Embarassing things these days...

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

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

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

Fo' mo' info: Navy SCANDAAAAAL...

Agnosticism in the Checkout Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, these are recyclable."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shiny Computer!

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



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

More updates soon, yay!

ruminative cello solo

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

This is what being an adult means to my generation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joining the Revolution

Broadsheet has a brief article about how the FDA has put a stop to false advertising by Bayer about their birth control pills, Yaz. Go read it, then come back here.

I thought this article was interesting and relevant, because for a long time I've resisted going on birth control. Basically, there is no need for me to. (let me repeat that for parental units and other interested parties: there is NO NEED for me too.) For years I've suffered through bad periods, with every symptom in the textbook, and I've always managed to get through somehow, usually with the help of Midol and beer. But the last cycle I had (cf: "My Friends, I am Dying") was so bad, so unimaginably horrible, that I decided I cannot go through that again. I am literally scared of my own body's pain. (Note to new mothers: feel free to share labor and pregnancy stories. I will be more than happy to reciprocate with a description of how I thought my heart was going to stop in my chest. Cheers.) So I'm going on the Pill. Yaz, actually, although I read the fine print that Bayer neglects to cover in their spiffy ads.

When I walked out of the pharmacy brandishing my brand new blister pack of pills, I did feel quite liberated, although not liberated enough to head down to the local pub and take my pick of the studly undergrads. Part of me feels sad though--I don't want to be one of those women who's on the pill for convenience's sake, and to clear up acne. This is serious medication, with a serious purpose, and I don't take it for granted. I'm damme lucky that I live in a place where I can get birth control for something as frivolous as cramps. But it also feels like a rite of passage--most of the women I know are on the Pill, encouraging me to join them as if it were another milestone in a woman's life. Not just the women I know, but all the women who've ever been on it, back and back, women taking charge of their reproductive abilities.

Me, I'm just hoping that whatever it is that is making me have horrible cramps and ridiculously long cycles (forty days plus, but that's probably due to stress and a new roommate) will be discovered and soon so I can go back to being au natural. I'd rather treat slight cramps with beer than throw the baby out with the bathwater (or not) and be on pills for the rest of my life.

angry panda is angry

One of the women I sit next to and I had a conversation today that went something like this:

Me: I am a screaming liberal who thinks Obama is conservative.
She: I am a proud conservative who thinks McCain is waaaay too permissive.
Both: Ain't America great!

Which is about the only thing we can agree on. So we have these dance-y conversations where I'll say one thing and she'll say another thing and then we have to change topics because otherwise we'd be Discussing Politics which is forbidden at work. But we get along pretty well.

But today I couldn't stop myself from saying how sad I was that America was spending all this money on War when it could be spending money on other things, and my coworker unhelpfully pointed out that at least some part of the world has been at war for the last two thousand years. This is true. That doesn't make it okay. If everyone jumped of a bridge, after all...

But now I just got an email from a dear, dear friend who hit the point home, hard. Laura is in the Peace Corps, as you know, being a steward of America, carrying the banner of a friendly nation into places where all they know of us is our soda exports and our penchant for guns, and actually Doing Some Good, all the while helping other people learn that not all Americans are cowboys. But the Peace Corps is facing a major budget crunch, and they're going to be cutting funding...my brain doesn't remember all the details, but the new class of trainees for Romania will be cut in half for next year, and it's a possibility that the program could be scrapped all together.

The world truly is going to hell, dear readers, when we can find the money to spend on missiles and bombs that cost thousands of dollars and kill people, and yet we can't find the $200 a month it costs to feed Laura (and her cat) and keep her in a country where she's working side by side to create programs that will benefit people for years to come.

I'm starting to think of the lyrics from Les Miz: "Something's gotta happen now, or something's going to give." I don't like to be the pessimist, but it's starting to feel like our great nation is falling to pieces. Working here in Virginia, at the beginning of all things, I feel like I'm watching the end of an empire. The great arc which starts with the Declaration and ends when California secedes and the Midwest is covered in ten feet of snow. I'm just saying.

