be for some of the employees to go casual...CW lays off a part of its workforce every year and pays them unemployment instead of the regular salary, but not anyone at the shop. I, of course, am immediately attracted to the idea of having two months to go traveling--although I could hardly afford it if I wasn't working. But still. Something to think about.

If the hours do end up getting cut (and they probably will, unless the higher-ups decide to reject our BB's proposed budget), then I will probably have to find another part-time job. I've been looking for more paid writing projects, so maybe I can finally start eating my words. There's a Lane Bryant right down the road... And once the evening programs picks back up, I can go back to storytelling. But part of me is wondering if maybe this might just be a good time to bail on CW. Much as I'd hate to. I do like this company. I asked my boss's boss if she had any idea how long these short rations would last, and she just shrugged and said "'til the economy improves." Well, all right, but we know that could take years. And I've got a beagle and a Buick to feed now.

So I've been giving a lot of thought about going into teaching. Not because I want to inspire young minds--say warp rather--but because it would be a profession where there'll be some stability. By that I mean: transferable job skills. Much as I like backstitching, not really applicable to my next career move. But teaching would be steady work, summers off, benefits, and a chance to challenge myself again. It's a giant leap, and I'd rather make it from a position of choice than the last option left to me...but it's something to think about.

God and McDonald's

Well, loyal readers, I'm not exactly sure how to blog about this, but it's what I've been thinking about the past couple of days. If my post on the Confederacy Museum seemed a little odd and weird, that's because that wasn't the whole story. Apparently someone didn't get the memo and broke the "no religion on a first date rule." This guy and I--we're friends. We chat online. We gossip about CW employees. At the Confederacy museum, we oo'd over the delicate backstitching on some of the uniforms. And afterward, we went out for Chinese food, me thinking we'd finally get it sorted whether or not we could date or just be friends.

But I don't even know if we can be friends now, because he started explaining to me his views on religion. I know, I know, many of you have advised me to not get into religion or politics, but I hope that when I do--I at least know not to attempt to convert the unconverted. Meaning, I will chat issues, but only to see what you believe, not to pick a fight and not to change your mind. Unless you're up for it. And not over Chinese food. My friend, however, carefully explained to me that to him, the Bible is the literal word of God. Literally. Handed down from the Big Guy, directly to us. All the mis-translations, all the deliberate leavings-out of certain passages and books, all the lost scrolls, all historical archaeology, part of God's plan and unassailable. To be the perfect Christian, all we need do is live by the Book.

Okay. Well, I have a different opinion. Word of God? Certainly. To be read and followed? Absolutely. Fallible? Yes. But not because God is fallible--because unfortunately the scribes are humans. Thousands of years, thousands of different men toiling in dozens of different political scenarios, each with their own aim and interpretation...well, I just believe that the message is going to get a little garbled after awhile. (Not the main points, of course. "Love one another," that's pretty clear.) Look at how many different English translations there are.

You see where the problem lies. If the Bible is open to interpretation, then all sorts of horrible liberal permissive things could occur, which is strictly forbidden when the Bible is taken literally. Society is falling apart, because the rules are not being followed. I'm trying not to be flip, just succinct. My eternal optimism that we as the human race are headed in the right direction in spite of the fact that there are fewer followers of JC, sometimes because of the fact that we as a secular nation stand up for our fellow human beings--was wrecked on the unmoveable shoals of belief that this world is going to hell because people refuse to take the Bible as the word of God. I told my friend that I certainly hoped he didn't think that my faith wasn't "good enough" because I was doing silly things like having opinions. He told me of course he didn't think less of me. But that's not how I felt.

I didn't start getting upset until later that night when I thought of all my friends who were going to hell. Including probably most of NLD readership. Including me. Upset enough, in fact that I went into my pastor's office on Sunday after the service and burst into tears, convinced that I was going to have to un-believe everything I'd ever learned and toe the line. Thank God for Pastor Marc, though...he calmed me down, assured me that I was still a child of God and that my faith and my journey was valid. He sent me a long email after I wrote him explaining the situation more fully, giving me more things to think about, as well as books to read so that I'm not hanging out on a limb by myself.

What have I learned from all this? One--that God works in mysterious ways and obviously felt that it was time to push me out of my comfort zone. Not enough, he says, to be reading the Bible every night and thinking charitable thoughts about your annoying coworkers, now you have to get out there and navigate those tough waters. Maybe it is time to humble myself and get back in line. And two--I am staying away from fundamentalists Christians. On television they're humorous and puzzling. In person, they're terrifying. My friend seemed so nice and average, until he started talking about the end of days. I'm sorry, but that's not what God is about, he is about loving your neighbor, no matter what.

I started out on Saturday excited to think that I might get to date someone at last, at least have a new friend...and I ended up scared and upset and not really wanting to see this person again. I should try to engage him in open dialogue, but how can you talk to someone who is determined to take no joy in his faith?

My journey continues. For better or for worse, I needed this push. But it's upsetting to have lost a friend in the process.

the blue and the grey

Yesterday I went to the Museum of the Confederacy, in Richmond. The museum is located right next to the Confederate White House, and both are tucked into the courtyard of a modern hospital. The hospital positively looms over the house and the museum, making it claustrophobic, to say the least. Out front is the anchor and the propeller shaft from the CSS Virginia (aka the Merrimack).

