holy cats...

...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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

Oh, and one more thing

I opened up the permissions on NLD so anyone can read this.

I originally wanted to hide NLD because I was applying for this job and I didn't want potential employers to read my embarassing stories about stumbling home from the theatre at three in the morning four years ago.

Except I didn't even get to the interview phase--although I did get a very nice email from the vice president explaining that the reason I didn't get an interview was because they had a hundred and seventy applicants and the seven people who DID get interviews had all had more than thirty years experience.

And I thought "well, hell, I should leave NLD private anyway, even if no one is looking, 'cause then I can bitch about work."

But I am such a narcissistic brat that I really, really, really want people to read my blog. All you lovely people out there in the dark.

So I took down the restrictions...and I'll try not to complain about work too much.

The book I want to write starts like this:

"When people find out I work at Colonial Williamsburg, the first question they inevitably ask me is, do I get to work in costume? Usually they're disappointed when they find I'm actually behind the scenes, although they perk up again slightly when I tell them I get to make the costumes. I leave out the boring bits about hemming and buttons.

A couple times a week, however, I do get to work in costume. I throw on a lovely green linen gown and petticoat and go haunt the Randolph house, a storyteller for the ghost tours. One night I was standing in the doorway of the passage, enjoying a freshening breeze, when I noticed a guest (always 'guest,' never 'tourist') standing by the fence, looking at me with the "I have a question but I'm shy" face that any interpreter can spot a mile away. "Good evening!" I said, hands on hips, full of my eighteenth-century persona. "Hello," the woman said timidly, "Are you Eve?" "Oh, no," I cheerfully replied, happy to get some practise in as a first-person interpreter, "My name is Mrs. Peachy. This is my home. I live here with my husband and my young son." Then, my well of information about Mrs. Peach exhausted, I dropped the first-person act and came down the steps toward the woman. As I approached I saw that she was wearing a Teacher's Institute nametag, with her name and her hometown on it. Then, underneath that, another word: "Eve." And I instantly realised that this year the teacher's institute--an intensive weeklong historical immersion for teachers who are hoping to add a little pizazz to their social studies classes--must have assigned each person a historical figure to learn about. All this woman had was a name to go on. She had found herself the right house, all right, but had no clue who Eve was.

I walked up to the fence. "Eve was a slave," I explained. "She was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Randolph...after Peyton died, Eve and her son ran away and tried to join the British side, but they were captured and brought back. Eve was eventually sold." I am trying to be gentle, but I can see the teacher in front of me--a woman not much taller than me, middle-aged, wearing a white shirt under a fanny pack with sensible New Balance sneakers--is startled to find out that "her" person was actually an enslaved woman. "Was she--was she brought back by force?" she asks me.

The truth is, I don't know. In the ghost story I tell, Eve is "retaken." But I didn't write the script and I know that artistic licenses have been taken. "It's possible," I say slowly. "It's also possible that she returned under her own power, because her family was here, or she was unable to care for herself and her son, or the British kicked her out of their camp when they moved to Yorktown." Bits of historical fauna float to the surface of my brain, fascinating details about Americana I've tucked away. "Either way, Mrs. Randolph found it necessary to sell her because of her 'bad behavior' (this much I do know, I've read Betty Randolph's will, where she directs the executors to take the profits from Eve's sale and buy a slave for her niece, since the niece won't be inheriting Eve now.) so I guess we can assume that there was some bad blood there."

I am trying to be helpful, and I suggest to the woman that she really needs to come back during the day, when the Randolph House serves as an interpretive site for the African American programs. "The interpreters here would know a lot more than I would. I'm just the ghost." I can see though, that this friendly Kentuckian teacher is a little shook up. And who wouldn't be? You go on a treasure-hunt for the person on your nametag, and you end up confronting a dark, dirty secret of America's past.

This episode stuck with me because in some ways, I find myself performing the same task. My background is in theatre, in playwrighting, specifically, and for a long while now I have wanted to write a play about William Lee, George Washington's manservant. Slave, bought and owned by Washington until he died, but also one of the people closest to the Father of Our Country. Three steps behind Washington during his entire life and what do I know about him? Nothing. But for some reason--there's a play there, and I want to dig it out.

For all intents and purposes, I should be the last person who's interested in a play about Billy Lee. I am white. I am female. I am a Yankee--or at least, not from the South, which is how Southerners define "Yankee" although those of us from Wisconsin would probably check "other" on the great census sheet of union-vs.-confederacy. A rabid Anglophile, I can rattle off the British monarchy from Henry VIII all the way up to present day, but I peter out on American presidents somewhere around James Madison. To me, living in Virginia is almost like living in a foreign country with a history and a culture that should be learned and studied and appreciated.

This either makes me ideally suited for the task at hand, or in way, way over my head."

hey friends

I promise I'll post a proper update this weekend...in the meantime, there was a professional photographer at the dogpark last week, so here's an adorable picture of Kismet.

still here!

I promise once I get some time together I'll post pictures and stories about our trip to Ocracoke....in the meanwhile, pray I get some sleep soon.

I ought to be working right now...

I'm making muffins for breakfast, before I go to church. Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone!