I don't want to be the pessimist. But if there was ever a time to stop what we're doing and say "what the hell!" this would be it. Let's get our priorities straight: Laura and her cat...not bombs.

Whether bright or melancholy...rough and ready, finely spun...

Ye gods I am tired. Who thought it would be a good idea to go on a Ghosts, Myths and Mysteries tour on a Monday night? Stupid free CW pass... Okay, the vampire story was really creepy, and the loving daughter coming back from the dead was sweet and sad, and the wronged lover assuming the identity of another was pretty cool, even if poorly told, but I have a feeling that come tomorrow, when I'm falling asleep into my pin grabbit, I may have a few regrets. snooooore...

It was ironic that my friend Erin suggested we go on a walking tour tonight, because this afternoon I was offered a position as a storyteller with the evening programs. So come September I'll be the one scaring the children and causing a tear to dangle on the fringe of an eyelash. The director said I had a "very good" audition, hee, and the thought of actually performing after all these years is only a little frightening. Just like riding a bicycle, right? Right.

Good Steward, also, Less TV

My Day Off yesterday was a rousing success...I got through several movies and cut out the pattern for my suit of clothes. Today when I came home from church, I contemplated the long hours ahead of me before militia, thinking about how I was going to resume my TV watching, maybe, ya know, surf the Internet...

Then I realised that I would be totally wasting three or four uninterrupted hours of potential writing time and felt embarassed. My writing time has gone down to nothing and my TV-watching time has gone up exponentially for some reason. I come home hot and exhausted no matter what, and instantly collapse into the sofa with a glass of water. And don't move for several hours. This is bad. This is a habit that needs breaking.

So instead of watching telly today I'm writing. First I'm blogging, then I'm writing. Then there will be cheese.

As I wandered through Blogland, I stumbled across a blog about a man who lives in NYC, and who's gone green: No Impact Man. Some of the things he talks about is difficult for an apartment dweller, but some of the ideas he has for going green hit home. Prime example: there's no recycling at our apartment. Nothing. This contributes to the riches that the dumpster continues to yield, but it makes for very, very bad earth-stewardship. At the base level, the very beginning level, the easiest damme thing you can do is recycle. I know there are people out there who say it doesn't work well--it doesn't work if you don't participate. In Chicago, the city reported an 80% increase in the number of people who recycled once they instituted bin collection.

And I go out of my way to use recyclables: before "The Dark Knight" there was an advertisment for a Bertolli product that comes in a plastic pouch. "How lazy," I said, "do you have to be to use one of these pouches? They're so bad for the environment! Hello--glass jar?! Which you can recycle?" (That question, btw, was quickly answered when my companion turned, glared, and said to me--"hey, I use the Bertolli pouches, they're good!" Oops.) My point is. Recycling is second nature to me, and it kills me that there's no recycling here at my apartment.

I'm trying to be a better steward of the earth. I had an idea for a book that was about a group of people who went digging through old landfills for materials they could sell to companies. And that could be our planet. The amount of stuff I throw away--just me, myself--is embarassing. Do I really need to put tomatoes in a plastic bag so I can put them in another plastic bag and carry them home?

So my goal for next week--my "no impact" goal for next week--is to call the landlord, call the recycling center here in Williamsburg, and see if I can get something set up. I'm sure if there was a recycling bin at my apartment, the spotty college students would be more than willing to fill it up with their malt-beverages and their Admiral Nelson's Rum bottles.

And if that won't work, I'll just have to surreptiously toss my recyclables into someone's green bin on a Wednesday, when they're not looking.

What I'm Mad As Hell About Today

Sometimes things happen and I remember that I'm a feminist and that apparently, I'm the only feminist around here. So it's up to me to get excited about things which are sexist and offensive, if only because some of the people I know think it's just adorable.