Inside--and this sounds obvious--the entire space was entirely given over to the Confederacy. It's a museum to a country that only existed for four years. And most of the exhibits focussed on the war, of course. We moved through it pretty quickly, so after awhile they started to become a blur. General Lee's uniform was on loan, but I did get to see his campaign tent, bed, dishes and a cunning little table with a tree stump for a leg.

The Civil War is such a foreign conflict to me...as a Yankee, I haven't learned much other than "we won." But of course, there's a large swath of this country that isn't convinced of that. The exhibits ended with Appomattox, nothing about Reconstruction. Although there was another section which dealt with Virginia's participation in the
Confederacy, and some interesting stories about the Confederacy's lingering into the twentieth century. Overall, the museum was very focused. I can't say that I learned a lot, but then again, it was probably a good place to start...if there's one thing that Virginia has a lot of, it's museums about the Confederacy.

cheer up m'lads...

Loyal readers will be excited to hear that I've not one but two dates this weekend. Stay tuned...

Never was a person more excited for the weekend than I. Walking out of the building today was glorious. The day flew by because I was assigned a beautiful wool jacket to construct, so I spent the afternoon happily basting interfacing into the body of a jacket and transferring the cutter's marks into thread lines. Then when I got home, Kismet and I took a walk in the daylight--daylight! How I've missed it! Not only because of the short days, but because it's been raining beagles and tabbies all week. But today the sky was a Turner painting, the grass was a verdant carpet, and we even saw a flock of geese take off from a retention pond. Kizzy attempted to give chase, not heeding when I pointed out he couldn't fly. He maintains this was because I refused to let him off his leash. Which is also his reason why he couldn't catch the deer we spotted, dashing away from us, tails blazing.

I wish I had more exciting things to talk about than the weather...but it really does catch me by surprise, the warmth and lack of snowage. Like the first winter I spent in London, where I spent all January and February bracing for the icy blast, only to be greeted with crocuses in March, the feeling is much the same here. Oh sure, it gets cold, just...not as cold as it might. Robins are not a sign of spring here, but of winter, since here is where they migrate to. I shall try to hurry them northward, however, to chase away the snowdrifts I hear keep piling up.

Both of my roommates are gone this weekend as well. One is still of on Christmas break, the other decided to go home for the weekend. I wish that I could jaunt home for two days. Now that the craziness has settled down, it would be nice just to drop in and visit. I don't know when I'll get home next, but hopefully in the summer this time. Warm Virginia winters are nice, but there's nothing better than Wisconsin for the summer.

dithering

Nicki enjoys the infatuation stage.

Nicki has had waaaay too many successful first dates that never went anyway to hope for anything better than...a successful first date.

Nicki reasons: "better to stay infatuated than get disappointed after a successful first date."

Nicki is very single.

(very single)

Nicki is slightly embarassed about this.

Also embarrassed about spending so many Saturday nights at home with the dog.

Nicki could use a good excuse to shave her legs. Has she grown lazy or is it just cold out?

Nicki finds it's easier to entertain herself than make plans with persons unknown.

Persons partially know have given Nicki their phone number.

Given her tidbits of info that have put her in that infatuation stage.

Nicki dithers.

To wit: To Call and become disappointed once again? Or to stay infatuated, at arm's length, safely behind the emails?

Nicki wonders if it's time to plunge into the sea once again.

Cookie Carnage: Pt 2

So, not only am I hopeless with the baking, I apparently can't even follow a simple box mix anymore. I'm having friends over for dinner tomorrow night, and I thought I'd bake up a box of Duncan Hines chocolate-chip cookies for dessert. So I dumped the mix into a bowl, added an egg and a tablespoon of butter, and then popped it into the microwave to melt the butter.

Totally forgetting that not only would a microwave melt butter, but also cook an egg.

So yeah. When I took the bowl out, there was a nice broiled egg sitting on top of the mix. And the chocolate chips were melty. By the time I got most of the egg out of the bowl, I had mixed the chocolate into the batter so it was a lovely even shade of brown. ARG. My roommate was generous enough to give me some more chocolate chips, but the final effect was pretty dismal. Chocolate-chocolate chip cookies sound good, until you hit a piece of cooked egg that I missed.

So, I'll probably skip dessert tomorrow...these are so gross I don't even want to eat them myself.

The good news about today is that I got switched back to the men's team. After trying out both teams, everyone was asked which one they'd like to be on, and it seems like everyone pretty much got their first pick. I'm looking forward to be back in breeches land...I only altered one silk gown, but one was enough. During the months of January and February many of the interpreters are laid off temporarily, so the shop is full of laundry pieces. Once we get through those, however, it is a very, very slow time for us. The men's team will be working on replacing the military uniforms currently out in the historical area...giving them a more uniform look that's also more period appropriate. I, of course, am very excited. Give me a good hank of wool yardage any day...something I can stitch into a uniform so crisp it'll stand on its own.

