don't lick the cannons

Because it's not just hot, it's "dear God, why are you doing this?" hot, I decided to go to the beach yesterday. "Going" involved three buses: the CW shuttle bus to the Visitor Center, the Yorktown shuttle to, er, Yorktown, and the Yorktown Trolley from the battlefield to the beach. Yorktown, as I'm sure you all know, was the site of the last-ditch battle by Lord Cornwallis to hang onto his toehold in the colonies while being pounded by the Americans from one side and the French Navy on the other. The beach is actually a series of small, semi-circular sand dunes, protected from the waves by rockpiles, that stretch all along Water Street. About a hundred yards behind and upwards is Main Street and then, after that, is, er, nothing. Yorktown is tiny. The beaches, however, were packed. And people attempted to turn Water Street into Fort Lauderdale by driving up and down, music blaring, although this was not as effective since the main drag is about a half-mile long. I found a few square yards of sand, tossed down my bag and towel, shucked my flip-flops and splashed into the water. Ahhhh.

The York River is saltwater, which I was not expecting. It makes sense, of course, considering it empties right into the ocean, but still, the first salty taste gave me a surprise. I had chosen the beach that was mostly taken over by families, which meant all the swimmers were close to the shore, leaving me free to do laps out by the ropes and drool over the Alliance, a sloop that gives tours three times a day. Between dips I read "Neverwhere" by Neil Gaiman and giggled over the historicalness of swimming on the beach that once held pinned British troops.

Afterward I had a turkey sandwhich at the Water Street Tavern (highly recommended: good sandwich AND air conditioning) and then trotted up the hill to check out Main Street which took, oh, ten minutes. Caught the trolley back to the battlefield, just in time for a display by the Yorktown Fife & Drum Corps. They were quite good, but they had their sleeves rolled up, so I was distracted. So distracted that I totally missed the shuttle back to CW and had to wait another hour. Arg. Luckily I still had a book with me.

By the time I got back to my little house I was tired, itchy from the salt and sore from swimming. But a shower and a little food took care of that. I'm definitely going to go again, that is, at least until the jellyfish start showing up.

I need more single friends

I begin to understand how the stereotype of the crazy, pushing thirty, ring-hunting, desperate-for-baby singleton came about. After catching up with several attached friends, some of whom are packing baby, and viewing "Becoming Jane" all in the space of four days, I'm feeling a little out of touch. Not desperate for a man OR baby, but just wondering at the fact that somehow, without my noticing, I'm becoming the odd man out in my group of accquaintances instead of the norm. Funny, that.

I also watched "Brokeback Mountain" tonight on my parent's shiny, shiny huge-screen TV, and it left me feeling achy.

I think I need to get to work.

Oh God, now I'm becoming a self-fulfilling stereotype. The only thing that's missing is boxed wine and Alsatians, and thank GOD I have more class than that.

Be of Good Cheer

I am trying to remain upbeat, but the fact is that I am incredibly hot, uncomfortable and tired after sitting all day in a non-ergonomic if personally historically chair, and in ten minutes I will have to leave for Job B.

The girls downstairs have chosen to get out some of their after-school energy by running around and screaming at the top of their lungs.

My roommate, who is using up all his sick leave before he is laid off in March has spent all day sleeping, watching movies and now playing guitar, seemingly unaware that the garbage needs to go out, the kitchen floor needs to be mopped, the bathroom could use a scrub and the fridge is downright scary.

And I'm fairly certain that, queen of the footwear that I am, I have no clean socks to wear to work tonight, which means only one thing: laundry on Saturday.

On the plus side I caught a glimpse of our neighbor's golden lab Henry as the pooch went charging up the stairs of the condo next to us. And President Bush signed the bill that will enable us to borrow $150 billion from China so I can get an extra $300 bucks next May. And Barack Obama is leading in delegates, and, were I half as lazy as my roommate, I would have taken yesterday off and gone to hear him speak in Madison. Also I'm healthy and working, so it's not all bad.

Today's word is Palafox, courtesy of "The Golden Ocean" which I finished with breathless delight today. Not strictly a nautical tern, but on the list of dog names nonetheless.

Well, this is interesting.

