This is where the pretty pictures of a lovely Christmas at home are supposed to go, then a joke about how hard it is to update my blog when I'm typing on my new iPad (thank you so much, mom and dad!) and there's a beagle on my foot, but it's been a long couple of weeks. No, screw that, it's been a long couple of months.
Starting in August, I began working at the Busch Gardens costume shop, a local theme park. The job is more fun and less stressful than CW but those extra hours, combined with going home in September, continuing ghost storytelling tours and managing a Christmas program in December meant that I haven't worked less than 60 hours a week since then. The two weeks around Thanksgiving I worked so much that I doubled my paycheck from CW. The three remaining work days of the week afterwe got home from our Wisconsin Christmas I got six hours of sleep each night because I had to work at night.
Why am I saying these things? So all my loyal readers will understand exactly what I've been up against these past months and why I've neglected my blog. I know I'm supposed to feel grateful to have a job, much less three or four, depending on how you look at it, but I just can't do it any more. I twisted my shoulder in my sleep last month, and I'm convinced that overexertion due to my job contributed to it. I've gained 30 pounds in the past two years, but with limited time to eat right and exercise, my knees are starting to creak ominously. It's not that I am being whiny and saying I can't keep up this pace--clearly I can--but that I just can't physically or mentally do this anymore.
What the alternative is, I don't know. It seems like a good time to consider and calculate, since I have no evening jobs during the month of January. It's a new year, time to make a new start. I'd like to leave the dishes pile up because I'm busy writing, not because I'm working. I'd like to go see some movies, not just watch the trailers and miss the feature. And I really want to sit quietly by the window and read, with no other claims on my time. I've already made plans to go to Harry Potter world at Universal later this month...yay, a real vacation! Yet, I'm already living in dread of March, when hay making time comes again. I need to plan now to avoid that madness.
I hope everyone who reads this is happy and healthy and doing exactly what their hearts desire. I love you all and think about you all constantly, even if I don't call you and tell you enough. You are all so important to me...2012 is going to be good!
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Mom Says Post
Beautiful Fort Ticonderoga
I received an email from Mom today with the subject line "Goodbye Irene" which I think is a subtle hint that she's ready to see some different content on this page. So! Where to begin? As with all recent posts, it's not the lack of things to talk about, but the abundance.
About a week after the hurricane, Jeff and I took off with our reenacting group (the Queen's Own Loyal Virginia Regiment; look us up on Facebook!) to New York, to participate in an event at Fort Ticonderoga. If you're thinking "Nicki, you live in Tidewater Virginia, and Fort Ticonderoga is in upstate New York, located on a peninsula that sticks out into Lake George, near the Canadian border, that's an insane amount of driving!" you would be right. We left Thursday afternoon, picked up a few more unit members in Maryland, and arrived Friday morning at 5:30 am. We immediately put the cars in park and took a nap for about an hour, until the local diner opened up and we could have some eggs and bacon for breakfast. (For the record: driving overnight is the only way to do I-95)
The town of Ticonderoga is, in a word, beautiful. It is tucked into a little valley in the Adironack mountains, with pine trees and winding roads rising on either side of it. The road to Ticonderoga winds through several little towns, all with locally owned restaurants, shops and hotels--definitely a place I want to revisit when I'm not busy playing history. Since we arrived a day before the event started, the unit had plenty of time to build a camp and generally unwind and relax after a long drive. The Queen's Own is trying to be a very historically accurate group, and one of the things that is most accurate is the fact that there are no tents when you're a militia unit. So the lads took to the woods, chopping down saplings and gathering brushwood until they had fashioned a lean-to. After scattering a couple bales of straw underneath, we had our shelter for the weekend. Voila.
Camp with a couple of gatecrashers on Friday night. The Queen's Own didn't mix it up too long Friday night, prompting a few comments "wow, those guys are really hardcore..." "No, they just drove through the night, didn't you know that?" Yes, and we can hear you from under our blankets.
I should note that ultimately we want to be able to cary everything into camp on our backs...we were only thwarted in this attempt this time by the addition of a fourteen pound salted Virginia ham. All the food we had was non-perishable, and it was either eaten (ham) or burned (bones). It's amazing how little refuse you leave behind.
The lads receive their orders Saturday morning...we try to run things in a military fashion, apart from the floggings. And even then you can be sentenced to fetch wood and water if you're not prompt.
Overlooking the Fort's guns. There are not any super-awesome pictures of me from this event, this is probably the best one. Also the best because, well, cannons.
Saturday we had visitors (and by visitors I mean "non-costumed civilians") so I was busy cooking for t'lads and answering questions. We were sharing our camp with a group that ate vegan, so it was almost like dueling kettles for awhile. One of our boys volunteered to be tried as a deserter...and he was duly dragged into the "court" by his fellow militiamen, tried and found guilty of desertion. Then the lads went off to the battle (we won), and after supper we went up to the Fort to share some libations with the American rebels.
A deserter in our midst! Get 'em, boys!
The lads advance during the battle...
Fort Ticonderoga was built in the 1750s by the French...the British took it away from them, then the Americans took it away from the British, and then the British got it back until the end of the Revolution. It was manned again during the war of 1812, and even during WWII it served as a radio base. Today it is a living history museum, with costumed interpreters, an EXCELLENT museum, a nifty giftshop and cafe. During the 19th century it was restored by a wealthy family who also built a small hotel down by the waters of Lake George, near the King's Garden. This is near where we were camping...the Americans got to sleep in the Fort. But really, after seeing the hardpacked earth and stone floors of the fort versus our comfy grass and straw beds, I think we Loyalists got the better end of the deal. Fort Ticonderoga was also recently featured in an episode of "Ghost Hunters"...and yes, Nicki is glad she only learned about the ghosts after we went there.
The Fort at night
Discussing the day's tactics with the serjeant.