Strolling on a Saturday

It's so nice to have those few extra minutes of daylight at either end of the day. Sometimes it feels like my life revolves around wearing out the beagle so I can get other stuff done (blogging, shopping, sewing). Thursday, for New Year's Day, we drove up to Newport News and took a walk around the Noland Trail. This is a five mile hike around the lake that surrounds the Mariner's Museum...Five miles didn't sound like much, but there were a lot of hills. By the end of the day, I was feeling pretty sore, and Kizzy fell asleep in the car on the way home. But it was a good way to start the new year.

My resolutions this year include cutting down on sugar and caffeine--no easy task since I binged from Thanksgiving to Christmas. But I can tell that it's working because I've had a headache and been feeling achy for the last couple of days.

Today I took down the Christmas decorations...since it was mostly real greenery, it was just a matter of dragging everything outside and throwing it back into the copse of trees that surrounds our house. I love Virginia, but sometimes it feels like the seasons are upside down--today I saw a dandelion, and there are robins everywhere. Even though it's January, the temperatures hover in the thirties and forties. This is a good thing since I go walking every day. It's nice to be able to get out and not feel like I'm caged up all winter. That's probably another reason why I'm feeling better mentally: sunlight and exercise.

Ring out the old, ring in the new...

How lame am I, updating my blog when there's only thirty minutes left to go in 2008? Pretty lame. But I've never been a big New Year's Eve celebrater--it's midnight, after all, and we old folks have got to go to bed early. I did go out for curry with a couple friends here, and then introduced "That Hamilton Woman" to Kismet, although he was sleeping when Nelson uttered his most relevant line. Damn that beagle anyway.

I clicked back on "January 2007" to try to figure out what the hell I should write about. It didn't help much. Reading that was a lil' slice of badness that I'm glad to be over with. 2008 was a pretty good year for me, but January of that year was not. Cold, dark Chicago days, running around temping, no friends, wondering if I'd ever find permanency... The one bright spark I had to laugh at: Me, casually tossing out that I'd applied for a CW technician position on January 14th. Three months later I'd be in Williamsburg...

2008 has been a good year. It wasn't perfect, but unlike 2007 I finally feel like I've got a solid base underneath me to branch out and try new things, like acting, like writing, like performing, like interpreting. Things could change tomorrow, of course, but for right now I'm pretty content. I'm feeling more in control, and more like I can make decisions that will affect my life positively instead of reflexively reacting to whatever happens to me. That sounds like so much psychobabble, and maybe it is--but it's the calm honest truth, not the slightly giddy desperate tone that was used last January.

It's been a good year. A long year. I guess I'm ready for the next one. No bells, no champagne, just high-thread count sheets, a sleepy beagle and some naval literature. Bring it on 2009. I'm ready.

I should be packing...

I've been trying to email myself a bunch of photos off my parent's camera for the last twenty minutes now, but apparently Yahoo has logged off early to, I don't know, declare bankruptcy or something. It's been a crazy week for me--lots of visiting and catching up with relatives I only see once or twice a year. Most disarming was the discovery that a lot of them read my blog, so no more confessionals about my booze-fueled writing binges, I guess.

And I also just read a Dear Abby column about how people just "hate" being forced to look at photographs of other people's families, who they don't know. Well, I now know for a fact that's not MY loyal readers, so here are some photos culled from several cameras...not merely a public service, but also so I can have these photos in Wmsbrg, to look at whenever I get blue about being away from all y'all.

And if anyone has any photos they'd like to share (family or urban-familia) just email them and I will post them with an appropriately inappropriate caption...


This is my immediate family, mom, dad, brother Peter, sister in law Brenda and of course, baby Lily in the obligatory smiling in front of the tree photo.


Mom and Dad have been hosting an open house for nearly ten years now. This is Uncle Ray, his wife Mary, Aunt Margie and mom, representin' the Ruetten side of the family.


Aunt Margie has been hosting Christmas Eve at her house for longer than I can remember. Here's me, mom and dad taking a break after a frenetic round of Christmas present stealing.



My Aunt Margie's son Peter, his wife Liz and their kids John and Katie...Katie finds it hard to believe that her dad used to take me to the movies BEFORE SHE WAS BORN, but I assured her that he actually was THAT OLD.


Me, graciously helping to open the present that Katie stole from me: a pig that you plug into an mp3 player that then dances. Katie is into High School Musical. We're trying to change that.



Okay, back to Christmas Day at our house...the day was totally overwhelming due to the fact that we had not one but TWO adorable infants at our house (with a third on the way!)...this is my cousin Elizabeth with her niece Jocelyn, and of course Brenda and Lily. The two girls seemed to get a kick out of meeting each other, but they seemed overwhelmed by all the "aaaawhs" and "wouldja look at thaaat's?" and the camera flashes.


Lily seems to prefer human flesh when it comes to teething, disdaining her pacifier. Whenever she could, she'd grab my hand and stick my fingers in her mouth...of course, that could be because I was snacking on delicious cheese and sausage and whiskey weiners...


The two grandmas and Lily, in front of mom's shiny, shiny stainless steel refrigerator.



Grandma and Lily. Even though she's not as strong as she used to be, Grandma still managed to hang on to Lily for a long time, despite repeated attempts to steal her away.