So I was in the bathroom, flossing, ruminating on what I should blog about today when suddenly there was a little sproing! from inside my mouth, and the floss slid out from between my teeth when it should have been held firmly in place by my retainer. Which can only mean one thing: the glue that's held this wire in place for the past seven years has finally succumbed. I haven't been to the orthodonist since I was nineteen, when he finally pronounced me "finished" after ten plus years of retainers, braces, headgear, all designed to eradicate any clue that I might have my family's jawline. But they left in this one wire, glued to the back of my bottom teeth to hold them in place. Over the years I've thought mildly that I ought to do something about it, only I was never near my orthodontist and I was afraid that my teeth would instantly spring into a snarled mess upon discovering their freedom (my top teeth, bearing no glued-in wire have rearranged themselves to look something like David Bowie's top teeth. Truth.).

But at last the day of reckoning has arrived. The glue on two of my right teeth has given out, leaving the unprotected end to stick out as treacherously as a deadhead on the Wolf River. I guess this would be a good time to have some health insurance. But I've got to be honest with you, it would be just as easy to stick my Leatherman in there and give a good yank and pull the whole mess off. I mean, it's half off already, and whatever glue-y bits remained would get worn down eventually. I'm sure that the parental units are in paroxysms just reading this, after investing a year's worth of tuition in my mouth, but it's not like I'm attempting to dig buckshot out of my leg and sew it up myself. I like the idea of having a mouth Free from Orthodontia. I've managed to make it thus far without any fillings, all wisdom teeth intact, and to have no sign that mankind ever ventured past my pearly whites is attractive. Save for my perfect jawline, of course. (go on. be jealous.) It has to come out one way or another, whether I do it using a tool or by judicious wiggling or pay a man in a white coat to yank it out. Maybe I can floss the rest of it out.

Baby/Date Pt II

More news on the baby front: Old friends are pregnant. Congratulations!


I'm not working today--for some reason the gods have decided to grant me a blissful three days off. But it's Monday, so I feel like I should accomplish something. So far all I've managed to do is finish "Harry Potter 7" and write a few emails. I'm trying to send out more resumes and applications for internships and things like that, but a part of me is resisting. I'm still waiting to hear from Madison and another job that I interviewed for. I don't want to get too many things floating around in the ether and then have to make a choice. For example: working two jobs and temping is unfun and hard, but at the same time, I can also say "sayonara!" and go visit Europe like I've been (sort of) planning to do in April. If I get a real job, that will go out the window. But if I don't get accepted to Madison, then I better have something real lined up or...

so I've been doing a lot of nothing.

I'm trying not to get down about what's happening in my life, but as I put away last year's journal I flipped open to April and felt like I was looking into a deja vu mirror. Temping, working on a show, wondering what's going to happen next. I'd like to do something productive, something different, but when or if that happens is just not on the radar yet. I know I must demonstrate patience (and take advantage of days off to write) but, damnit, I'm ready NOW. Let's go, let's go...

The Good Tired

Samily is winging her way westward, she's probably over Californiai by this point. After work last night we found a dive-ish bar called Le Tavern that wasn't too crowded and had no cover and watched the ball drop. They even served a splash of champagne in a syrofoam cup at midnight. Classy. I think it was probably the best New Year's I've ever had, even though I'm sad because I don't know when I'll see Sam again. We had another greazy diner feast, and then came home and slept for a couple hours before getting up and heading to O'Hare. I'd like to make some grand statement like "the next time I go to O'Hare I'M going to be the one getting on a plane!~" but the truth is if you come visit me I'll be there with bells on. Wagging my tail.

so Sam is gone, the Christmas tree went home with dad, my birthday flowers finally had to go, the house is a little emptier. I came home determined to stay up, but ended up falling asleep over a pile of thank-you cards and my new journal. (oh-Sam, btw, I ended up using your coat as a pillow on the bus ride home and I drooled on it a little. Sorry.) I slept for about four hours, curled up caterpillar-like on the sofa in a cocoon of warmth. The radiator in my room, while hot, is not quite the level of "inferno" that the ones in the living room are. That, combined with the afternoon sun which I love to nap in anyway, conspired to keep me sleepy. I rose about two and a half hours ago and banged out my Sweeney Todd essay--less a review than a rumination on the role of the chorus and "the Ballad of Sweeney Todd" and now I'm debating whether or not I should order food for dinner, have pizza, a veggie burger, pasta, what. The problem is not that I have food, the problem is that I am Lazy and the kitchen is cold.

The holidays are over. I have to confess, I'm a little relieved. This will mean less hours at work, but it will also mean less crazy commuting, less running around, less eating the bad food, etc. etc. I'm a little worn out--happy, but worn out--and looking forward to catching up on my sleep and eating normal food. I'm excited about 2008. It's going to be a good year, I can tell, and I'm very excited about what the future has in store.