Sunday I watched the battle, repeated for that day's guests. It was fun to mix in with the civilians, shouting encouragement to "our brave boys in red" and getting the stink-eye for it. Many guests thought I was a history teacher, but I had to correct them and say "no, this is just wicked interesting, that is all." It's hard to describe what a re-enactment battle is like. Most battles try to recreate an actual event, but there are some sites that will just make up battles to demonstrate what eighteenth century tactics looked like. This event was one such. Basically the scenario involved the Americans attempting to hold the fort, and the British rolling them back like blankets. During the Revolution, there was a garrison of Americans here, but they were so few in number that when the British showed up, it was not worth the lives for a pitched battle. The Americans had already removed the cannons, so the garrison surrendered. Both Saturday and Sunday the British forces began near the base of the hill on which Fort Ti is located, then advanced upward. The militia (including the Queen's Own) acted as light infantry, pushing through bracken, muddy water and trees to get the advantage and cover the regular infantry. Also there were cannons and horses. It was a pretty intense battle, lasting from early skirmishing to a final bayonet charge and surrender, all told around three hours of "fighting." Even though no one was actually hurt by a weapon, one of the guys in our unit did sprain his ankle on Saturday. And I've been to other events where there have been powder burns and even a broken collarbone. Reenacting is intense, and it does leave you drained. (Unfortunately, it's hard to take good photos and even videos of reenactments...trying to catch the excitement from afar is difficult, and if you have cameras in your midst you're liable to irritate reenactors.)
So by Sunday evening we were pretty wiped....we had permission to leave around 4pm, and we did so. Packing up involved rolling up blankets, tearing down our brush arbor and putting out the fire, and then we were on our way. Jeff and I arrived back in Virginia at around 4:30 in the morning on Monday. It was probably the best reenactment I had been to...but I was really glad I had taken Monday off.
This is what Jeff looks like...he is going to be mad that I put this on here, but it's my favourite picture of him so far ever.
It's hard to believe that was five weeks ago now! It's been a lot of fun putting up pictures and reliving that trip. I had a great time, even with all the driving, and I definitely want to go back again.
**All photos of Fort Ticonderoga were taken by Kelsey Freeman...she is a professional photographer with our unit who brought her camera along.
After working Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of that week, I took off again, this time for Green Bay. As I mentioned previously, Dad took a fall down the stairs at home. Now he was coming home from the hospital, and I went to try to help Mom get him settled. And by support I mean reinforcing some of the new rules, "Dad, when mom says 'eat' she means it!" Dad was pretty weak from being in the hospital for two weeks, but he perked up (and started eating), as soon as he got home...and from what I hear now, a month later, it's only been uphill. Also, bonus, I got to meet my new niece:
I was thrilled. Nora, less so.
And since returning home three weeks ago, it's been work, work, work. As usual. I signed on to work part time at Busch Gardens Williamsburg in their costume shop. As you can imagine, it's quite a bit different from CW's shop. Also, bonus, I get into the park for free and have discounts on food and souvenirs, which came in handy last weekend when Jeff and I had a couple friends come down for Howl O Scream. Then there was also Prelude to Victory, the rebel answer to Under the Redcoats...I had to go around all day pretending to be a patriot supporter of Mr. Washington, but secretly I was a British spy, gathering information. ("Infantry: 62. Cannon: 1") Then just yesterday Jeff and I were back at an old favourite spot of ours, Smith's Fort Plantation, which is a local history museum. They are having their Christmas Craft Show this weekend, so Jeff and I went in our historical costume and talked a bit about the house. Nothing like being able to drive home after an event in thirty minutes or less!
And that's the update...I hope this will not be the last one for another six weeks!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Lighting the Way
Last March I was calmly eating dinner with a fellow employee before starting my evening job. We had both heated up Lean Cuisines and were munching in silence, when suddenly she slapped her hand down on the table and started choking. I stood up, watched as her face started panicking, then went around behind her and gave her the Heimlich manoevre. I was freaking out as well, since she was wearing stays, and I couldn't exactly feel where her navel was...bits of CPR class were flashing through my mind: "Feel for the navel...don't be afraid to be rough...sharp upward jerks...you may break a rib..." I threw out a little prayer and heaved. She made a sound like a garbage disposal backfiring, and spit up a piece of potato. Gross, but we were both so relieved that we didn't care. She was crying, I was crying, we were both trying to remember how to breathe. After about fifteen minutes, we went back to eating dinner...and a few minutes after that our manager showed up. "What's up, guys?" he asked, sensing the tension, seeing red, tear sodden eyes. "Oh, nothing," my coworker said, "Only Nicki just saved my life."
It impacted me pretty majorly, but after a month or so, I had sort of forgotten about the event. Until last week, when a committee showed up at work unannounced. At first I thought it was a tour of Operations, but when I saw my evening program supervisor, I unscrewed my ear buds and paid attention. "We are here today," one of the ladies announced "to honor an employeed with a Lighting the Way Award--" geez, I thought, who deserves that?-- "an employee who acted quickly in the face of life or death situation--Nicole Lemery!" I was shocked. Really shocked. And touched, that my act was recognised not only by the woman who I helped, but by the company I work for. The Lighting the Way Award is given to an employee who goes above and beyond the Foundation expectation. Although I try to argue that anyone would step in and try to help if someone was choking, I'm grateful that my company got to see that I'm capable under fire.
The award itself is a small brass candlestick (above) and a little patch you can stick on your nametag so everyone will know you've won this award. (the flowers in the picture above, I should mention, are from Jeff--he surprised me after work today with them) I'm still pretty pleased about the whole thing. I just wanted to let everyone know and brag a little bit...work hasn't been easy lately, but sometimes karma is a beautiful thing.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Managing Fine
It's quarter after eleven on a Friday night. I should be showering and going to bed, but I am enjoying staying up late, knowing I'll be sleeping in tomorrow. I have been baking and cooking all night. Tomorrow Jeff and I are going to a Shakespeare performance at Kenmore Plantation in Fredericksburg, VA. The company is encouraging folks to come dressed up in eighteenth century clothes, so that's what well be doing, along with about ten of our friends. Sounds like quite a party.
Last Wednesday was my first night as a Program Manager for a little show CW is offering to guests as a free bonus when they stay in a CW hotel. It's called "An Evening at the Playbooth" and it's basically three excerpts from three shows we have going on...the idea being that if the hotel guests like what they see they'll buy tickets for the full monty. As of six-thirty last week we had fifteen tickets in the system as being given away...and six people showed up. I told the attendant, who was watching the gate, "if anyone wants to come in, let them." We ended up having about forty people by the end (something about African drums just seems to multiply people...) Prior to that I had told him to go get a music stand out of a nearby house when it turned out that the music stand that should have been in the Playbooth's storage shed was AWOL.
It turns out those were bad decisions. My background as a theater person told me that the more people who wanted to see this show, the merrier! and if we're missing a prop--go get the prop! But that is not the way CW runs things. I have been kicking myself since then...independent decisions be damned, I want to fly under the radar, lockstep, and fall more in line with the way CW does run things.
See, I applied for this position? And got an interview? And then, after a three week silence, an email saying "Thank you for your interest, but..."? And, frankly, if CW doesn't think I am qualified for this position which was basically written for someone with my background...then it's pretty obvious CW doesn't see me as supervisor material.