Aaaaand, one more picture of Lily. I could post hundreds, but...I think this one pretty much sums it up.

I'm embarassed at how few photos I have here--most of the cameras were trained on the babies, but Mom calculated we had thirty people at our house during Christmas Day. It was so wonderful to see everyone and enjoy the decorations and delicious food...I feel a little guilty that I'm getting out of both the decorating and taking down and all the commesurate cleaning, but I have to work tomorrow. Sigh. Of course--after a week of up and down weather, snow, rain, fog and everything in between, it's a beautiful sunny day and all systems are go.

See you in Virginia!

Going Home

This time tomorrow I should be winging my way over Midwest, en route to Wisconsin and Christmas at home. I'm not sure if I'll be updating or not, so in the meantime, here's Kismet with one of his Christmas presents...

sandy paws

This week has been a long week. I've been doing so much that I feel like i haven't really had a chance to enjoy the Christmas season. And I had pretty much forgotten that my birthday was coming up until the choir sang happy birthday during our Thursday's rehearsal.

Wednesday was our department Christmas party, which meant that no one really felt like doing any work for the next two days. I signed up to donate blood on Thursday. I had forgotten about it until my supervisor came up to me and said "ready?" and then I went over...now, I've given blood before, and I remembered it being no big deal, but I completely forgot about the part where they shove a giant needle into your arm. The woman who was taking my blood must have been new because she didn't tighten down my tourniquet enough. There I was, happily pretending I was Nelson about to get my arm sawed off when I realised I was growing light headed...luckily another nurse came over and got things moving so I could get that needle out of my arm and go get a tuna sandwich.

Saturday I spent cleaning. I am flying home on Tuesday, and I didn't want to come to home to disaster central. So my room is tidy...here's hoping it'll stay that way for two days. And then Saturday night I went to my roommate's play, The Gift of the Magi. The script was pretty mediocre, but the staging was interesting and the acting was good. I had bought a bouquet for my roommate, which I left on her bed as a surprise before I went to bed. I heard her come home...and when I came out of my room this morning, she had decorated the dining room and bought a little cake for my birthday. yay! Birthday surprise!

My church had a huge musical service this morning, so I sang at both services. Then Kismet and I went to Yorktown, to the beach. I love swimming, sand sea and surf, and I want to make sure that he'll be a water puppy someday. He seemed intrigued by the water and showed no fear of going out on the pier, so that was good. I even treated him to some Ben & Jerry's...he had some frozen vanilla yoghurt in a cup. He was so enthusiastic about it that he got it all over his snout, just like a two year old. I had chocolate therapy. All in all, it was pretty fun. I even found a birthday present on my way home: a one-cup teapot with St Paul's and the Tower on it. It rests on a matching cup that has a reflection of the two buildings in the Thams.

But now I have to run...CW gives its employees turkeys, and I decided to cook mine right away, since we have no freezer space...it's done, and I have to make gravy. bye for now!

Christmas in Wmsbrg

We had our Christmas party today--as a departure from the norm, we went to a Chinese buffet. It was nice, except for the fact that the chairs were crammed so close together it was nearly impossible to get by. But! Sushi and sesame chicken and fried rice, crab rangoon, dumplings and egg drop soup and teriyaki chicken... I managed to stop after two plates (plus dessert), but I could have grazed for hours.

Afterward we were treated to a behind the scenes tour of the DeWitt Wallace Museum's new exhibit, Quilted Fashions. The tour was led by Linda Baumgarten, who's written several books about eighteenth century fashions and textiles. We started out in the actual collections of CW, oohing and aahing over actual costumes from the 1700 and 1800s, carefully unfolded in their storage drawers. It was astonishing to see actual garments and note the handstitching--"ah! THAT's how it's done!"--all the while resisting the urge to touch, lift, stroke, lick, etc.

Then we went upstairs and Linda talked about the quilts and quilted clothes on display--lots of quilted petticoats and embroidered/pieced garments. The museum also features "study drawers" with different pieces...Nicole and I nearly had simultaneous heart attacks when we opened up the last one to reveal a beautiful black silk coat embroidered all over with lilies of the valley and other greenery. It's a good thing the drawers are covered with plexiglass, because I was very nearly drooling. So much pretty...

All in all, a very pleasant afternoon, and a nice break from work. We have no projects right now, so I've been repairing returned items, getting them ready to go into stock, to be reassigned. It's been low-pressure, so I've had time to practise hand sewing (flipping a stomacher is no fun, even in the 21st century) but it's less interesting that, say, building a jacket. We also exchanged Secret Santa gifts...I got a tin of sipping chocolate, some Walker's Shortbread and some Devonshire cream. Turns out my Secret Santa was my boss' boss...someone who's waxed nostalgic about London with me many a time, hence the Devonshire cream. Mmm...