Anyway. I watch a lot of Comedy Central, and right now they have some Domino's Pizza ads in heavy rotation. The first one is of a perky Domino's delivery girl driving through Gotham city, being chased by baddies before finally makin' that delivery (one presumes, in under 30 minutes), and telling the scary clowns who answer the door that "the Joker owes me a car." Okay, fine. Apart from feeling a pang of "but...but the Joker's dead! Wahhh!" everytime I see this commercial, mostly it only brings out feelings of immense irritation. Like I said, heavy rotation.

The second commercial is similar, only this time they're promoting a Domino's sweepstake where some lucky schmuck will get ten thousand dollars delivered to them along with their pizza. Another perky Domino's girl (not the same one as in the first commercial, but definitely in the same mold) is explaining the terms of the contest while a gruff-looking dude stands next to her, holding a metal briefcase with $10,000 in it.

Let me just pause here and say, for the record, that if I ever won ten thousand dollars, I would take it in stacks of new ten dollar bills, and then I would spread them around on my nice new bed and roll around on them for awhile. Yeah.

Anyway, so the Domino's girl finishes explaining and she turns to Mr. Tuff Guy and says "Ready?" and he says "Ready, cupcake."

And...Nicki spits out her brownie in a blur of indignation.

Really? Really Dominos?! For starters--you have your perky delivery girls braving the back alleyways of Gotham in your commercials, I'm sure they're more than qualified to take an unassuming briefcase along with them. Why bother to introduce a random gruff dude? Surely that negates the whole "ooooh, Gotham is so tough and scary, but we are Domino's--our people can deliver anywhere, even our cute perky girls!" shtick. Secondly--cupcake?! How degrading can you get? Cupcake is used on little girls, not on grown women who are working hard and who are suddenly forced to tolerate the intrusion of some condescending jerk with his muscles.

The commercials don't make sense--I don't like using this Batman to shill for pizza anyway--and they are really frustrating. I know, I know--Peter--that "it's just a commercial" and I'm reading too much into it, but everytime the second one comes on, I am filled with an uncontrollable rage. Luckily that's only happened twice, but honestly--haven't we moved past "cupcake?" Surely if you're paying an advertising company billions of dollars to sell your pizza, they can come up with something a little less offensive.

"No Stamp Act"

It's amazing how much more time I have on my hands now that I have my bike. For example, this morning I got up, recycled, turned in my health insurance forms, went to the bike store to get a helmet/lights/panniers, made an unscheduled shop at a Fashion Bug that was having a going out of business sale, and went grocery shopping. En toto, it took me about three hours. Now, just to put things in perspective, before bike it could sometimes take me three hours JUST to grocery shop! And I didn't even mention the little joyride I took just to marvel at all the fast food restaurants that are now within my reach. Did you know that Dunkin' Donuts has WiFi? The crack doughnut restaurant? zomg!

But if Nicki is looking a little less colorful this week, it's because I seriously overspent at the bike store...and, er...at Fashion Bug. Okay, I don't really need new clothes, but I think my coworkers are getting tired of seeing the same three t-shirts. Also, buying a bike helmet is like buying wine: you know you don't need the most expensive unless you're a serious connoussier, but you don't want to buy the cheapest either in case of, you know, accidental contact with a moving vehicle or something. I also have an enormous head, so I settled for a middle-range model with the capability to crank bigger or smaller in case I need to allow for a periwig or something.

I grossly overestimated the weight allowance of my new "grocery-getter" pannier though. Just for future reference, a half-gallon of milk AND a six pack of Diet Coke (on sale!) in the pannier at the same time: not a good idea. The bag jumped off my rack and I had to reorganise by the side of the road. Luckily I had my backpack with me, but every pedal of the way I could feel the seat sinking lower...and lower.

And I also bought a light. Not just because it's the law, but also because I was coming home from choir last night in the dark and I was nearly run over by a herd of tourists on a night tour. Possibly also to do with the fact I was wearing my brown coat and black facepaint. Now I'm visible.