But I don't want my show to fail. It might be a patchwork of evening programs, it might be designed to sell tickets and pacify hotel marketers, it might be annoying for performers to get dressed up to only "work" for fifteen minutes...but it's still my sodding foot in the door and if it fails, it's not going to be my fault.
Last Wednesday was my first night as a Program Manager for a little show CW is offering to guests as a free bonus when they stay in a CW hotel. It's called "An Evening at the Playbooth" and it's basically three excerpts from three shows we have going on...the idea being that if the hotel guests like what they see they'll buy tickets for the full monty. As of six-thirty last week we had fifteen tickets in the system as being given away...and six people showed up. I told the attendant, who was watching the gate, "if anyone wants to come in, let them." We ended up having about forty people by the end (something about African drums just seems to multiply people...) Prior to that I had told him to go get a music stand out of a nearby house when it turned out that the music stand that should have been in the Playbooth's storage shed was AWOL.
It turns out those were bad decisions. My background as a theater person told me that the more people who wanted to see this show, the merrier! and if we're missing a prop--go get the prop! But that is not the way CW runs things. I have been kicking myself since then...independent decisions be damned, I want to fly under the radar, lockstep, and fall more in line with the way CW does run things.
See, I applied for this position? And got an interview? And then, after a three week silence, an email saying "Thank you for your interest, but..."? And, frankly, if CW doesn't think I am qualified for this position which was basically written for someone with my background...then it's pretty obvious CW doesn't see me as supervisor material.
But I don't want my show to fail. It might be a patchwork of evening programs, it might be designed to sell tickets and pacify hotel marketers, it might be annoying for performers to get dressed up to only "work" for fifteen minutes...but it's still my sodding foot in the door and if it fails, it's not going to be my fault.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Doin' it for the Books
Oh look, fan art.
I never know what to tell people when, after hearing I work at the CDC, they gush: "Oh my gosh, I am sooo jealous! You guys do such great wooork!" Usually it's a pathetic half-smile and a "yeah..." Working at the CDC WAS great. But it's been the 1770s every day for the past three years--the same patterns, the same instructions, the same petty dramas, pathetic inside jokes...
So what keeps me going? Well, the paycheck, the awesome benefits, and the fact that I can listen to my iPod all day long. I have a subscription to audible.com, and I've been downloading the Aubrey/Maturin books one per month. It takes about two and a half days to listen to each book, and I usually listen to them several times (eighteenth century dialogue + wicked awesome literary talents make them a joy to listen to) before it's time to listen to the next one. Also, I check out audio books from the library. So, although I lament the lack of time I have to crack an actual paper book, I'm getting my literary fix quite nicely.
Books, once again, come to my rescue.
Oh, remember the bear that I dressed for the Salvation Army Christmas bear drive? One of the women who is on the Army's board called me up last night and wants me to make one for her son...who's graduating from the Fife and Drum Corps this July. Huzzay!
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Energy Drain
Do you ever have those days where you just don't have enough energy to do the things you need to do to get through the day?
Like laundry. Even with a washer and dryer en suite, I can't seem to get the clothes rumbled through the cycle. Getting them rounded up is impossible, remembering to put in the fabric softener on time has caused more than one repeat rinse cycle, and as for putting them away? Why? When the three-season room makes such a convenient walk-in closet (as long as the curtains are drawn)?
And breakfast. Lately I've been eating in the car on the way to the ferry, so I can get another ten minutes of sleep. And then, when I do get to the ferry, I put my seat back and sleep again.
The problem is, I'm tired. But the tiredness is not the problem, it's a symptom. Lately, I can't stand my job. Everything about it just drains the life out of me. Thinking about going is enough to send me into the blue devils. I know the solution is to find a new job, but I'm worried that anything I would apply for will have far, far more qualified applicants--even the receptionist or assistant jobs I've worked at before. Then again, I could go back and retrain for another career entirely, like being a medical transcriptionist. (It is truly depressing the amount of CW people who struggle on their minimum wages for two or three years and then go back to school for an associate's degree to pay the bills...fellow employees with history degrees and a deep love of interpretation) At this point, I would settle for a job where my supervisor actually spoke to me.
There's no point in whining if I'm not actually looking for a new job, but I just don't have the energy. All I see everywhere are brick walls. At least I have a paycheck right now...as long as I show up physically, if not mentally.
Like laundry. Even with a washer and dryer en suite, I can't seem to get the clothes rumbled through the cycle. Getting them rounded up is impossible, remembering to put in the fabric softener on time has caused more than one repeat rinse cycle, and as for putting them away? Why? When the three-season room makes such a convenient walk-in closet (as long as the curtains are drawn)?
And breakfast. Lately I've been eating in the car on the way to the ferry, so I can get another ten minutes of sleep. And then, when I do get to the ferry, I put my seat back and sleep again.
The problem is, I'm tired. But the tiredness is not the problem, it's a symptom. Lately, I can't stand my job. Everything about it just drains the life out of me. Thinking about going is enough to send me into the blue devils. I know the solution is to find a new job, but I'm worried that anything I would apply for will have far, far more qualified applicants--even the receptionist or assistant jobs I've worked at before. Then again, I could go back and retrain for another career entirely, like being a medical transcriptionist. (It is truly depressing the amount of CW people who struggle on their minimum wages for two or three years and then go back to school for an associate's degree to pay the bills...fellow employees with history degrees and a deep love of interpretation) At this point, I would settle for a job where my supervisor actually spoke to me.
There's no point in whining if I'm not actually looking for a new job, but I just don't have the energy. All I see everywhere are brick walls. At least I have a paycheck right now...as long as I show up physically, if not mentally.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Updating from work...
Hello loyal readers. Jeff and I were all set to have internet installed today, until we realised that there is no co-axial cable outlet downstairs. And upstairs is still awash in plaster dust and construction. So there won't be any major updates for awhile, as I am using the computer at work to answer only the direst emails (Pleas for bank account information from Nigera will not be acknowledged.) We've rescheduled for the 7th...and I am going to try to find a wifi connexion somewhere soon. Until then, all is well. Driving to work in the morning is not as painful as I thought it would be, once I realised the seat in my car goes all the way back for optimum nappage, and sometime when we get home at night, there's a belligerent basset hound who is convinced our house is his, baying it for all the neighborhood to hear. Plus it's only 89 degrees today instead of 100+. Huzzay.
All is well.
All is well.