Problem Dog

Our boss' boss' boss' boss came to visit us yesterday, causing a flurry of excitement. Apparently organising the linen scraps just because they are overflowing and spilling into the aisle isn't enough of a reason to get them straightened up. Mr. VP has been put in charge of the new "Department of Research and Historical Interpretation" and has been visiting all the areas now under his jurisdiction, which includes the interpreters in the historical area. He was very straightforward, understanding, honest and likeable--also British, which was a surprise. We didn't learn anything new, but it was nice to see the higher ups take an interest in our little shop. I wish he would have hung out a little longer though--we set up every mannequin in the shop, dressed in all class levels, military, fife and drum, livery, etc, but he didn't ooh too much. Oh well--I guess it was too much to hope that Mr. VP was also an interpreter, like our boss's boss's boss, Mr. Director, who uses his wigs and props as decorating items in his home.

But anyway.

So there's this dog that lives in our apartment building. His name is Max, I think he's a golden lab mixed with something else...big rangy caramel guy. Probably a year or younger, but really friendly after you get to know him. He lives in a third floor apartment a few rows down, and every time I take Kizzy for a walk I can count on this big yellow head poking through the bars and then a high, desperate whiiiiiine... His owner is an older man who may be slightly crazy. I'm not sure. Anyway, occasionally Max will be outside running around without a leash on. He's got a collar, but no tags and since he's not neutered--and since we don't have the luxury of a fenced in backyard--he's pretty much free to go wherever.

This past Sunday Max came running up to me and Kizzy as we were going for our walk. There's a little fenced-in retention pond behind the school where we go sometimes, so I thought I'd take them both over there, shut the gate, and then I can let Kizzy off his leash and they could run around. Great. They loved it. Had a great time. Max loves to play, Kizzy loves to be able to run around. But coming back we had to cross a road. Now, Kizzy is on a leash and is learning "stay" (meaning to wait for my okay to cross the street) but Max, leashless and eager to baptize the streetlight across the road, scooted out in front of a passing car. I honestly thought I was about to witness vehicular dogslaughter. Somehow, by the grace of God, the car swerved and Max made it to the other side. The car pulled over and a young woman (a William & Mary student, judging by the sticker on the window) got out. "Is that your dog?" she shouted. "No," I said, crossing the street myself, Kiz firmly at my side. Max was waiting for us--but then the woman began to call him, probably so she could pick him up and take him to the SPCA. He started to go to her...and walked right in front of another car, which also missed him by miraculous inches. "He lives right here! I'll get him! MAX!" I finally shouted, and the dog came with me.

When we got back to the apartment, Max came right up to the door with me. Oh baby, I thought, if I had more square footage and less roommatage... But I had to leave him outside. I called our apartment manager--remember, this is a Sunday, so I got the answering service. I explained the problem: "Basically, he's just allowed to run around wild. He is going to end up dead or rabid or picked up by the humane society. I know who his owner is, if you want to talk to him, but honestly, it might just be for the best if Max does go to a shelter...that way he has a snowball's chance of finding someone who'll actually give a crap about whether he gets hit by a car or not." The answering serviced judged it "not emergency," said they would pass it along to the management on Monday and hung up. I dithered about calling the SPCA myself. In the end I didn't. Max could probably do better elsewhere...but if he did fail to find a home, he could be euthanized. And I can see how he'd be a challenge for anyone. He's a big dog, not stupid, but since he hasn't been trained since puppyhood, it would be hard to start now. And then there's his howling. Last night when Kiz and I went for a walk I thought a wolf was being slowly tortured before I realised it was Max, depressed about missing his buddy. I've seen his head forlornly poking between the porch railings, so I know he hasn't been hit by a car yet, but I don't know if his owner has recieved a warning...or if he's just keeping Max locked up instead of doing the responsible thing and walking him.

So what do you think, dear readers? Should I call the SPCA the next time I see Max running around wild and fancy free? I've no wish to consult his slightly crazy owner, but he is going to get hit by a car otherwise. We live on the point of a triangle with roads on two sides...it's going to happen. Max needs someone who cares about him more--but then again, it's none of my business. After all, I keep a dog cruelly locked in a cage for nineteen hours a day. But it galls me to see such a sweet, loveable pup with so much potential just neglected like that. What do you think?

Operation One Ring: Success!

Erin and I have been twirling invisible moustaches and giggling madly under our respective breaths for the past two weeks now, because we've been scheming, deviously. Our friend Nicole has been dating her boyfriend Evan for six years now, and even though they're not technically engaged, she's already started planning the wedding...well, after all, he's in the Navy, so if you're dealing with a Navy schedule, it's important to plan ahead. I'm sure after awhile Evan was starting to feel like Nicole had it all figured out, so he turned to Erin and I for a little help to make sure his proposal was spectacular.

"Well," I mused as Erin and I pow wow'd on a break about two weeks ago, drinking coffee, "We could see if we could sneak him into the Capitol Ball..."

The Capitol Ball is an event CW has once or twice a week. It's held at the Capitol, and the group is taken through several different rooms. In the first room is a hysterical puppet show, the second room features period singing by some of the men of the town (nothing truly bawdy, alas, but the last time I was there I did recognise "Roast Beef of Old England"), and the third room has the dancing.

I called up the person in charge of evening programs. Could this happen? He laughed and said "why not" and told me to call the person in charge of the Ball. She was sort of taken aback when I explained what we wanted to happen, but warmed to the idea quickly. Erin, on the other hand, relayed information to Evan about when to arrive, where to arrive and--oh yes, if he could just send her his measurements, she'd try to get a costume for him...? Thank God for the kindness of the CW family...we managed to pull this together in about a week. Our incomparable boss's boss even pulled a costume for Erin less than two hours after getting the groom's measurements.