After the morning's excitement I decided to take full advantage of my day off (and my free CW employee pass!) and visit the DeWitt Museum of Decorative Arts which is basically a Museum of Stuff. Stuff you'd have in your house--well, not YOU, you probably couldn't afford this Stuff, but antique furniture, kitchen wares, pottery, linens, silver, etc... I wanted to go and look at their collection of samplers to get some ideas, but I also wandered through the display they had about 300 years of children's toys and past a few sets of silver that gives the collection I saw in Apsley House a run for its money.

The DeWitt Museum is entirely underground, but you reach it through a graceful staircase under a skylight, so you don't even realise it unless you think about it. Most museums don't have windows anyway. Well, the V&A does, but they're mostly covered up now. Gracing the staircase is a fabulous portrait of George Washington being manly, with a manly hand on his hip, his other hand on a manly cannon, gazing out at you the viewer as if to say "I conquered the British Empire, don't you dare impune my manliness." To the righ of this is a portrait of Jefferson, looking jealous. And pink. It's a Gilbert Stuart picture, so the plaque helpfully told me how incredibly "lifelike" it was, but my first impression was that Jefferson looked like he'd had a bit too much gin. Either that or he was suffering from heatstroke, sitting in a hot studio wearing a black suit. As opposed to George Washington, who never ran out of ice, owing to the fact that he could shoot Freeze-Rays out of his eyes. True story.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes. So if you continue on past the paintings, there is a temporary exhibit of a quartet of flags that were taken by Colonel Banastre Tarleton after the battle of...hang on, I knew I was going to forget this, Waxhauh, oh, hell, I'll google it, hang on...WaxHAW, almost got it. Tarleton was British, he defeated some Americans in 1780 in South Carolina after chasing them for a few days. Or something. And then he took their flags. But the joke was on him, because a few years later the Americans won the war. Ha, ha. But he still had our flags. And now they're on display in the DeWitt museum.

My first thought after seeing Tarleton (well, right after "hey, that's a name from Gone With the Wind! Weird!") was, "wait a second, I KNOW that painting! That painting is hanging in a rotunda at the National Gallery in London! I like that painting! And this beeshard stole our flags!"



I breathed fire for a little bit at the humanity of it all. But then I realised: the flags were here. On American soil! CW had asked for them politely so they could display them--but here was our chance to get them back! To restore our father's honor and glory! I looked around the room to see if anyone else had come to the same realisation, but the pair of elderly sight-seers clearly didn't understand that we had a chance to rewrite history. Which is why I'm going to be drafting a letter to the folks at CW suggesting they hang on to those flags. They're American flags, after all, they belong in this country. It's not stealing if they're your flags.

Wait, what's that you say? The British won them fair and square? We shouldn't ask for them back? And besides, it's been hundreds of years, so what does it matter? Well. Maybe we should ask the Greeks how they feel about it...

Hey girl, you are beautiful!

I'm updating both of my blogs at once: does this mean that somewhere the time-space continuum has warped and black holes are popping into existence as we speak?

So I've gotten into the habit of reading blogs about women who are losing weight: That's right, some blogs actually have a point of purpose, whether the authors are losing weight or having babies or fighting The Man, they'll blog about things from that perspective. Instead of me, where the only thing all my posts have in common is, well, Me. Ha. Anyway, I read blogs about women who are trying to lose weight, and I remember how hard it was for me to change my attitude about how much I weighed and I'm really proud of some of the ladies I read. I started thinking a couple years ago "well, if i was going to be skinny, I'd be skinny by now, but I'm not, so I guess I'll just be okay with me. All of me." That attitude shift was accompanied by a forty-pound weightloss, courtesy of London, so I'm sure that had something to do with it. I'm still big according to everyone on the planet, but not as big, and I'm healthier. And I'm happy to be this way. And if I ever get down under two hundred pounds I'm having a party, but, eh, it'll happen or it won't.