Last night I was storytelling. I was so tired that it was difficult to focus on the words--instead I found myself constantly on autopilot, which is not good. During one of my stories a face floated through my head and for the next five minutes I was trying to remember where I knew her from. I could see her sitting down in front of a cup of tea, laughing...then I remembered. Luckily, I didn't shout "Eureka!" in the middle of my story, as that would have been inappropriate. For some reason my tired brain had conjured up one of my dorm-mates from London, another woman who was living in my floor, but one I wasn't particularly close to. British. Friendly. Down to Earth. Had a boyfriend in Wales, if I remember correctly. After the story was over I was sitting "backstage", indulging in the minutiae of that Brockley kitchen. The two tiny refrigerators that were always overfull and full of food that no one could get at. Ditto the tiny cupboards with the towels hanging through the handles. The kettle, of course, and the crappy stoves with their crappy electric hobs. Only one hob really worked, so that one got worked all the time...and eventually stopped working so well. The basil plant I tried to keep alive. Then I moved on to grocery shopping, thinking about the Sainsbury's down in the Lewisham shopping center. Only buying what I could carry in my one great big blaze orange Sainsbury's bag. The little boxes of crushed and split tomatoes with olives or peppers inside. The sandwich spreads that were so much better than American ham spread. Never buying ice cream because it would melt on the bus. Or, for that matter, anything that involved preparation beyond my one pot and pan. Baking? Forget it. When I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, I bought a chicken simply because it came with its own pan, and I had to ask my invited guests to bring their own plates. Most of us only had one.

I don't know why I got sucked into thinking about that. Perhaps its because Alison--who I met in that very kitchen--just got back from London, and graciously bought me an "I (heart) London" t-shirt (which I asked for) and a flapjack (which I did not.) Oh, God, I love flapjacks. Of all the foody items I miss the most, flapjacks are at the top of my list. I haven't eaten it yet, but I'm sure once I do I'll be overcome with memories, because I used to eat those things all the damm time. On the underground, walking to class, walking to rehearsal, in rehearsal, in class, late at night coming home from the bars... Oh my.

Then there's my bag. If you've seen me outside or taken a picture of me in a place that requires a purse, you've seen my cream-coloured messenger bag, bought the day I went down to Portsmouth to drool over the Victory. A few days ago it went into the trash. I can darn and patch with the best of them, but if the very integrity of the fabric is wearing away, there's no hope. I bought a new bag, which is almost exactly like this one, except it's green, plastic, and not from Portsmouth. Also I had to take off my Nelson button--the one showing a seventeen year old Lieutenant beating a polar bear to death with a rifle and that's why they're going extinct--and I realised just how dented up and rusty this stupid thing is. It really is the oddest thing to make a button out of, which is why I bought it, but now it's...well, I guess the moment's passed.

I live in Virginia now. I drink sweet tea and I smile whenever I smell honeysuckle (which is all the time these days). I'm relieved that our apartment has emptied itself of college-age students (including one of my roommates) because they are noisy and annoying. I'm a lot happier and a lot more content, and I have a boyfriend and a dog, which are two of the things on my List, so well done for me. And when my boss teases me and asks when I'm going back to London, I just shrug and say--"well, London will always be there."

Let the waters roar, Jack...

It's been raining all day, which is normally a lovely way to spend a Sunday inside (especially when the beagle is exhausted from a week's worth of playcare, exuberant babysitting and general being outside-ness), but this morning I volunteered to show up at CW for a militia program. It's hard to shoot a gun in the rain. Not only because your powder gets wet and you misfire, but because those Besses get really slippery in the rain. I think I did okay though--at least as far as my detail was concerned--I remembered all the manouvres correctly this time.

My roommate showed me this video from The Onion a few days ago--a spoof of "living history" museums where people dress up and try to re-enact certain time periods. Like CW. I love this video, because it's spot on...sometimes we have to remind ourselves not to take our jobs so seriously.

Ever the Optimist

Our apartment is a cave. Seriously. Cool, even in the heat of summer--if it wasn't for the humidity, we'd leave the AC permanently set to "off." Great for the electricity bill, not so great for those who have a yen to garden. As both I and my roommate do.

But hope springs eternal. Nearly a month ago I went to Big Lots and bought some pots, a trowel, and a few "gardeny" things like a little angel sculpture and a solar-powered garden light, as well as forty pounds of potting soil. Which rode around in the trunk of my car for a month. Then yesterday I stopped a Loewe's and bought some plants. I was excited about finally being able to buy whatever plants I wanted, but sad too, because springtime plant-shopping is something mom and I have always done together. And it's hard to sneak plants into your own cart. Also, as I've mentioned, we live in a cave--even our porch is cavelike--so I tried to restrict myself to the shady plants. Meaning, impatiens and begonias. Oh, and one splurge--a hanging fuschia, which is one of my favourites. I had to buy a shepherd's hook for it, so crowded is our porch already with Amaree's geraniums and pansies. She's more optimistic than I am. Although I couldn't resist just one tomato plant. And a stevia plant. Stevia is a sweet, sweet herb you can use in the place of sugar. Should this one take off, I'm going to put it in my tea and on my cereal.

Tonight, finally, I got everything planted. Well, almost everything--I managed to get too many plants, imagine. Some things never change. Guess it's back to the dollar store for more pots. My impatiens sit encircling a spike, my begonias are tucked cozily into a medium-sized pot, and my tomato is buried up to its neck in a giant planter, sitting in the sunniest place on the porch. Although, I didn't quite have the heart to buy a cage for it yet. Hope may spring eternal, but I think I'll wait and see if this plant will thrive before I invest in any more gardening equipment.

Where was I? What was I doing? Oh, right.

Hello loyal (and patient) readers. Evening programs have picked back up again in a big way, so I've been storytelling for the past three nights. I should have been in bed an hour ago, but the novelty of having nothing to do is so novel I'm sitting up enjoying it. In addition, militia has started marching, but only on Fridays. And the fact that I was working all day and all night would not deter me from throwing on my breeches and heading out for the review. I only screwed up once, when I shouldered my musket before the command, prompting my searjeant to say, "Put that firearm down! Wait for the order! Stop thinking!" Elicting titters of laughter from the crowd.