We arrived in the historical area early enough to make a round at one of the Christmas parties put on by a CW vice-president. All I can say is: watch out for the artillery punch. Then we crossed the street and headed over to the Capitol. Erin, Nicole and Barrett, another Navy guy who knew Erin, warmed themselves by the fire as I quietly conferred with the woman in charge of the program--who I'd only spoken to on the phone twice. "Everything okay?" I said. "Yup. They're all excited in there," she said, and we raised our voices about the weather, so as not to cause any undue alarm.

The puppet show was funnier than I remembered--maybe it was the players, or maybe just the artillery punch--and the singing was more enjoyable too. We were in a group with about a dozen people, mostly couples wearing evening clothes who had come from the CW taverns. ("Taverns" meaning five-star restaurants in this case, not "taverns" like wood-paneled bars back home.) When we got to the room where the dancing was held, Nicole, Erin and I all exclaimed over the dancers...they all had on their finest gowns, silk with miles of trim and decorations, gowns we had seen hanging on mannequins for weeks as they were trimmed. Nicole and I whispered together about the way the light caught the ruffles and rouches, but in the back of my mind my heart was pounding wildly...

Then the dancing was declared closed and the dancing master thanked Lady Dunmore for her graciousness. But Lady Dunmore rose and said "I understand there is a young man who has a pressing question for a member of the company...?" and the dancing master said "oh! yes!" and quickly ran through the door at the back of the room. Evan appeared, resplendent in a dark cream coloured coat and waistcoat, with chocolate breeches and a gold-trimmed hat. It took a second for Nicole to recognise him, and then I felt her nails dig into my arm. Somehow she managed to get to her feet and walk towards him, and then he uttered words of eternal love, dropped to one knee and proposed.

Nicole said yes, of course.

Erin and I applauded, cried a little and sighed, happy we had pulled it off--more than happy that we hadn't been rumbled in the past week. The CW company gave three hearty hip hip huzzahs! while the guests looked on bemused...then we were sweeping out into the cold night air. The guests congratulated the happy couple and disappeared, and we were surrounded by silks and satins, all the CW folk hugging and congratulating, Erin and I thanking everyone as sincerely as we could. It was too cold to linger very long, but we did manage another round of huzzahs.

All in all, a very splendid proposal, I think. A lot of fun to plan--and a fun night. I'm glad we could make it special for them. Congratulations!

pants, delayed

Sorry, loyal readers, didn't mean to shout. I blame the internet: now that I'm used to instant gratification, not being able to find an online vendor for genuine nankeen is annoying. Of course--after I'd waited for twelve hours I could go to work and get the phone number of SEVERAL places which sell nankeen. Arg. Not that I was planning on buying any fabric last night, but when the occasional finally does arise, I want to be able to snap it up thatfast. I need some new pants. Historical pants aside, I'm quickly running out of things to encase my legs in. I bought a couple of pairs of jeans from Old Navy last August which have proved to be nothing but crap in denim form...they fit so nicely when I wrote about them last, but the cloth has stretched beyond all recognition. The waistband is now so big that I can't wear them without a belt--and the belt cinches in so much fabric that the jeans hang off my hips by the belt loops. My lone remaining pair of Lane Bryant jeans are fraying on the inseam. I'm praying they'll hold out until January, when LB will be having a huge sale and I'm going to restock my wardrobe...I've learned my lesson: if $25 for a pair of jeans sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Oh well.

This, by the way, is not a cry in the dark for new pants. I was just observing how crap my wardrobe has become: if worse comes to worse, I can wear my polyester "business casual" pants which have hung, untouched but for church, in my closet since I moved here. But I was thinking I'd kill two birds with one stone and make myself a pair of trousers that I can wear around. On my long list of clothes I want to make is a set of sailor's slops--loose fitting clothes like those donned by the men in Nelson's navy. Yeah, I know, I know, but what good is mad sewing skills if you can't make silly costumes and prance around?

no pants for you!

DO YOU KNOW HOW FRUSTRATING IT IS WHEN YOU WANT TO MAKE SOME PROPER HISTORICAL NAVY TROWSERS AND YOU CAN'T FIND ANY EFFIN' ORGANIC NANKEEN?! INCREDIBLY FRUSTRATING!!! AAAAAARGH!!!

Pulling a sickie...

If I hadn't neglected to change my timezone from "Greenwich Mean" to "East Coast" y'all would see that I'm writing this at 12:15...a time which is normally spent gulping my peanut butter sannich at work. But I'm pulling a sickie today. I'm not feeling well...although I probably could have tottered in to work I would not have been at my most productive...and the thought of a day spent hunched over stays needing repairs while my head is pounding and my fever is raising the temperature around me was enough to convince me to call in. I did manage to get tha Kiz to doggy daycare though...so in addition to being able to sleep at will, I'm having a beagle-free day. I have no money, but by God, it's worth twenty dollars just to have someone else wear him out for a change.