But I can't focus on it constantly. I can't make weightloss the sole goal of my life, because, unlike quitting smoking or drugs, you can't quit eating. (well, you can. But then this would be a totally different type of blog) Also--with my attention span I have a hard time finishing ANYTHING I start and dieting is BORING. I try to do yoga every day now that I have a mat, but I also try to write every day. I try not to eat the entire bag of cookies when I need dessert, but I have to have cookies or else all I will think about is cookies. And, cookies. And--damnit. See? But I totally respect women who are working on weightloss and who need to write about it and support their goals 100%. We have so much crap shoved in our faces about what is beautiful and what we should be doing with our diets or our lives that getting past that and saying "I am doing this for ME ME ME" is half the battle.

For me, it's getting down to a lower weight so I can finally get that back tattoo I've been dreaming of. For some people it's wedding dresses. But in the meantime--life goes on. And I want to live in a world...where there's tiramisu.

Meanwhile, more Mika to love. I am going to get his album. How can you not love this--fat acceptance AND people dancing through the streets of London!?

A case of the hypo

I hate being depressed. Hate, hate, hate it. Because I KNOW it's not me. I am sitting comfortably over here, being annoyed by the tweenagers downstairs* and meanwhile there is this little--a teaspoon full! a thimbleful! a few drops!--chemical in my brain that is making me so soddenly depressed and pathetic that I can barely move. What am I depressed about? Nothing. But I have this chemical. This weird chimaera in my body that makes me throw myself down dramatically on my bed and quote "Hamlet:"

"I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours."

I feel like the glowing, loving part of me is melting and too big to be held in my cupped hands, like my heart will never work again. Like I'll never walk a straight line again--nor should I try, because whenever I do, I'll just fall over. I can't think, I can't focus, all I can do is eat and sleep and wait for my body to work this chemical out.

I did not write anything yesterday, nothing worth wasting paper or air on. I don't know if I'll ever write anything worthwhile again. I don't feel like trying. I'm completely beaten down. There's no point. If I was going to be a playwright, I would be one by now. But I'm not, so I'm not. QED.

My book this week is a biography of Abraham Lincoln, written by the same author who wrote the MLK Jr biography I read. I really love his style, it is very evocative, history-wise. And I love his description of Lincoln's early life, his struggle with "hypochonria" which is the Victorian term for depression--"a touch of the hypo" as his friends would note. Well I know that feeling. I love Lincoln when he talks about a return to the desires of the Founding Fathers, his incredible ability to fight for what he believes in, and his honesty. I'd rather read about the Senate election of 1858 than watch CNN today.

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god!"







*(they get ten more minutes with their crappy tween music turned up too loud before I go downstairs and kick the door down)

Coming in Threes

Dear Person Who Went On A Date With Me,

What's up? You don't read my blog, so you probably don't know that my life is kind of stressful right now, nor do you realise your failure to call/IM/text/email is yet another mark in the column of why my life is stressful right now. That's okay. I get it. You probably lost your phone, possibly down the gullet of a hungry alligator, and then had your hands chomped off trying to retrieve it, preventing you from getting in touch with me. It's cool. I understand.

What you probably don't understand (due to the aforementioned lack of reading this blog) is that I am a passionate soul, given to fits of romance and drama, occasionally under clouds but constantly shining through. And once my good opinion is lost, it be lost forever. You, sir, are headed in that direction. Why the sudden change of heart? I though we had a good time--laughing at the inept waiter at that restaurant, holding hands through "Atonement," driving home through the neighborhoods of your childhood--all leading up to a quick smooch good night and a whispered promise to call. Alas. No call. No text/IM/email which, in these electronic days, is an acceptable substitute, especially if you've lost your voice at the yodeling competition this weekend.

See, I make excuses. I'm good at that. But the truth is--in 22 hours and thirty-four minutes, it will have been exactly one week since I've heard from you. And that silence--even in today's electronic world of instant communication--communicates just one thing to me: That you're just not interested. That's cool. I understand. Whatever.