Monday, May 31, 2010
This is the day we stop and remember this thing
I always feel vaguely guilty about having national holidays off, when the historic area is open three hundred and sixty five days a year, so my interpreter friends are out there regardless. I was determined to make the most of my time off.
This morning I participated in a Memorial Day parade, honoring the fallen war dead who are buried throughout Williamsburg. As we lined up near the Palace, the temperature was hovering around ninety...I can't complain though, I wasn't wearing a woolen Continental uniform, nor carrying a musket with a fixed bayonet. (the muskets we carry are about twelve pounds unbayonetted, about fourteen with) After laying a wreath at the Palace, to honor the Continental soldiers buried in the garden--Washington used the empty building as a hospital--we marched down the Palace Green to Bruton Parish Church, where more soldiers are buried. Three volleys there, and then the long march to the French cemetery, a tiny, out of the way, peaceful plot of land where some of Rochambeau's men were laid to rest. Far, far from home, probably not understanding exactly why the King of France would take the side of some upstart colonial rebels, but loyally here doing their duty. We had a good turnout--a large amount of guests who were attentively solemn, some who were more interested in getting a picture with the militia, a few locals who skirted the crowd with their dogs, and one idiot jogger who ran straight through the rope barricade, missing the yells of "you can't go there, there's live firing!" due to an iPod firmly screwed into his ears.
I sweated straight through my linen shirt and hunt frock. When I got home, I looked like I had jumped into a pool fully clothed. I had lunch, started some laundry and began packing. You see, loyal readers, I am going to be moving in with Jeff, so once again I find myself putting my life into boxes in preparation for another jump. Most of the books I have with me were lovingly packed before I went to London. The boxes still have "Books!" written on them with little hearts around the word--I have kept them, flattened and tucked behind my dresser for two years. They won't all fit into the three boxes I brought now. "Nelson and Napoleon" was bought as a present to myself for getting an apartment, and it sits weighty on the bottom of one box that contains all my maritime and English history books. A bag of winter clothes and a serious debate about whether or not to get rid of some of these sweaters. I love these sweaters. But I don't wear them, winter being so short in Virginia. A small pile of things to be got rid of or given back to their rightful owners. I think to myself that I must be in America for good...I would never have let my possessions get so out of control, so permeated throughout this apartment otherwise.
Then the grocery store. A friend has told me her husband went to the emergency room, and they are waiting on test results. Her family, his family, a sister, all are coming to help out with the kids, with the emergency, there's nothing I can do to help but pray, but Midwestern genes dictate I must make a casserole. I have never done this sort of thing before, so I fall back weakly on a Betty Crocker recipe for macaroni and cheese. I add a lot of cheese.
Folding clothes, walking the dog. I am hurrying to get everything finished by four so I can take a nap before working the evening program. The march through the historical area has taken it out of me, and I am fighting off a weird headache. I succumb to the joys of high thread count sheets and the AC blowing directly on me. A fan wafts beagle farts into my face as Kismet joins me in a nap.
Then, getting dressed again, this time in girl clothes. I must wear stays to fit into my gown, but it's not the stays that are hot tonight, it's the linen petticoat and gown skirt. They absorb the humidity in the air and stick to my legs, I feel like I'm wearing wool. Not much I can do, except pin my kerchief loosely, slightly immodestly, around my neck. I carry the mac n' cheese to work with me, cleverly hidden in an extra piece of fabric as a disguise. My friend and her family live next door to the Randolph House, where I work. At the break, an older man is sitting on their porch...I go up and introduce myself--he is the father in law of the sick husband, and he tells me that it's cancer. What the next step will be they're not sure yet. I lamely push my mac 'n cheese on him, answer a guest's question about the gardens behind the Randolph and then walk over to the office where the ghost tour leaders meet, to tell another employee what's going on. She hopes he's not at a certain hospital. I tell her he is. She starts telling me horror stories about her husband's experience there. I let her run on, then make sure she's okay and pat her hand before I leave.
As I'm walking back to the house, a little boy comes up behind me, crying. Sometimes they do this, the kids, they are having hissy fits or they are overtired. But he is overwhelmed with tears and looking frightened. I stop him and ask if he's okay. "Nnno," he says, hiccoughing, "I'm lost." So I take his hand and we go back to the office where I hand him over to one of the counter people. Luckily the little boy knows his mom's cell phone number. And, at the end of the night when I call my manager to let him know I'm leaving, he tells me the boy found his parents.
On the way home I stop for ice cream. I want a peanut buster parfait from Dairy Queen, but I will settle for a hot fudge sundae with peanuts. Rita's--the frozen custard stand on the way home--does not have peanuts. But I do not learn this until after the nice man behind the counter has triumphantly presented me with a scoop of vanilla custard slathered with hot fudge. I am disappointed. But I eat it anyway. It tastes cool.
My roommate has turned the AC off. I suspect she's had her window open all day--she is constantly cold--but by now it's cooled down enough that the fan will be enough for tonight. Tomorrow is a Tuesday--traditionally the slowest day of the week--but I feel rested knowing how much I have accomplished today. A hot day, a long day, a day for remembering and a day for doing.
This morning I participated in a Memorial Day parade, honoring the fallen war dead who are buried throughout Williamsburg. As we lined up near the Palace, the temperature was hovering around ninety...I can't complain though, I wasn't wearing a woolen Continental uniform, nor carrying a musket with a fixed bayonet. (the muskets we carry are about twelve pounds unbayonetted, about fourteen with) After laying a wreath at the Palace, to honor the Continental soldiers buried in the garden--Washington used the empty building as a hospital--we marched down the Palace Green to Bruton Parish Church, where more soldiers are buried. Three volleys there, and then the long march to the French cemetery, a tiny, out of the way, peaceful plot of land where some of Rochambeau's men were laid to rest. Far, far from home, probably not understanding exactly why the King of France would take the side of some upstart colonial rebels, but loyally here doing their duty. We had a good turnout--a large amount of guests who were attentively solemn, some who were more interested in getting a picture with the militia, a few locals who skirted the crowd with their dogs, and one idiot jogger who ran straight through the rope barricade, missing the yells of "you can't go there, there's live firing!" due to an iPod firmly screwed into his ears.