So I'm sipping tea, eating toast and surfing the internet. I have all my Christmas shopping done (thank you CW employee sale!) except for my niece, Lily. Lily, of course, being perfection incarnate. [You'll have to imagine the picture I'd put up here though, because I haven't gotten any new photos lately.] I was going to get her a copy of The Secret Garden soundtrack, since that was my first musical, or a copy of the first book of the "Little House" series, or maybe even a tiny model of HMS Victory, but then I decided that I should probably wait until she's old enough to, you know, manipulate a CD player, read, follow her dad around parroting facts about Nelson before getting her something like that. But what could she need? I suspect she lacks for nothing, except possibly squishy auntie kisses (and even then, she has two dogs), so I'm left plumbing the depths of the internet for ideas.

So this is cute...the actual story behind "ah dingo ate mah baby!" is actually pretty horrible, but it is kind of funny...tragedy plus five minutes and all that. Well, it's sold out anyway...I guess I should keep looking. It's not like I've got stuff to do today...

Notes

I feel like that one part in Phantom of the Opera where Madame Giry goes "Here, I have a note" and everyone groans. We got another memo today from the higher ups...embedded in the six pages of business speak were a few new items of note. One, that we're not getting raises this year. According to a colleague, the raises are about thirty cents an hour, which is about twelve dollars a week...if the Foundation needs that twelve dollars a week, I guess they can have it. But I could really use an extra twelve dollars a week. The other item of interest is the fact that the decision makers are waiting until January to take a look at the holiday numbers and decide the next course of action. Which could mean more layoffs or what have you. So! Good news! I don't have to worry about being laid off until AFTER Christmas. Not that that's stopping me, mind you. Like a conscientious shopper getting all her holiday shopping done in November, I like to get my worrying in early.

I still like working for CW though...in order to demonstrate to people that we are not "going dark," El Presidente has requested all the candles in the windows be left in place throughout January. A nice touch I thought. "It's largely symbolic" he said, "but at this time, we need symbols." Okay. We're also going to be getting a free Christmas turkey next week...I'm looking forward to it. Although, with both me and my roommate getting a free turkey, it could be turkey, turkey, turkey until it's coming out our ears. We'll probably cook one and freeze one...if we can find room in the freezer.

Long weekend

The concert went really well Saturday. I had so much fun that the hour and a half seemed to fly by. The sanctuary was absolutely packed with people--they even had to put some in the fellowship hall. It was so beautiful to see the church lit up by candlelight, decorated for Christmas and echoing with the two-hundred and fifty year sounds of Handel.

Afterward, Nicole, Erin and I went out for dinner, and then I came home and finished the coat for my Salvation Army bear. I was sad to see him go, but I think his coat turned out well...I even stopped by the gift shop at the visitor center and picked up a tin whistle as an extra gift.





Everyone thought the hearts on the tails are so cute, but they're actually period accurate. And the buttons came from the small clothes--we replaced the pewter with shiny metal ones to match the shiny metal on the new coats, so now we have about three thousand extra small pewter buttons.

Sunday I worked Grand Illumination--which is just about what it sounds like. Basically CW sets up three stages with music and entertainment. Then, a little after six, they shoot off fireworks at the Capitol, the Palace and the Magazine, and light candles in the windows of all the historical buildings. I was again playing barrier attendant, so I got to direct people around the ropes and answer questions about when the fireworks started and where the best place to watch them from. I myself had a front row seat: I've never been so close to fireworks that I could see them and hear them simultaneously. My favourite were huge "fans" of sparks in red white and blue that completely enveloped the Capitol on four sides and made it look like the building was exploding. I'm amazed they didn't lose a window. Everyone was in high spirits, despite the cold. By the time the fireworks went off it was about nineteen degrees...I was layered like I was going to a Packers game on New Years Eve: three pairs of wool stockings, flannel pants, flannel petticoat, outer petticoat, long sleeved tee, short sleeved tee, shift, wool jacket, apron, cap, buckled shoes, gloves, mitts, and a wool cloak with a hood over all. I was warm, except for my toes, which were little blocks of ice by night's end. And tomorrow it's supposed to be sixty degrees. God I love Virginia.

A post-Grand Illumination pic with me and tha Kiz...he's getting to be quite a chunk of change...I think I'm going to have to start rationing his peanut butter.

Forte

I have a prodigious soprano. Untrained, rusty from disuse, but high and clear when I get good and warmed up. It's a golden gift and I use it a lot, mostly in the shower. Or when I'm doing dishes. Or when I'm walking the dog. Or driving in the car. Sometimes--even at work, dodging spools of thread and (closed) safety pins from my unappreciative audience.

Oh God, how I love to sing. Half of the reason I love being Methodist is because we sing a lot. Did you know John Wesley wrote a list of suggestions for singing in a congregation? It's in the front of the Methodist hymnal...



1. Sing all. See that you join with the congregation as frequently as you can. Let not a slight degree of weakness or weariness hinder you. If it is a cross to you, take it up and you will find a blessing.

2. Sing lustily, and with a good courage. Beware of singing as if you were half dead, or half asleep; but lift up your voice with strength. Be no more afraid of your voice now, nor more ashamed of it being heard, then when you sing the songs of Satan.