Auntie Erin and Auntie Nicole brought Kizfiz to the review, but he decided he didn't want to come any closer after hearing the cannon go off. He was shaking pretty badly when I saw him afterward, but he cheered up pretty quickly and very nearly almost caught a squirrel. He had the tail in his mouth and everything. Granted, it was one of the complacent fat CW squirrels, but then again he was leashed to Auntie Erin.

Somehow I managed to get through five tellings of my story tonight. I was afraid I'd have no energy left for the last group, but apparently I did. The last few lines of the story (where I'm exhorting them to get thee gone posthaste) were so effective that the kids jumped up and ran out of the room. Prompting me to laugh silently at their terror. Middle-school kids are so funny...they come in all cocky, sure that they'll never be scared by anything, but once you start telling stories about the actual place where you're sitting...well, pretty soon they shut up and start listening.

Life is good. Busy, but good.

One step forward, two steps back

Kismet is feeling a lot better, as evinced by the fact he woke me up twice last night sniffing around looking for a rawhide he had buried and exhumed about a month ago from under my bed.

I, on the other hand, am a bit sore. Evening programs have picked up again (which is part of the reason I have been so lax writing NickiLovesDrama Platinum) and I worked tonight. I tell a ghost story that is set in the Randolph House, possibly the creepiest house in the entire Colonial Williamsburg historical area. Picture a beautiful colonial house, perfectly symmetrical, with a lovely detached kitchen and laundry connected by a passageway. Now picture the entire thing covered in dried blood-red paint. Yeah. It's creepy. Anyway, this is where I work.

The shoes I wear are uncomfortable, not because they're heels (an inch counts!) but because they have no padding in the ball of my foot. I fixed that by inserting insoles, but they made me feel so good that I went swinging down the street at a positively blinding pace, blithely swinging my basket, marveling how two little pieces of plastic can make me feet feel so good when--WHANG, my heel came down on a pebble, my ankle twisted, I landed on my knee and then on my a$$, basket flying, concerned William and Mary runner jogging up to ask if I was okay. Sure. Just embarrassed.

CW protocol insists that security be called for all accidents, so a call was duly made. A few minutes later my supervisor came huffing up "--I've called Kara, she's getting into costume!--" only to be reassured that I was fine, just really embarrassed to be sitting in the middle of Dog Street. The security guard administered an icepack and a large band-aid to my left knee where I skinned it, and I stood up shakily. Sore, achy (I must have pulled on my knee and hip too) but the show must go on. And it did. I had to fill out paperwork for my accident: just in case I should ever sue the Foundation, they can prove that it was totally my fault for not paying attention when I was walking around in daylight on a level, paved street.

But we got through it. And by the end of the night, my insoles had worked their way around to sit on the top of my foot, causing me to rethink this whole thing all together. Maybe tomorrow night I'll just wear my flat militia shoes...I'm sure no one would notice.

Trials of Beaglehood

I wanted to write a post about whether or not I feel more/less pressure now that I'm writing for a select audience. NickiLovesDrama Platinum, if you like. Now that it's only the loyalist of loyal readers, I feel like I need to increase the quality of journalism.

But the dog is sick. Proper sick. Can't keep a thing down, not even the fingernail sized treat at the vet, not even water. He's floppy to the point seeming bonelessness and, like a two year old with a fever, cuddly and miserable. I knew something was wrong when I set his food bowl down this evening and he sniffed it and then walked away. So we went to the vet. Luckily (or unluckily, if you like), he had an accident in the exam room, providing the sample needed to determine that he has a parasite. "Did he drink any standing water recently?" the vet asked. "Does the James River count?" I asked, conjuring up hazy memories of a languid Saturday spent beachcombing while the boyfriend cooked dinner. Turns out it does.

So I have a sick beagle on my hand. Right now he mostly wants to sleep and that's fine with me, but I have to make sure he doesn't get dehydrated. I cooked up a big pot of "bland diet" food (rice and lean beef) but he's so sick that a tiny piece came right back up again, along with most of his medicine. Sigh. Poor baby. I think his mom's going to take the morning off so she can monitor and give plenty of cuddlings.

Being Responsible

Right now I'd settle for some apartment-mates who didn't go out on their patio to smoke and hawk loogies into the grass, so that our tranquil nighttime open door is interrupted by the pall of smoke and the occasional "HWAUUUUUK-PTOOOIE!" Very attractive. I'm half tempted to go dump a bucket of water over their heads, but it's going to rain again, so the point would be moot.

Today I went to the dentist, which was very exciting. I just wanted my teeth cleaned, but instead the dentist was going to perform a New Patient Assessment, an Oral Cancer Screening and a Periodontical something or other, which involved him poking me with the pointy dental tool until my gums bled and then informing me I need to floss more. No cavities, but there might be a slight darking of the tooth which could potentially turn into a cavity, so when I come back for my cleaning (no, I didn't get a cleaning: insurance will cover everything except the hours I lose from work, arg) I will get a bottle of fluoride and, probably, miles of dental floss.

I felt very grown up, taking responsibility for my dental health and making an appointment and signing my own release forms. Although I was taken back somewhat to my childhood days when the dentist (who, I swear, was younger than I was) leaned over my open mouth and paused. Oh, wait for it, I thought, here it comes. And sure enough: "Did you know that your tonsils are absolutely enormous? Like--those are the biggest tonsils I've ever seen." Yes, actually, I have heard that before, like the time I had six dental hygenists around me, all gawking at my freakishly large tonsils. They're just there, like my spleen. Potentially annoying, but not really getting in the way. My dentist seemed really concerned that I should get them out as soon as possible, and even recommended an ear, nose and throat doctor to me.