I sweated straight through my linen shirt and hunt frock. When I got home, I looked like I had jumped into a pool fully clothed. I had lunch, started some laundry and began packing. You see, loyal readers, I am going to be moving in with Jeff, so once again I find myself putting my life into boxes in preparation for another jump. Most of the books I have with me were lovingly packed before I went to London. The boxes still have "Books!" written on them with little hearts around the word--I have kept them, flattened and tucked behind my dresser for two years. They won't all fit into the three boxes I brought now. "Nelson and Napoleon" was bought as a present to myself for getting an apartment, and it sits weighty on the bottom of one box that contains all my maritime and English history books. A bag of winter clothes and a serious debate about whether or not to get rid of some of these sweaters. I love these sweaters. But I don't wear them, winter being so short in Virginia. A small pile of things to be got rid of or given back to their rightful owners. I think to myself that I must be in America for good...I would never have let my possessions get so out of control, so permeated throughout this apartment otherwise.
Then the grocery store. A friend has told me her husband went to the emergency room, and they are waiting on test results. Her family, his family, a sister, all are coming to help out with the kids, with the emergency, there's nothing I can do to help but pray, but Midwestern genes dictate I must make a casserole. I have never done this sort of thing before, so I fall back weakly on a Betty Crocker recipe for macaroni and cheese. I add a lot of cheese.
Folding clothes, walking the dog. I am hurrying to get everything finished by four so I can take a nap before working the evening program. The march through the historical area has taken it out of me, and I am fighting off a weird headache. I succumb to the joys of high thread count sheets and the AC blowing directly on me. A fan wafts beagle farts into my face as Kismet joins me in a nap.
Then, getting dressed again, this time in girl clothes. I must wear stays to fit into my gown, but it's not the stays that are hot tonight, it's the linen petticoat and gown skirt. They absorb the humidity in the air and stick to my legs, I feel like I'm wearing wool. Not much I can do, except pin my kerchief loosely, slightly immodestly, around my neck. I carry the mac n' cheese to work with me, cleverly hidden in an extra piece of fabric as a disguise. My friend and her family live next door to the Randolph House, where I work. At the break, an older man is sitting on their porch...I go up and introduce myself--he is the father in law of the sick husband, and he tells me that it's cancer. What the next step will be they're not sure yet. I lamely push my mac 'n cheese on him, answer a guest's question about the gardens behind the Randolph and then walk over to the office where the ghost tour leaders meet, to tell another employee what's going on. She hopes he's not at a certain hospital. I tell her he is. She starts telling me horror stories about her husband's experience there. I let her run on, then make sure she's okay and pat her hand before I leave.
As I'm walking back to the house, a little boy comes up behind me, crying. Sometimes they do this, the kids, they are having hissy fits or they are overtired. But he is overwhelmed with tears and looking frightened. I stop him and ask if he's okay. "Nnno," he says, hiccoughing, "I'm lost." So I take his hand and we go back to the office where I hand him over to one of the counter people. Luckily the little boy knows his mom's cell phone number. And, at the end of the night when I call my manager to let him know I'm leaving, he tells me the boy found his parents.
On the way home I stop for ice cream. I want a peanut buster parfait from Dairy Queen, but I will settle for a hot fudge sundae with peanuts. Rita's--the frozen custard stand on the way home--does not have peanuts. But I do not learn this until after the nice man behind the counter has triumphantly presented me with a scoop of vanilla custard slathered with hot fudge. I am disappointed. But I eat it anyway. It tastes cool.
My roommate has turned the AC off. I suspect she's had her window open all day--she is constantly cold--but by now it's cooled down enough that the fan will be enough for tonight. Tomorrow is a Tuesday--traditionally the slowest day of the week--but I feel rested knowing how much I have accomplished today. A hot day, a long day, a day for remembering and a day for doing.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
How to solve a problem like Maria...
The problem with having a blog is that you must have something to write about. Or you launch on your glorious adventure assuming (hoping?) your life will furnish you with enough material to keep going. I was never very grandiose in my blog attempts, this literary corner of the internet is just an attempt to keep my friend and family up to date on what's going on in my life.
Except that there's not much going on in my life right now except for work. And work is... Well, there's the rub. When I got this position I said that I wouldn't write about my current employer, except to share positive stories and potentially embarassing things I do. Except that work is... Well, what I'm trying to say is that there's only so many times your loyal readers want to hear about beagle farts and me running around in crazy costumes.
Work has totally taken over my life. Work means sixty hour weeks just to not make ends meet. Work means being underpaid to be underappreciated. Work means creative enthusiasms meeting an effective wall of silence and a corporate attitude of That's Not How We Do Things Around Here. Work is making me increasingly unhappy, tired, fat and stressed.
And I know--I know I ought to be grateful to have a job in this economy, working at a place that is at least slightly more creative than an office beehive. And I know too that I should chuck it all and start over, free as the wind, confident in my bohemian abilities to get by. Part of me is still tired of surfing that uncertain wave that is Temping+Writing and grateful for a solid workweek, part of me (the 18 to 22 year old part, no doubt) wonders what the bleedin' hell I'm doing here.
The single ray of sunshine that has been sustaining me for the past few months is the fact that my play has been accepted, is in rehearsals and will open July 3rd...but in two plus years, nothing has happened beyond that. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Work is going to continue to wreak havoc on my wellbeing and so... Well, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.
Or, perhaps, find another mountain...
Except that there's not much going on in my life right now except for work. And work is... Well, there's the rub. When I got this position I said that I wouldn't write about my current employer, except to share positive stories and potentially embarassing things I do. Except that work is... Well, what I'm trying to say is that there's only so many times your loyal readers want to hear about beagle farts and me running around in crazy costumes.
Work has totally taken over my life. Work means sixty hour weeks just to not make ends meet. Work means being underpaid to be underappreciated. Work means creative enthusiasms meeting an effective wall of silence and a corporate attitude of That's Not How We Do Things Around Here. Work is making me increasingly unhappy, tired, fat and stressed.
And I know--I know I ought to be grateful to have a job in this economy, working at a place that is at least slightly more creative than an office beehive. And I know too that I should chuck it all and start over, free as the wind, confident in my bohemian abilities to get by. Part of me is still tired of surfing that uncertain wave that is Temping+Writing and grateful for a solid workweek, part of me (the 18 to 22 year old part, no doubt) wonders what the bleedin' hell I'm doing here.
The single ray of sunshine that has been sustaining me for the past few months is the fact that my play has been accepted, is in rehearsals and will open July 3rd...but in two plus years, nothing has happened beyond that. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Work is going to continue to wreak havoc on my wellbeing and so... Well, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.
Or, perhaps, find another mountain...
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
It's the little things...
[[Dot]]
Are you working on something new?