3. Sing modestly. Do not bawl, as to be heard above, or distinct from, the rest of the congregation, that you may not destroy the harmony; but strive to unite your voices together, so as to make one clear melodious sound.John Wesley

4. Sing in time. Whatever time is sung, be sure to keep with it. Do not run before, not stay behind it; but attend closely to the leading voices, and move therewith as exactly as you can. And take care you sing not too slow. This drawling way naturally steals on all who are lazy; and it is high time to drive it out from among us, and sing all our tunes just as quick as we did at first.

5. Above all, sing spiritually. Have an eye to God in every word you sing. Aim at pleasing Him more than yourself, or any other creature. In order to do this, attend strictly to the sense of what you sing, and see that your heart is not carried away with the sound, but offered to God continually; so shall your singing be such as the Lord will approve of here, and reward when he cometh in the clouds of heaven.


I only hope that Wesley wouldn't consider Sondheim "songs of Satan" because in that case we have a problem.

And I love singing the Messiah. It's a piece built for my voice. A choir with a hundred and fifty people so I can belt out those lovely fortes without standing apart, yet I get covered up whenever I get lost in the runny bits. Lots of high notes, lots of little dancing pieces leading up to moving chords that clash and resolve in the most satisfying manner. And the words. Sometimes it's easy to forget when you're dealing with a technically difficult passage that this music is written to glorify the Lord...so when we finally rehearsed the whole thing straight through tonight I was caught unawares. How satisfying to use this gift, this prodigious soprano, to say thank you to the giver. To join with the multitude in celebration.

Our concert is on Saturday, and I am really looking forward to it. REALLY looking forward to it. Oh how I love to sing. Now that the militia is done for the season and the evening programs don't have me on the schedule until January, I'm going to go back to the choir. I didn't realise how much I missed it.

MESSIAH will be performed this Saturday, the 6th, at 5pm at Williamsburg United Methodist Church...it's a free performance and all are welcome. I don't know how many "locals" read my blog but if you do--I'd love to see you there!

do not want

I'm trying very hard not to "want" anything for Christmas this year...I have a new car, and that's more than enough present. (Kizzy, on the other hand, is very excited about his first "real" Christmas and would like stuffed chew toys and more Greenies.) Last year I posted my Christmas list online...I'm too old to be excited about the presents part of Christmas anyway. Seriously. I'm working on focussing about the other, better parts, keeping my mind on the real reason for the season.

But I just got an email from PETA, and I wanted to let you know about a program they have going, in case you have extra pressie money left over. Let me say I don't agree with all of PETA's opinions or their tactics. But they have started a program to provide doghouses to dogs who are chained up outside. Legally, the owners of these dogs have to give them up to the authorities or to adoption groups, and if they do not, the dogs can't just be taken, unless they are being overtly neglected. But PETA is able to provide wooden doghouses with straw inside, which is better than nothing. At $265 a pop, it's outside my price range, but if everyone who reads NLD donated $10, that would be one less dog outside.

More information about PETA's program here.

Adopting a rescued dog has really challenged me, which is why I like the idea behind this program. Kizzy was literally picked up by the side of the road. The only clues I have to what happened to him before are little quirks of his personality: the fact that he's only just now grasping the idea behind "sit" and "stay." His ability to gulp down food in less than thirty seconds, like he's never eaten before. His non-barking. His overwhelming friendliness despite...despite whatever happened to land him by the side off the road. And the most disquieting thing--the fact that at one point his tail was broken and never reset. When he lies down on the floor it sticks straight up like a flag, adorably. But it gives me pause: what happened? How long was he out in the wild? Did he catch his tail on something--or did someone break it for him? It is just the perfect height to catch in a car door. I should know, I have to watch out for it when we go over to the historical area for our Saturday walks. He's not the dog I expected: like a football-playing son, I am constantly worried I'm not able to be a good mom because I don't understand him. He entertains me, irritates me, licks me and pisses me off sometimes. But he loves me, and I love him and we're learning to live with each other. I guess I'm rising to the challenge...I only wish I had more room so we could get another dog.

big yellow coat

There's a line in 1776 where Abigail Adams asks her husband John how Martha Jefferson was able to join Thomas in Philadelphia, while she, Abigail, is stuck in Massachusetts. "Winters are softer in Virginia," Adams replies, then hastens to assure her that this results in women who are only "fit for Virginians." It's true though. Winter is softer here--"cold" is maybe thirty degrees. There's no snow yet, although it did rain all day on Sunday. I don't miss it. Having Kizzy means a walk every day, rain or shine, and I have enough trouble getting motivated without two feet of snow on the ground. And relatively warmer weather has meant that I haven't taken to my bed in a fit of hypothermia and madness.

When I lived in Stevens Point I bought a bright yellow coat. It's a man's coat, and it was big on me then. It's huge on me now. Should Kizzy and I ever get caught in a blizzard, I could probably tuck him inside and curl up until it passed. There are so few clothes that have survived my weight ups and downs, my trip to London and back, that wearing these pieces always conjures up memories. For this coat it would have to be the miles I clocked back and forth between our house and campus. It became obvious when I put my ipod into the inside pocket...which is all stretched out from the CD player that used to reside there. Funny, that.