So all systems clear, or so I thought. After work there was a message on my phone from the dentist who had taken my x-ray with him to lunch. At lunch were some other dentists, who had a wee consultation over their BLTs and mostly agreed that I have a cyst or polyp or something in my left sinus. This was the message left on my phone, mind you, not a bland "please call, I would like to speak with you," but an "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A TUMOR IN YOUR FACE" giving me ample time to imagine myself with half my sinus off like the guy who had the flesh-eating bacteria.

And all my loyal readers know how vain I am about my cheekbones.

Anyway. The dentist assured me that it was nothing to worry about (all right, I may have slightly exaggerated the tone of the message, but it's IN MY FACE y'all, okay?), just a benign cyst probably, but it could cause infection, and he strongly encouraged me to get in touch with that ear, nose, and throat doctor. So it looks like I'm going. Just tonsils, no biggie, but tonsils and potential alien life form stuck up my left nostril, right, I'm there. Arg. Sometimes being an adult sucks.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to go floss.

Has Anyone Seen My Motivation Recently?

No London for me. After agonizing about how to spend my 36.25 hours of vacation time, I finally decided to take a few days off around Memorial Day and then go home to Wisconsin in July. But when I went to turn in my vacation request, my boss pointed out that it had been due two hours ago. Fine. Guess I won't be going anywhere in May or June then... Mostly I'm mad at myself for procrastinating until after the last second has gone. Lately I haven't been able to get myself motivated to do anything. Writing? Not at all. Looking at jobs or potentially going back to school? Nope, nothing. Even walking the dog is beyond me most days. all I want to do is sleep and read. In that order. I need a vacation--but, as I mentioned, that ain't gonna happen any time soon.

The problem is, I'm very comfortable here in Williamsburg. My jobs keep me busy, so that I'm distracted from the fact that they don't pay very well...I work harder, not smarter, like yer supposed to. So I have the problem identified, the new problem is overcoming the apathy that led to the original problem in the first place. And yet I want to shout: is there really a problem at at, in the first place (second place)? So what if I'm poor and somewhat sleep-deprived, I like my job(s) and it's summer, so make hay while the sun shines. Yet I know I could be doing better. I need to stop being so comfortable and make another move...to where, to what, I don't know. I don't know when I'm likely to find out either...again, that lack of motivation thing again.

But I'm getting itchy feet...a leap of faith might be just what I need.

A Year In

It's hard to believe that just over a year ago I arrived in Williamsburg. Living in the historical area, secluded and sheltered, walking to the library to check my email and visiting the local coffee shop on Friday night just to have something to do. A year ago or so, when I was coming back from somewhere, I briefly joined a ghosts tour and listened to a haunting tale of a penitential father...now I tell ghost stories and hand sew shifts by candlelight. It's been a good year. A lot has changed, but it's been a good year. A year where I can honestly say I haven't succumbed to any serious bouts of depression, or made bad choices that I regret. The first year in a long time.

Last week I was cleared on my story, so I worked Thursday night. And again tonight and then tomorrow. I need the money and it's good to tell it in front of an audience. We couldn't find the key to let ourselves into the passage tonight, prompting me to go around the break room asking the Randolph House ghosts to help us find it...they didn't, but security arrived in the nick of time with a bundle of historical keys, and the day was saved. My new story is complicated, there are lots of shifts of intention and focus. I would have written it waaaay differently. But it reads a lot better in the actual haunted house, and it's shorter than my old one, so I'm not quite so dead after the last tour.

Recently though, I've become aware of a job opportunity that I want to apply for...I'll say no more about it right now, however. I'd rather wait until I have something to say. This will impact NickiLovesDrama, though, because I am taking my blog private. Starting soonish, you'll have to have a password to get in. I don't want potential employers to see things I've written here, although I've tried to behave myself. So, loyal readers, if you want to stay loyal, send me an email and I'll let you know when NLD becomes an exclusive members-only club.

Kismet Is My Copilot

I want to put this on a bumper sticker on my car. You know. Make everyone think I'm beeing deep and philosophical and new age-y, when really, Kismet is my beagle. Ha.

anyway. I have so many scratches on my under-forearm right now it looks like I'm doing it on purpose. Lots of pins, all managing to scratch me as I twist another sleeve under my machine, trying to get it stitched in securely. I've been doing coats. An 80th of Foot redcoat, a couple silk coats, a linen coat. All of which have gone out the door posthaste, before I could think to get a picture of them. Which just means I'll have to grab my camera and do some interpreter stalking...what a way to meet my coworkers: "Hey, can I take a picture? I made that coat!"

Other than that, not much going on here. Nicole, Erin and I went shopping last Saturday for Nicole's wedding, and I managed to find a pair of ridiculously huge sunglasses, some nice smelly lotion from Bath and Body Works and shoes. Not shoes I could wear at a wedding, but, well, can never have too many shoes, really. So I've heard. We've got time, after all, wedding's not 'til December, but to hear her talk about it, we're only days away from driving to Florida. Did I mention it's a destination wedding? Oh yes. Florida in December sounds lovely. Of course, there's that other wedding I should probably start thinking about...Samio, would you mind terribly if I wore a petticoat and jacket? My sewing project list for my eighteenth century interpretation is out of control. But if I can manage to get a shift cut out this weekend...I could put it together in a couple hours.

And I'm working tomorrow night. Apparently the evening tours are booked up so fully they're having a bit of a staffing shortage, so I've been called in, even though I'm not cleared yet. I'll be going in early to work out any last minute kinks with the supervisor. Nervous? No. I'm too tired to be nervous. Although it feels sort of like the actor dream: "What are we waiting for?" "For you to get up there and perform the show!"