[[George]]
No
[[Dot]]
That is not like you, George
[[George]]
I've nothing to say
[[Dot]]
You have many things
[[George]]
Well, nothing that's not been said
[[Dot]]
Said by you, though. George
[[George]]
I do not know where to go
[[Dot]]
And nor did I
[[George]]
I want to make things that count,
Things that will be new...
[[Dot]]
I did what I had to do...
[[George]]
What am I to do?
[[Dot]]
Move on...
Stop worrying where you're going-
Move on
If you can know where you're going
You've gone
Just keep moving on
I chose, and my world was shaken-
So what?
The choice may have been mistaken,
The choosing was not
You have to move on
Look at what you want,
Not at where you are,
Not at what you'll be-
Look at all the things you've done for me
Opened up my eyes,
Taught me how to see,
Notice every tree-
[[George]]
Notice every tree...
[[Dot]]
Understand the light-
[[George]]
...Understand the light...
[[Dot]]
Concentrate on now-
[[George]]
I want to move on
I want to explore the light
I want to know how to get through,
Through to something new,
Something of my own-
[[Both]]
Move on
Move on
[[Dot]]
Stop worrying it your vision
Is new
Let others make that decision-
They usually do
You keep moving on
--Sunday in the Park With George
Are you working on something new?
[[George]]
No
[[Dot]]
That is not like you, George
[[George]]
I've nothing to say
[[Dot]]
You have many things
[[George]]
Well, nothing that's not been said
[[Dot]]
Said by you, though. George
[[George]]
I do not know where to go
[[Dot]]
And nor did I
[[George]]
I want to make things that count,
Things that will be new...
[[Dot]]
I did what I had to do...
[[George]]
What am I to do?
[[Dot]]
Move on...
Stop worrying where you're going-
Move on
If you can know where you're going
You've gone
Just keep moving on
I chose, and my world was shaken-
So what?
The choice may have been mistaken,
The choosing was not
You have to move on
Look at what you want,
Not at where you are,
Not at what you'll be-
Look at all the things you've done for me
Opened up my eyes,
Taught me how to see,
Notice every tree-
[[George]]
Notice every tree...
[[Dot]]
Understand the light-
[[George]]
...Understand the light...
[[Dot]]
Concentrate on now-
[[George]]
I want to move on
I want to explore the light
I want to know how to get through,
Through to something new,
Something of my own-
[[Both]]
Move on
Move on
[[Dot]]
Stop worrying it your vision
Is new
Let others make that decision-
They usually do
You keep moving on
--Sunday in the Park With George
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The weight of history
There is a phrase that re-enactors use when they are so into a living history situation, so totally immersed that they actually begin to feel they are living the century they're interpreting. It's called "seeing the elephant" and it has only happened to me occasionally--like when I arrived at the Randolph House tonight. The path through the gate has been a muddy quagmire of late, even though the staff has thrown down sticks and firewood, but tonight, with my breath in the air, the first thought I had when I arrived and saw the path was "Well, one good thing about these temperatures--the ground's frozen, no more mud." Thinking like a colonial, when muddy roads and quagmires were a part of daily life.
My storytelling site has moved approximately twenty feet, from the backyard of the Randolph, to the passageway between the house and the kitchen. (why aren't we in the house proper? Loong story dealing with politics between the Randolph and evening program people) The passageway isn't heated, and since we have to leave both doors open due to fire policies, it's little better than a sheltered lean-to in the cold, windy weather we're currently having. I dressed for work tonight like I was going to a football game: two pairs of stockings, flannel undergarments, shift, stays, (I wear my stays, because it's uncomfortable to tie petticoats around my waist otherwise) underpetticoat, petticoat, sweater, long-sleeved tee, bedgown (it's amazing what you can hide under a bedgown, which is a baggy T-shaped jacket), kerchief and two caps. That's right, two caps. And here we have the eighteenth century solution to keeping warm: More layers. Over all this I threw my heavy wool cloak, which is so heavy it gave me back problems last March when Jeff and I went camping.
Wool is warm, and honestly, if I was sitting down in one place and could tent a cloak over me, it's no problem. But when it's hanging off your shoulders--and you're already wearing twenty pounds of clothing--you can really feel it. I already cheated with the modern sweater under my bedgown. In the eighteenth century, it would have been another bedgown, another petticoat...I can't believe that women never wore some kind of breeches or bloomer like garment to keep their upper legs warm (apart from my hands and feet, that's the part that gets cold soonest), but apparently they didn't. I try not to wear anything there either, because I try to keep the vestiges of authenticity, but on nights...like this...I'd rather just throw on some old flannels than deal with cold on top of all the other complications from my site.
But as for everything else someone might see...everything else that is visible...perfectly authentic. So when I show up in someone's holiday snaps, they'll marvel at the accuracy and maybe, just maybe, spot the elephant.
My storytelling site has moved approximately twenty feet, from the backyard of the Randolph, to the passageway between the house and the kitchen. (why aren't we in the house proper? Loong story dealing with politics between the Randolph and evening program people) The passageway isn't heated, and since we have to leave both doors open due to fire policies, it's little better than a sheltered lean-to in the cold, windy weather we're currently having. I dressed for work tonight like I was going to a football game: two pairs of stockings, flannel undergarments, shift, stays, (I wear my stays, because it's uncomfortable to tie petticoats around my waist otherwise) underpetticoat, petticoat, sweater, long-sleeved tee, bedgown (it's amazing what you can hide under a bedgown, which is a baggy T-shaped jacket), kerchief and two caps. That's right, two caps. And here we have the eighteenth century solution to keeping warm: More layers. Over all this I threw my heavy wool cloak, which is so heavy it gave me back problems last March when Jeff and I went camping.
Wool is warm, and honestly, if I was sitting down in one place and could tent a cloak over me, it's no problem. But when it's hanging off your shoulders--and you're already wearing twenty pounds of clothing--you can really feel it. I already cheated with the modern sweater under my bedgown. In the eighteenth century, it would have been another bedgown, another petticoat...I can't believe that women never wore some kind of breeches or bloomer like garment to keep their upper legs warm (apart from my hands and feet, that's the part that gets cold soonest), but apparently they didn't. I try not to wear anything there either, because I try to keep the vestiges of authenticity, but on nights...like this...I'd rather just throw on some old flannels than deal with cold on top of all the other complications from my site.
But as for everything else someone might see...everything else that is visible...perfectly authentic. So when I show up in someone's holiday snaps, they'll marvel at the accuracy and maybe, just maybe, spot the elephant.