100% Organic and Preservative Free!

In my never-ending quest for perfection I recently bought a jar of organic peanut butter. I love peanut butter. I eat it every day for breakfast, and up until recently, my PB of choice was chunky Jif. Yeah. Sounds like a blues band, doesn't it? Chunky Jif and the Jive Five. Yeah. But I'm worried that chunky Jif has too much sugar and preservatives in it, so I decided to give organic a try. It took me about ten minutes to find an appropriate substitute: a honey-flavoured chunky PB from Arrowhead Mills. (the organic community eschews the time-honored tradition of colour-coding their PB, blue for chunky, red for smooth, so I had to pick up each jar and look at it. My jar, like Maria at the end of West Side Story, has a lovely yellow cap) It cost me $4. Today I had the last of my chunky Jiff on one slice of toast, and the chunky Arrowhead Mills on the other. The first thing I noticed about the organic stuff is that it separates. So you have oil, then roughly-chopped pieces of peanuts, then the creamy butter, and you have to mix it together. Okay, fine. The taste...well, it's not as sweet, that's for sure, it's more peanutty than any PB I've ever had (except for this generic stuff in London...never again...) And it's sticky. Each bit prompted a sip of tea to get my jaws unstuck. I mean--this is the kind of sticky that Shel Silverstein was writing about when he was warning about the horrors of PB. Better than Jif? Eh. Probably. I compared the labels, and this is what I found: Arrowhead Mills ingredients: peanuts, salt, honey, soy lecthin. Jif: Peanuts, molasses, salt, mono-and diglycerides. That would be the preservatives, I'm assuming. And maybe preservatives aren't a bad thing: I realised, as I went to put my preservative-free organic peanut butter in the fridge that it expired Nov 22. 2007. Ooops. Who checks the expiration date, anyway? I want my food to last for years, so in, the case of a 28 Weeks Later like scenario, I will have a good supply of PB while I try to work out an acceptable substitute. I'm still going to give the organic stuff a shot, but I think I might take this back to the store and point out they had expired product on their shelves.

The simplicity of the reciepe has given me pause though. Maybe I should try making my own damn peanut butter. I have the honey, after all. And a bag of peanuts from Fleet Farm is, what, a buck? Hmmm...


Speaking of things organic, I was surfing around yesterday (and by "surfing around" I mean "screwing around") and I found a very nice cotton t-shirt with a black and white sketch of George Washington on the front--very classy, very understated. Clearly what the General would have wanted, had he had access to a screen printing press at Mount Vernon. I thought about adding it to my collection, but then I thought about wearing something like that. I mean, Washington was, after all, a slave owner. And there is a point where irony and tongue-in-cheek humor crosses the line, so I think I'll be content with my GW action figure.

Although...now I'm wishing I had bought that Nelson T-shirt...if only because it was a portrait of him in pink...

I did it

All right, I admit it, I jinxed the Packers last night. Coming from Green Bay, being a Packers fan is less a choice than it is a way of life, so I was excited to watch them trounce the Bears--my first chance to watch a game in about nine months. (For obvious reasons they don't show Packers games here, but they do show Bears games.) I ordered a pizza from Giordano's and, right before kickoff, I benevolently called my friend Cathy (a die-hard Bears fan) to wish her a happy game. The rest is history. Tho I don't know whether I should blame the Chicago-style pizza or the incredible hubris for the loss. Either way, Packers fans, I apologize.

Today I have nothing to do. I was thinking about taking advantage of all the Persecution of the Indians by Christopher Columbus Day Sales and maybe buying a kitchen table, but I didn't want to contribute to a holiday that was celebrating the beginning of several hundred years of horrific subjugation. Instead I'm going to finish hemming my curtains and study up on the math part of the GRE. I took another practise test last night and I improved my score 69% on the verbal section. And no, I did not figure out that percentage on my own, which might explain why my math score went up exactly 0%.

Meanwhile, I turned on the BBC World News last night only to discover their lead story was about an off-duty police officer shooting 6 people in Crandon. My relative joy at hearing the word "Wisconsin" in a British accent were immediately offset by the horrific nature of what happened--yet that didn't stop me from rankling at the statement "Crandon is a tiny town about 225 miles north of Milwaukee; truly the wilderness where people hunt, fish and shoot." Yeah, DEER. Hello world, meet Wisconsin. I've read more articles about what's happening there, but it still feels incongruous to have the first word come from the Beeb.