Then there's London. The question still looms. I had decided not to go, decided to take that money and make another dream come true and take some sailing lessons, but then...yet another friend mentioned she'd be in the city. And I'd probably be staying at a really nice hotel, thanks to a friend's dad's frequent flyer card. Oh so tempting. Did I mention I'm reading The Star of the Sea, which features a lengthy description of a wastrel earl leaving his home on Tite Street, wandring through Chelsea, down to Whitechapel and then Shoreditch? And then loving descriptions of the south bank, names so familiar and dear to me I could nearly walk them in my mind: Wapping, Greenwich, Deptford, Lewisham, Southwark. Southwark! Had to think how to spell that for a second...Suthuk would be better. Ay me. London, you siren.

One Way or another

Yesterday, Kismet safely ensconced at playcare, I found myself with a bonus hour at the end of the working day. I went to the library. I cannot remember the last time I was there. Wandering the stacks, letting one interest leading to another, kneeling on the ground in front of bookshelves pulling out tomes and flipping through them. The smell of dust and ink. The Williamsburg Regional Library is quite awesome for a small-town library, full of books generously donated by enthusiastic readers. I was there, ostensibly, to garner some research material that will assist me in putting together an "impression" of an eighteenth-century woman of the lower-middling sort. There's a lot to learn, apart from the clothes. History of my people, history of the area, just what sort of things would I know? Sewing, yes, cooking, yes, folk remedies, yes, but can I read? Do I comprehend the politics and the policies that are irreversibly pulling the Commonwealth away from the homeland? Items on the to-do list include building a Diderot bedgown and a cap, but they also include learning how to bake Sally Lunn bread over an open fire (sparked with flint and steel, of course) and learning some useful knots.

So in addition to several books about the history of Virginia and the ways that her early settlers entertained themselves, I also got a few novels and a couple books-on-CD which are a godsend at work. I never thought that I'd get bored of my musicals, but even I can only stand so many repetitions of "The Last Five Years." Right now I'm "reading" The Resurrectionist, which is great. The reader is having a little trouble differentiating the various characters, but the story--well, stories, really--is utterly engrossing. And so work went by quickly today. A good thing, since the temperature got into the eighties, and all I wanted to do was head outside and frolic.

This week hasn't been easy, however. Monday we found out that our part-time employee was going to be let go. Her last day was on Wednesday, so we had a little potluck party for her. It was awkward, but I think she appreciated it. Our boss' boss was torn up over having to eliminate a position when she's been fighting so hard to keep us all. We also found out on Monday that another of our employees was involved in a serious car accident, requiring three surgeries on her ankle, knee, hip and spleen, variously. She's out of the ICU, but there hasn't been any discussion about when she'll be going home. So this week has been kind of tense.

I really like working for CW. The company is a fantastic company to work for. Despite recent cutbacks, I still believe they care about their employees, and they encourage a family atmosphere to permeate both the historic area and we behind the scenes. But lately, more and more, I've been coming to accept that I can't stay here. Not in my current capacity. Mostly it has to do with the salary I'm drawing: if I ever want to have a prayer of owning my own home or doing more traveling, I need to make more money. Some of it has to do with the drama of the people I work with. I would love to work in another area of CW, but the mighty hiring freeze continues. Projects I've been presenting to people and ideas I've been nursing have been shot down one after another with the now all too familiar phrase "There's no money." Fair enough. The "economic crisis" (o overused phrase!) will lessen, however, and I will need to be moving on. I don't know what will happen...but something needs to give.

Thinking fiscally

All right. Time for a serious debate. As most of my loyal readers know, I am a huge Anglophile. I want to go back to London worse than anything. Various reasons have prevented me going, mostly, money and time.

Suddenly the stars are aligning. Last night I was working on my taxes, and if TurboTax is to be believed, I will be getting over a thousand dollars back. Thank you, stimulus package, also actually working full time for a year for a change. Flights to London are dropping in price--I could go for under $500, including taxes. I have just about enough vacation time to take a week off. And--I just heard from not one but two friends that they'll be in London at the end of May. Arg.

The tradeoff, of course, is that I would not be going home to Wisconsin to see my family until October. And I really ought to act responsibly, put that tax return into my bank account and save it for a rainy day. With that money I could fly home to see everyone, and still have some left over for a really nice massage. Also, my computer has been dying a slow death, so there's that to worry about.

I have until April 15th to hand in my vacation requests. I really want to go to London. I really, really want to go. For once, though, I'm actually thinking something through. Maybe I'm growing up. I don't want people to think I'm choosing London over them, but...I really want to go. And I honestly don't know what I should do. Thoughts?

More food

I guess I shouldn't complain about money and then turn around and spend a hundred dollars at the grocery store. But I am sick of eating foods out of boxes. And my boss brought in a dozen old "Cooking Light" magazines, which inspired me to actually make something to take to work instead of a can of soup and a peanut butter sandwich. I made tabouli, which involved a fun new substance called bulger, parsley, peppers, tomatoes, lemon juice, and olive oil. Then tonight I sauteed some frozen shrimp in a little lime juice and cilantro. Cooking is easy, but it's just making the time commitment to do it. It's worth it though...shrimp is so tasty on a chilly Wednesday.

Makes the world go 'round

It is rather frustrating to constantly have to deal with the problem of not having any money. Any time I think I've got a fairly good handle on it, something happens like Kizzy needs a shot or the first of the month comes around or something. I've got money, it would just be nice to have more of it.