Monday, November 02, 2009
spooooooiled beagle
I was going to stop at the grocery store after work tonight. Then I thought "ninety percent of the reason I'm stopping at the grocery store is so I can get a roll of quarters to do Kismet's laundry." Then I reasoned: "If I stop at Hancock fabrics and buy him some more fleece, not only will I not have to do laundry tonight (which will take forever) but if I buy two pieces of fleeces, I will be prepared for the next time he wees in his crate."
So that's what I did.
I promise I have been doing stuff besides working, buying food, doing laundry and spoiling the beagle...
...but it all seems a very long time ago already...
So that's what I did.
I promise I have been doing stuff besides working, buying food, doing laundry and spoiling the beagle...
...but it all seems a very long time ago already...
Friday, May 08, 2009
Where was I? What was I doing? Oh, right.
Hello loyal (and patient) readers. Evening programs have picked back up again in a big way, so I've been storytelling for the past three nights. I should have been in bed an hour ago, but the novelty of having nothing to do is so novel I'm sitting up enjoying it. In addition, militia has started marching, but only on Fridays. And the fact that I was working all day and all night would not deter me from throwing on my breeches and heading out for the review. I only screwed up once, when I shouldered my musket before the command, prompting my searjeant to say, "Put that firearm down! Wait for the order! Stop thinking!" Elicting titters of laughter from the crowd.
Auntie Erin and Auntie Nicole brought Kizfiz to the review, but he decided he didn't want to come any closer after hearing the cannon go off. He was shaking pretty badly when I saw him afterward, but he cheered up pretty quickly and very nearly almost caught a squirrel. He had the tail in his mouth and everything. Granted, it was one of the complacent fat CW squirrels, but then again he was leashed to Auntie Erin.
Somehow I managed to get through five tellings of my story tonight. I was afraid I'd have no energy left for the last group, but apparently I did. The last few lines of the story (where I'm exhorting them to get thee gone posthaste) were so effective that the kids jumped up and ran out of the room. Prompting me to laugh silently at their terror. Middle-school kids are so funny...they come in all cocky, sure that they'll never be scared by anything, but once you start telling stories about the actual place where you're sitting...well, pretty soon they shut up and start listening.
Life is good. Busy, but good.
Auntie Erin and Auntie Nicole brought Kizfiz to the review, but he decided he didn't want to come any closer after hearing the cannon go off. He was shaking pretty badly when I saw him afterward, but he cheered up pretty quickly and very nearly almost caught a squirrel. He had the tail in his mouth and everything. Granted, it was one of the complacent fat CW squirrels, but then again he was leashed to Auntie Erin.
Somehow I managed to get through five tellings of my story tonight. I was afraid I'd have no energy left for the last group, but apparently I did. The last few lines of the story (where I'm exhorting them to get thee gone posthaste) were so effective that the kids jumped up and ran out of the room. Prompting me to laugh silently at their terror. Middle-school kids are so funny...they come in all cocky, sure that they'll never be scared by anything, but once you start telling stories about the actual place where you're sitting...well, pretty soon they shut up and start listening.
Life is good. Busy, but good.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 23, 2009
driving ms crazy
YAY!!!! Friday! Can't wait to get outta here! Yay, car! Yay, driving!
Hey, the person in front of me seems really old and slow. That's cool. I'm not in a big hurry. Wow the weather is nice, maybe I'll roll down the windows---
WHOA, brakelights! *slam* Oh man, that little old lady in front of me must have seen a squirrel or something, there's...oh, wait, more brakelights. *tap* Oh...
Wait, do you think I'm tailgating you? Lady, you're barely doing twenty at this point, and I've OBVIOUSLY got plenty of room to stop, as evidenced by the fact that I am able to do so everytime you *slam* slam on your brakes.
Oh, great, now you're gesticulating angrily at me. Don't you think you should keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road? Ya know, instead of on the car behind you?
Hey, I've got time. Even driving twenty-one miles an hour I'll STILL get home in twenty minutes. Tum tum tum.
I can wave back at you. Notice how I choose not to use my middle finger.
Damnit, stop waving at me and DRIVE.
GO THE SPEED LIMIT.
(which is twenty-five)
Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm going to put on some music and enjoy this ride.
"I need something else...to get me through this...semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby."
Oh man, this song takes me back. Maybe I'll sing along:
"good byeeee...good byeee...good BYEEEEE! do do do, do do do do..."
What, you think I'm going to crash into you because I'm singing along with the radio? At least I'm not slamming on my brakes and waving my hands in the air all the while watching my rearview mirror.
YES, TURN. Good. BYE.
Go home and tell your children about the psycho who tailgated you all the way home.
I've got some blogging to do.
Hey, the person in front of me seems really old and slow. That's cool. I'm not in a big hurry. Wow the weather is nice, maybe I'll roll down the windows---
WHOA, brakelights! *slam* Oh man, that little old lady in front of me must have seen a squirrel or something, there's...oh, wait, more brakelights. *tap* Oh...
Wait, do you think I'm tailgating you? Lady, you're barely doing twenty at this point, and I've OBVIOUSLY got plenty of room to stop, as evidenced by the fact that I am able to do so everytime you *slam* slam on your brakes.
Oh, great, now you're gesticulating angrily at me. Don't you think you should keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road? Ya know, instead of on the car behind you?
Hey, I've got time. Even driving twenty-one miles an hour I'll STILL get home in twenty minutes. Tum tum tum.
I can wave back at you. Notice how I choose not to use my middle finger.
Damnit, stop waving at me and DRIVE.
GO THE SPEED LIMIT.
(which is twenty-five)
Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm going to put on some music and enjoy this ride.
"I need something else...to get me through this...semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby."
Oh man, this song takes me back. Maybe I'll sing along:
"good byeeee...good byeee...good BYEEEEE! do do do, do do do do..."
What, you think I'm going to crash into you because I'm singing along with the radio? At least I'm not slamming on my brakes and waving my hands in the air all the while watching my rearview mirror.
YES, TURN. Good. BYE.
Go home and tell your children about the psycho who tailgated you all the way home.
I've got some blogging to do.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The spiral continues...
Our boss's boss called for a mass meeting today to talk about the current state of things. Better, I figured as we gathered, to have a big meeting rather than to be called singly into said boss's boss office, but it was still slightly nerving.
But the news wasn't stellar. Our BB has been asked to reduce her budget, and part of her solution is to cut everyone's hours by four. We'd shut down the building for a half day every week, or one day every two weeks. The other alternative, of course, is to start cutting people, but the BB would rather cut hours, because if she starts cutting positions there's no guarantee that we'd ever get them back. And we stay busy. Even during the slow season, we're busy. More building now that simply altering things which have come in from contractors, which is nice. I'm finally getting to build a pair of breeches from scratch--but I digress.