Just don't think, if you deign to reply to the two (two! I must be desperate) text message I sent you, carefully spaced three days apart, that I'm going to respond. I am beautiful, independent, strong, intelligent and it will most likely take a king to tame me. I can understand if you're not up for the task. I thought for once I'd try an old-fashioned courtship, but if that means waiting by the phone working on my hope chest waiting for your ring, then I guess I might as well wait for the epic romance. If you're calling, you better come calling with sunflowers and emeralds, is all I'm saying. And don't be surprised if I direct your attention to post #495--I'll probably be too busy to get back to you.

Sincerely yours,
Nicki

For Once, the Catholic Church and I Are in Total Agreement

"The Golden Compass" is a crappy movie.

Although we dislike it for different reasons. Yahoo has this article, which says that the Catholic Church has slammed "The Golden Compass" with a "stinging broadside" (broadside being a nautical term), saying that it is "Godless and hopelss." Let it be shown that I too wish to broadside "The Golden Compass" with cricism, except MY problem is with the story and the script. I agree with the Catholic Church there should be more God, if only so when he humanity brings down the Kingdom of Heaven, people will feel more than just "what is happening? I'm so confused." Which is how I exited after seeing the film a couple weeks ago. The Catholic Church is scared that these books will cause children to question their religion, turn away from the church and possibly give up on God all together. The movie is about as threatening as VeggieTales, but the Catholic Church has been denouncing it anyway, since the books just might make a few people think.

Last night I finished re-reading the His Dark Materials trilogy ("The Golden Compass" is based on the first book, "The Northern Lights"), and I understood and enjoyed the story a lot more than I did when I read it in college. It is kind of bleak, especially at the end when the Church's power is destroyed, and the onus for making the universe a good place falls onto the shoulders of people. That's a LOT of responsibility, especially for a couple of kids. But at the same time, it's no different from what Jesus tells us--"do unto others as you would have done unto thee" and the one about treating the least of my bretheren as you treat me. (yes, yes, I know, it's been awhile since I've cracked a Bible) What's the difference, saying you're acting this way for the glory of God or because it's the decent thing to do? Maybe because the dark side of that is where it gets scary: if I am acting decently for the Glory of God, then what is to stop me from hurting people for the Glory of God? (cf, Spanish Inquisition, Crusades, etc.) Yet when godless heathens act decently or hurt people they're considered examples of how degraded humanity has become, how far away from God we've moved. Truly, what if there is no God, and it is up to us to be decent or not? That's a lot of responsibility. I don't know if I'm ready for that.

Saying "I'm not strong enough to take responsibility for being a decent person" seems like kind of a weak and weird reason to be a Christian. But, then again, Jesus died for our sins--how can I do better than that? Yesterday I talked about how bitchy and crabby I've been lately, and these are just little examples of being a bad person. Small moments when I could choose to be more polite or just spread around anger. These are the marks that are going to get read back to me on the Day of Reckoning, since I'm not planning on committing any murders any time soon. I'm not even strong enough to reel in my contempt when someone answers my questions slowly, or when people stand on the left on the escalator. How can I hope to build the Republic of Heaven on my own? Better to continue the work that Jesus started and try to bite my tongue when the situation calls for it.

Christmas is a week away, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Not in a "yay, I'm so excited to go home for Christmas!" or "yay, Jesus!" kind of way, but in a "when is this holiday going to be over so I can get back to normal" kind of way, which makes me slightly ashamed. There are reasons for the season, whatever your beliefs, and regardless, we should all take the time to slow down and appreciate the year that was and the year that's coming. But I can't do it this year. I don't know why. Maybe it's because of all the crabby and the stress, it's pushed goodness and patience out of my heart. I think "His Dark Materials" affected me more than it did before, because the message hit a little harder this time. The onus IS on me, after all, no matter what, to do the right thing.