The evening programs are changing format, so instead of telling my story from last year, I'm having to learn a new script, which was provided for me. Only I was on exactly no one's email list, so I didn't find out about it until late. And now I can't get my story cleared to get on the schedule. So. No storytelling. And the militia won't be called out this spring due to budget cuts. Arg. I miss my breeches and the sweet, sweet taste of black powder. Interestingly, George Washington also had a problem with money...he, however, was somehow able to win the war for Independence. I'm sure the military programs here will work things out.

In the meantime, I'm thankful to have a job and a beagle. And spring is here in Virgnia. Daffodils and tulips abound, the forsynthia and appleblossoms are in full bloom. Dogwood soon. Things are so much easier when it's warm and sunny. Work today was long, however, I am tired and sore from sleeping on the ground (imagine) and now I'm going to sleep. Good night.

Old Virginia Primitive Rifle--Spring Rendezvous

Well, here I am, back from the eighteenth century. I have to admit, it was nothing like I thought it would be--but a lot better than I was expecting. I left work at three o'clock on Friday and headed across the river. After Jeff and I consolidated our stuff into his van we drove out to the rendezvous site. A wrong turn took us pass the Michael Vick Doghouse of Pain, but we found it soon after.

OVPR stands for the Old Virginia Primitive Rifle, a group dedicated to keeping black powder gunnery alive. The campground was actually someone's back forty, and the atmosphere was laid back and family-oriented. No specific time period was represented. Jeff and I were trying to keep ourselves in the 1770s, but most of the other campers were much more casual. The men would wear hunting frocks and trowsers, the women would wear skirts and whatever bodice-y thing they could find. Mostly it was more reminiscent of a Renaissance Faire come-as-you-wish experience, but everyone was having a good time. There were lots of kids running around, including one four year old in buckskin boots with bells. Now THERE is a good way to keep track of your kid.

We arrived after the sutlers had closed up for the night, but we were able to get stakes for our tent since a few boxes had been left outside--settling up in the morning, of course. That was just the trusting atmosphere that existed here. After we got out tent up and drove the "mule" back out to the "paddock" we got the brazier going and heated the stew that Jeff had made for dinner. Jeff also made our tent, which is something of a work in progress. It did extremely well at keeping the frost off, but we were still pretty chilled by the time the sun came up.


Here's himself Saturday morning, boiling water for tea. Note the lack of flaps on our tent...that is something we're going to have to fix.

We were up with the sun, naturally, and spent the day wandering around, visiting the sutlers and admiring other people's equipage. Rifle and musket shots rang out during the entire day as the shooting competitions went on. Most of the tents were waaaaay more extravagant than ours was--twelve by twelve post tents with dining flies and stovepipes sticking out of the back. You know the people at modern campgrounds with the obscene five-wheel Winnebagos with a Mini-Cooper as their tow vehicle? Yeah, some of the tents were like that. But everyone was having a great time. At noon there was a ladies' social. I showed up with a basket of sewing, everyone else showed up with tankards. Part of the price of admission was as much alcohol as you could drink (beer or a ladleful of drinks mixed in a big ceramic pot) and a barbeque chicken dinner on Saturday night. I talked briefly with a few ladies who were also attempting a more "period" impression, of the late 1770s, swapping stories about where best to buy fabric and period correct techniques...mostly I listened though. At one point one of them complained about re-enacting for so long that she had nothing to buy and I had to chime in: "Yes, but it's even harder when you're just starting and you need everything and you have no money!" One of the good things about re-enacting though: Just like two hundred years ago, you don't change your clothes. I wore the same shift, petticoats and bedgown all weekend. It was so cool I didn't mind much, but perhaps in the future I'll bring a change of shift.

After lunch I took a nap. Just crawled into our tent, burrowed into the big pile of blankets and fell asleep. The campground opened up to spectators during the afternoon--folks who were interested in visiting the sutlers or gawking at the campers, and I dimly recall a few digs at our poor equipage. Which may be true, but at least we were period appropriate.



After spending two days in shift and stays (yes, stays) I really started to find myself thinking like a proper colonial woman would think. So when a troop of Boy Scouts walked by just as I was extricating myself from the tent, my first thought was "ohmygosh, I don't have my cap on! They're going to think I'm a tremendous hussy!" The Scout leader was fairly charmed with our tent though, even asking if he could take a picture of it. (Sure. Then pull it out and wave it in front of your Scouts when they start complaining about being cold in their Army surplus walled tents...I'll show you cold.)

But the thing that made me feel the most "authentic" was the spring. No spigots here, in order to get water for washing and drinking, you had to step down a dirt trail and ladle it directly out of the ground. Fresh and clear and delicious.





Here's a shot down the main drag of the camp, if you're standing directly in front of our tent. I'm sorry I didn't get more photos of the people, but I didn't want to be obnoxious. You can just barely see the inn, a permanent wooden structure which covered the bar and a stage for the band. About a hundred yards beyond that were the "hooters," pit toilets that were actually pretty nice. Plenty of TP and bottles of hand sanitizer. What luxury.

When the sun went down, the stars were bright as diamonds. Even with the fancy tents and overblown equipment, no one broke out a flashlight. Instead people came bearing candle-lanterns to the inn, to listen to guitars around a campfire. The best part of camping is the end of the day, just sitting around a fire. That's what Jeff and I did, after refilling our tankards at the inn: we built up our fire and listened to the toads come out. We had pinned up a bit of cloth over the end of the tent by our heads, which made a world of difference in sleeping, although we still woke up to this at our neighbor's site:


Yeah, next time, we're bringing bricks for foot warmers.