Another solution might be for some of the employees to go casual...CW lays off a part of its workforce every year and pays them unemployment instead of the regular salary, but not anyone at the shop. I, of course, am immediately attracted to the idea of having two months to go traveling--although I could hardly afford it if I wasn't working. But still. Something to think about.
If the hours do end up getting cut (and they probably will, unless the higher-ups decide to reject our BB's proposed budget), then I will probably have to find another part-time job. I've been looking for more paid writing projects, so maybe I can finally start eating my words. There's a Lane Bryant right down the road... And once the evening programs picks back up, I can go back to storytelling. But part of me is wondering if maybe this might just be a good time to bail on CW. Much as I'd hate to. I do like this company. I asked my boss's boss if she had any idea how long these short rations would last, and she just shrugged and said "'til the economy improves." Well, all right, but we know that could take years. And I've got a beagle and a Buick to feed now.
So I've been giving a lot of thought about going into teaching. Not because I want to inspire young minds--say warp rather--but because it would be a profession where there'll be some stability. By that I mean: transferable job skills. Much as I like backstitching, not really applicable to my next career move. But teaching would be steady work, summers off, benefits, and a chance to challenge myself again. It's a giant leap, and I'd rather make it from a position of choice than the last option left to me...but it's something to think about.
But the news wasn't stellar. Our BB has been asked to reduce her budget, and part of her solution is to cut everyone's hours by four. We'd shut down the building for a half day every week, or one day every two weeks. The other alternative, of course, is to start cutting people, but the BB would rather cut hours, because if she starts cutting positions there's no guarantee that we'd ever get them back. And we stay busy. Even during the slow season, we're busy. More building now that simply altering things which have come in from contractors, which is nice. I'm finally getting to build a pair of breeches from scratch--but I digress.
Another solution might be for some of the employees to go casual...CW lays off a part of its workforce every year and pays them unemployment instead of the regular salary, but not anyone at the shop. I, of course, am immediately attracted to the idea of having two months to go traveling--although I could hardly afford it if I wasn't working. But still. Something to think about.
If the hours do end up getting cut (and they probably will, unless the higher-ups decide to reject our BB's proposed budget), then I will probably have to find another part-time job. I've been looking for more paid writing projects, so maybe I can finally start eating my words. There's a Lane Bryant right down the road... And once the evening programs picks back up, I can go back to storytelling. But part of me is wondering if maybe this might just be a good time to bail on CW. Much as I'd hate to. I do like this company. I asked my boss's boss if she had any idea how long these short rations would last, and she just shrugged and said "'til the economy improves." Well, all right, but we know that could take years. And I've got a beagle and a Buick to feed now.
So I've been giving a lot of thought about going into teaching. Not because I want to inspire young minds--say warp rather--but because it would be a profession where there'll be some stability. By that I mean: transferable job skills. Much as I like backstitching, not really applicable to my next career move. But teaching would be steady work, summers off, benefits, and a chance to challenge myself again. It's a giant leap, and I'd rather make it from a position of choice than the last option left to me...but it's something to think about.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas in Wmsbrg
We had our Christmas party today--as a departure from the norm, we went to a Chinese buffet. It was nice, except for the fact that the chairs were crammed so close together it was nearly impossible to get by. But! Sushi and sesame chicken and fried rice, crab rangoon, dumplings and egg drop soup and teriyaki chicken... I managed to stop after two plates (plus dessert), but I could have grazed for hours.
Afterward we were treated to a behind the scenes tour of the DeWitt Wallace Museum's new exhibit, Quilted Fashions. The tour was led by Linda Baumgarten, who's written several books about eighteenth century fashions and textiles. We started out in the actual collections of CW, oohing and aahing over actual costumes from the 1700 and 1800s, carefully unfolded in their storage drawers. It was astonishing to see actual garments and note the handstitching--"ah! THAT's how it's done!"--all the while resisting the urge to touch, lift, stroke, lick, etc.
Then we went upstairs and Linda talked about the quilts and quilted clothes on display--lots of quilted petticoats and embroidered/pieced garments. The museum also features "study drawers" with different pieces...Nicole and I nearly had simultaneous heart attacks when we opened up the last one to reveal a beautiful black silk coat embroidered all over with lilies of the valley and other greenery. It's a good thing the drawers are covered with plexiglass, because I was very nearly drooling. So much pretty...
All in all, a very pleasant afternoon, and a nice break from work. We have no projects right now, so I've been repairing returned items, getting them ready to go into stock, to be reassigned. It's been low-pressure, so I've had time to practise hand sewing (flipping a stomacher is no fun, even in the 21st century) but it's less interesting that, say, building a jacket. We also exchanged Secret Santa gifts...I got a tin of sipping chocolate, some Walker's Shortbread and some Devonshire cream. Turns out my Secret Santa was my boss' boss...someone who's waxed nostalgic about London with me many a time, hence the Devonshire cream. Mmm...
Afterward we were treated to a behind the scenes tour of the DeWitt Wallace Museum's new exhibit, Quilted Fashions. The tour was led by Linda Baumgarten, who's written several books about eighteenth century fashions and textiles. We started out in the actual collections of CW, oohing and aahing over actual costumes from the 1700 and 1800s, carefully unfolded in their storage drawers. It was astonishing to see actual garments and note the handstitching--"ah! THAT's how it's done!"--all the while resisting the urge to touch, lift, stroke, lick, etc.
Then we went upstairs and Linda talked about the quilts and quilted clothes on display--lots of quilted petticoats and embroidered/pieced garments. The museum also features "study drawers" with different pieces...Nicole and I nearly had simultaneous heart attacks when we opened up the last one to reveal a beautiful black silk coat embroidered all over with lilies of the valley and other greenery. It's a good thing the drawers are covered with plexiglass, because I was very nearly drooling. So much pretty...
All in all, a very pleasant afternoon, and a nice break from work. We have no projects right now, so I've been repairing returned items, getting them ready to go into stock, to be reassigned. It's been low-pressure, so I've had time to practise hand sewing (flipping a stomacher is no fun, even in the 21st century) but it's less interesting that, say, building a jacket. We also exchanged Secret Santa gifts...I got a tin of sipping chocolate, some Walker's Shortbread and some Devonshire cream. Turns out my Secret Santa was my boss' boss...someone who's waxed nostalgic about London with me many a time, hence the Devonshire cream. Mmm...
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