The Happy Place

I left a couple hours early for work so I could stop at the happy place--aka the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago--and do some more research for 1776. This library is big and gorgeous, truly, a monument to Learning, but it is also a place where homeless people can be inside and warm, provided they are not disrupting patrons. Signs posted around the library tell us that we are not allowed here if we have "neglected our bodily hygeine so that it gives offense to other patrons" and we are not allowed to eat, drink, smoke or sleep. I was feelingly smugly benevolent as I tolerated a gentleman snoring quietly behind me, until I realised that I had infact fallen asleep on "Jefferson's Pillow" (the title of the book--no joke) and may or may not have drooled slightly on my hand. At which point I decided to go for coffee. My find of the day was a historical map of Philadelphia from 1776 which was in a book that was, oh, roughly the size of a Smartcar that I managed to wrestle onto the photocopier which promptly spat out a letter-sized sheet that included most of the river and none of the city. Dar.

On my way to work I passed by a tall, bushy white hippie wearing Hari Krishna robes and holding a sign that said "World Peace Through Marijuana" with a helpful little peace sign drawn underneath. As I was passing he offered me a...piece of paper and said "hey, come on, check out my website, it's free! You can't be ignorant all your life!" So I turned around and beat him over the head with his stupid sign. Well, no, but I really wanted to. About the only thing less productive than smoking pot is standing on a street corner, advocating that pot will stop the world's evils. The ignorant comment rankled as well: I almost opened up my very full backpack to show him the mountains of knowledge that I would soon absorb. That's the second time in a couple weeks someone has accused me indirectly of being stupid. Coming on the day when I (lovingly) dropped my PhD materials into the mail for Madison, I'm hoping that it's just a coincidence and not verifiable fact. (wait, there was a GRE word for that...empirical! that was it) I felt much better once I got on the subway and listened in on a conversation that involved two girls discussing at great length the length of their hair--then I realised they were probably students at DePaul, and therefore probably eighteen and I began to ardently wish I was eighteen again. Then I remembered the terrible perm I had when I was eighteen and decided maybe I was better off being in my late early twenties after all--clearly, I'm a lot smarter now anyway.

Jumping through hoops

You'd think if I was smart enough to think about a PhD, I'd be smart enough to figure out the application process, but nooooo...

After weeks of being sidetracked by the GRE, I've returned to the application itself, a fun little mix of electronic applications, getting transcripts from two continents, putting old papers into MLA style (not to mention American spelling), and figuring out how the hell recommendations are supposed to work. The Graduate School (not to be confused with the Theatre Dept) wants electronic forms. But does the Theatre Dept want hard copies? Who knows?! The supremely unhelpful secretary who answered the phone with "Well, what's wrong?" (aimed not at me, but at someone else in the room--please hold) told me I should call back Monday.

Monday I wanted to be mailing. Bullocks, this is stressful.

Ow! Ironic brick!

This from an email I received from a professor of colonial studies (who, I am happy to report, reacted much more enthusiastically when I emailed him):

"Frankly, I wouldn’t try calling historical sites. The person on the phone is not going to be able to answer your questions and they are often as much invested in preservation and maintance of the site and don’t really have the resources to answer specific historical questions. You’d have more luck working with historical organizations or with academics."

Cheers, mate.

So, I have flipped my schedule around and will spend tomorrow morning working, tomorrow evening studying, Thursday morning working, Thursday night traveling, Friday morning pacing anxiously, Friday afternoon taking the GRE, Friday night eating fish and celebrating Friday night with my parents.

I am incredibly nervous, stressed out, irritated, deydrated, upset, angry, stressed, overprepared, hungry, tired, stressed, carnivorous, lonely, maladroit and stressed.

Also I suspect I'm going to be getting the monthlies on (you guessed it) Friday. Most women are blessed with acne, cramps and/or a slight upward swing in emotional tendencies. Only I am lucky enough to combine near-bipolar mood swings with crushing, agonizing pain. Not that I'm blaming female hormones for the way I'm feeling today, but the only other option is the fact that I'm just like this naturally. Rarrr!

In other news--Sunday night is Trafalgar Day. I tell all of you this so you have time to lay in some rum so you can toast the "Immortal Memory!" But not--dear God, please not--"Admiral's Rum" which is a travesty. No, Pussar's if you can afford it, Bacardi if you can't.