All in all, I have to say I had a great time. It was incredibly relaxing, fun, non-stressful and just a wonderful way to spend a lovely weekend with someone who's fast becoming more than a new friend. And, I got to try out my 1770s impression in a low-pressure environment...no one was thread counting here, but I can't want to see what some Rev War interpreters might say. It's good to be back in the twenty-first century. Wearing skirts all the time is hard. But I can't wait to go back.

Meeting the Neighbors

It has been raining for three days straight here, so when I heard the water trickling, my first thought was, "oh, the rain has shifted and is now hitting against the window. What a pretty sound." And went back to my buttonhole. But hot on the heels of that thought was the realisation, "Hey, we don't have any windows on that side of the apartment--ah crap." I ran to our hall closet and threw open the door, only to discover scalding hot water streaming in through a hole near the light fixture. A hole caused by an earlier problem with a leaking water heater...a problem that was clearly revisiting us.

My roommates and I quickly pulled stuff out of the closet and I kicked into Emergency Mode: "Get my cellphone, it's on the table! Grab the stew pots out of the cupboard!" We arranged a makeshift bucket brigade while I furiously dialed the property manager. Kizzy hid under the table, watching us with concern. The answering company blandly asked me if I thought they needed to call their on-call person. "YES, BECAUSE THERE IS SCALDING HOT WATER POURING THROUGH OUR CEILING." I helpfully explained, and gave her my cell number.

Then I ran upstairs, leaving my roommates to deal with the flood. I pounded on the door of apartment #10, until a quiet Chinese man answered. "I'm so sorry," I said, suddenly realising it was quarter to ten, "But I think your hot water heater is broken." He let me in, and I made my way to the closet, weird deja vu ringing through my head as I passed through a familiar layout with unfamiliar furniture and smells. Sure enough, a pipe had worked loose and was gently spilling water onto the floor, creating a delicate puddle around the drain in the center of the linoleum. A drain that was apparently attached to nothing but our light fixture. The sound was that of a soothing table top fountain. In the quietude, it felt strange to be shouty and hurried, but then I remembered the sound of water pouring into our apartment and my poor roommates (probably scalded senseless by now) hurrying back and fourth with stewpots.

I wrapped my sweater around my hand and yanked on the offending pipe, demanding a saucepan, which was all that would fit under it. My phone rang. The property management's on-call person. He directed me to turn off the valves. "WHICH ONES?" "All of them." Ah, calmness in a storm. I twisted the valves into a horizontal position and the flow of water thankfully, mercifully, stopped. Awkwardness. I introduced myself to my neighbors, then realised it was probably best if I just went...There will be no hot water tonight in apartment number 10, but at least there is no new swimming pool in #6.

When I got back downstairs, Kizzy bounded up to me, licking my knees, worried about the crazy show we'd just put on. I petted and reassured him all was well. Nice men with wrenches and joint tape would be showing up tomorrow, I explained. Later, when the boyf called to say goodnight, I got to relieve the craziness. "I'm just glad we were home," I said, "and awake. Could you imagine what would have happened if it had been the middle of the night? Or we had been gone?" Shudder. It took less than fifteen minutes start to finish--and when I got back downstairs, Jordon had already washed our pots.

priorities (i haz them)

I have to apologise for neglecting everyone out there in NLD land. I'm sorry. The new man and I are going to a re-enactment event in two weeks, and we've been scrambling like squirrels to get everything ready. It's not the camping that's the hard part. I've learned that when you go historically camping, you bring a lot of the same stuff. Tents. Firewood. Lanterns. Toothbrushes. Clothes. A Brown Bess or similar flintlock. But the problem is, you can't just grab a tent off the shelf if you're trying to pretend it's 1770. (well, okay, you can. But they're expensive.) So we're having to make a lot of--scratch that, we have to make damme near everything. I've been delegated to make our clothes, while himself is busy making the camp gear. And then we have to disguise our modern stuff. Toothpaste in a modern tube? Unacceptable! But toothpaste carefully squeezed out into a prepared tin? Perfect. Bread from the fancy-schmancy bakery down the street comes out of its plastic bag and into linen poke bags. It's like a propmaster's dream around here...ninety-nine cent wooden boxes from China take on new life with a coat of paint and hold sewing notions oh so neatly. And I've been coming home from work and sewing like a madperson, trying to get all our clothes together. Sure, I could use a machine for most of it...but that wouldn't be historically accurate, would it?

So I'm sorry if it's been quiet around here. Just assume the best, that I'm happy and busy, and I promise I'll upload some photos when I get back. (Yes, cameras are okay, as long as there's no flash after dark and they're carefully packed away in a poke bag when not in use.) I'm so excited to be heading out into the great outdoors again. Now. Let's hope our handmade canvas tent can stand up to a spring rain...or better yet, let's pray for sun.

beagles in the snow

It looks like Wisconsin outside. Seriously. We had a snowstorm Sunday night--a bit of a nor'easter, except it came up from the south--and the snow not only accumulated, but it lasted all day today. Granted, it's now slimy and slushy and icy, but it's still here. In March. In Virginia. I'm freezing. ARG. Kismet is loving it though...I don't think he's ever seen snow, he keeps stepping on it and then lifting his paws up like he can't figure out why they sink into the ground and get wet and cold. It'd be slightly adorable except...I'm freezing.

Anyway. I spent all weekend in the company of my new friend from Smithfield...some of my loyal readers cleverly read between the lines of my last post about him, so let me just say yes, all your suspicions are true. However, he's a bit camera shy, so I'm not going to be writing too much about him, although I will say I appear to have found a genuine Virginian gentleman. We're planning on going to a re-enacting event in a couple of weeks, so we spent all weekend sewing period costumes and baking period bread while the wind picked up and the temperature dropped. It was pretty domestic and nice and I'm very happy. Who wouldn't be, being served tea while you hand stitch a linen shirt? sigh. Happy Nicki is happy.

