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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the meantime.

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

Heralds of Spring

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

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

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

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

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