You know you're getting old when...

So my roommates and I groveled a bit and managed to talk the owner of our apartment into a new refrigerator and stove. Which arrived tonight. Squee! Amaree and I stood around watching the two men install it like a pair of kids watching Santa unload his sack. We were thrilled at the crisp whiteness of a brand spankin' new set of appliances, slightly disappointed at the fact our new 'fridge has no ice-cube maker, and positively squealing about the clean oven window with--WITH!--an actual light. Thank heavens for benevolent landlords. I don't even want to cook on the new stove, it's so shiny.

Now. If we could just figure out a time to get this carpet replaced...

nothing to say

Don't have anything earth shattering to write about today....just wanted to post this photo. Doesn't Prez. Washington look like he's smiling slightly? Dare we hope in approval?

dog warts

The things you learn when you get a dog...I noticed yesterday that Kizzy had a kind of massive cold sore inside his mouth. Thanks to the power of the internets, I discovered he most likely had something called "canine papilloma virus" which was causing the bumps. Today we had to go pick up more Advantix, so I took advantage of being at the vets to get a professional opinion. Professional opinion was that the internets are right. Phew.

So Kizzy has dog warts. The good news is they go away on their own and they're not contagious to humans. And then he'll never get them again. So basically he has doggy chicken pox for the next few months. Nothing to worry about. I'm just glad that I have the computer so I can look up info late at night..what did parents do when their babies broke out into odd rashes at odd hours?

Where is Nicki?

Hello everyone...I know from talking to some of you that you've, uh, noticed how I haven't updated in awhile. For once, it's not because I haven't had anything going on. Quite the opposite, actually, I've been so busy that I haven't had time to update. Literally. I started writing a post about NYC last Sunday, but after my computer froze--twice--I gave it up and haven't been able to get back to it since. So! If it's all right with my loyal readers, I'll start there.

It was a flyby weekend...I trained up to New York on Saturday, arriving at about nine pm, thanks to a late train causing me to miss my connexion. After about five hours of sleep we were up again and on the train, back into the city. Some of you have met Alison, who is a friend from London...we actually met because I had a picture of Michael Cerveris on my computer. She saw it, said "You like Michael Cerveris?" and I said "You know who that is?" And thus we were friends.

The city was chilly at nine am, the sun not yet fully risen. A block out of Penn Station brought us to the Stage Door Restaurant where we had a wonderfully filling breakfast, cup after cup of coffee, in an atmosphere that was reminiscent of the song "Sunday" from Tick, Tick, BOOM! By the time we were done, the sun had risen and the temperature had gone up at least ten degrees, and the day was beautiful for trekking around the city. Now, Alison and I are diehard Londoners. New York...is nice. But compared to London, there is no comparison. However, we were feeling magnanimous, having tickets to see Michael live and in person, so the city took on a friendly glow. We trotted up to fifth avenue, window shopping along the way--well, except for when I found a pair of shoes at H&M.

Then, Hedda. We were sitting in box seats, so although part of the stage was obscured, we didn't have to lean around other people's heads. The show itself was good. Mary Louise Parker played Hedda, and she was fantastic, a chilly woman who is slowly coming to realise how trapped she is in a marriage she doesn't want, in a situation she didn't sign up for. The show itself felt slightly jerky--a problem of trying to update Ibsen with his exposition-heavy dialogue and archaic three-act format. But it was a good interpretation, with a fresh translation and new insight into the relationship between Hedda and Tesman. Alison and I were very much there for Michael Cerveris, who played Jorgen Tesman, Hedda's husband. We might have been slightly biased, but his portrayal was easily the best of the evening. He was tender, loving, enthusiastic and totally unaware of how his wife truly felt.

After the show we hung out by the stage door, waiting for Michael, surrounded by people who were mostly waiting for Mary Louise Parker. When he appeared he signed a few perfunctory autographs before Alison and I descended. "We actually met," I stammered out, "because I had a photo of you as Hedwig on my computer and Alison said, 'Is that Michael Cerveris?'" At which point Alison cut in, "And she said, 'You know who Michael Cerveris is?'" Michael seemed slightly bemused by our tandem enthusiasm. He scratched his name into my program, asked what I'd been studying in London, didn't really have an answer when I asked him when his next album was coming out, and finally dutifully submitted when I committed the ultimate act of fangirlery:



hee.

Then Alison and I went to Sardi's, which is an old-school, post-theatre restaurant where all the big shot producers and stars hang out, trying to get noticed. Remember in the Muppets Take Manhatten when Kermit sneaks into a restaurant with caricatures on the walls? Okay, that's Sardi's. We felt sort of out of our league, but the bartender made us feel at ease with his cheerful banter. Also G&T's that were well worth the New York prices. We then headed to the fabled ANGELO'S PIZZA, which I first sampled in 2000 when I was in NYC as part of the choir trip. The restaurant was not where I remembered it--apparently they've opened a new location--but the pizza was just as good as I recalled. We had proscuitto and sun-dried tomatoes on our pie, and it disappeared completely.

And then a nine o'clock train back to Schenectady. Naturally we had to dissect the entire show several times over ("What was your favourite part?" "The part where he touched me.") and giggle about spending a day in New York City. We had a good time. Twelve hours was just about right.

And then home on Monday...a week ago I was just sliding thankfully into bed after spending what felt like sixty percent of the past three days on a train. I still feel that way, although I've done my best to catch up on sleep. And to catch up here, obviously. I will try to stay more current...but be assured if I disappear for a few days, it means things are good, busy and happy.