happy anniversary

I realised late last night that the 20th was an important anniversary...a milestone of sorts, if you will.

I'm talking, of course, about the last Harry Potter book being released. Book Seven. The end. No more. How am I doing? One year in? Well, so far I've read it three times, and the utter despair of knowing there will be no more HP hasn't set in. After all--we usually had to wait two years (or more--remember book five?!) for the next installment. But there will be no more, and that fact becomes more real with each passing day. Ah, me. I think that's part of the reason I'm spacing out the Aubrey/Maturin chronicles. Apart from the reason that they are crack and too much of a good thing might very well kill me.

I kid, of course...the 20th is also the one year anniversary of my brother and sister-in-law's marriage. Happy one year, kids. Here's to many more.

Last year at this time I was happily frolicking on a beach, desperately glad to be away from a job which I would grow to abhor and eventually be fired from. My one regret? Not quitting sooner. I'm so much happier down here in Williamsburg, despite the fact that I make about half what I did in Chicago. The people are friendlier and more relaxed, and the atmosphere is less tense. It's hard to take yourself too seriously if you're wearing breeches and talking on a cell phone at the same time.

But tonight, dear readers, I have a touch of the hypo. Fear not--this is the kind that comes with long days at work and lack of sleep (owing to the fact I've been chasin' the white whale afore bedtime), not the soul-crushing kind that forces Nicki to take to her bed and weep. My audition went very well last night, and I have high hopes for getting involved in the evening programs. Although, I doubt they'll cast me as the govenor's wife, Lady Dunmore, though I surely had fun reading the part. And now that I've passed on musketry, the militia will become a regular excursion. And my portfolio is getting attention...possibly writing projects will follow?

So I really can't put a finger on why I should feel, well, blue this evening. Perhaps it's just because I'm not used to so much happiness. Ah, but I suspect it's the auld familiar complaint of being without Love, for, now that I have all my needs and wants taken care of, I have time to sit back and ponder on when the heavens will see fit to send me someone to love.

Although, with my luck lately, that could be any second now...

take care

Yesterday I got to participate in my first militia review. It was super-fun! Teehee! I tried not to giggle like a schoolgirl when I was dressed down by the captain because I had neglected to shave, but it was hard because the person next to me was tee-heeing like mad.



This is a picture I lovingly stole off of Flickr...it's a couple years old, but it should give you an idea of the uniforms we wear. Yesterday, in 93 degree I had on: silk/linen breeches, a linen/cotton shirt, cotton waistcoat, a stock (around the neck), a purple hunting frock, cotton stockings, leather shoes and black felt hat. The hat is cocked up on the left side so it doesn't hit the musket barrel...unless you're me and you have to carry your gun slightly tilted back because of a little thing called "hips."

The program I participate in is called "Days in History" and it's really sort of the grand finale of the two-day Revolutionary City program. We assemble on the village green, then form up to the sound of the Fife & Drum Corps and fix bayonets. We get inspected and then General Washington gives a speech (or sometimes General Lafayette, who is adorable with his adorable French accent). During the speech, we try not to pass out from the heat. Afterward, we go through the manouvers: loading, firing, marching, pushing bayonets, shouting "huzzah!" in a lusty manner. Then we break for artillery...since I'm not trained on the cannon I got to stand in the "rest" position while the rest of the platoon loaded and fired. Afterward, we broke into two platoons and marched off the field, back to the military "headquarters."

I did everything perfectly, except the marching down the street bit: I forgot the movements for "support arms" which is where you cross your arms over your musket. If you were really marching, this would be a different position to give your arms a bit of a break. Those muskets are really bloody heavy, actually. And there was one point where the ramrod refused to come out of the thimbles, so instead of a careful, safety-oriented slide, I was forced to give it an undignified yank. I don't think that I was the worst person though. The first time we were ordered to "cast about" and continue loading, the woman next to me set her musket butt right on my foot.

Your Continental Army, ladies and and gentlemen!

The program is only about a half-hour long, which is about as much as we can take in our uniforms, but I wish I had more of an excuse to run around and play militiaman, because it's so much fun. Maybe after tonight that will happen--I'm auditioning for the walking tours. Could you see me telling ghost stories? Stay tuned!

The Scariest And Funnest Day in Wmsbrg

A couple of women I work with--Other Nicole and Erin--and I decided to have a Sewing Day yesterday, just to do something different. We all wanted to make period clothes, in a period manner, as well as hang out and chat. I'm working on a suit of clothes--right now I have the linen for the shirt, and I'm slowly putting it together. Sewing period is a little different from modern sewing, as I'm learning. Even the stitches are different, and the seam allowances are smaller. The good part about it is that it's harder to screw up, since you're making garments without a pattern and you can ease and fudge the fabric until it works. The bad part is...there's no pattern. (BTW, I ordered my linen from Wm Booth, Draper, a website that is based in Wisconsin--lots of pretty period stuff and they are really prompt with the shipping.)

Erin was driving up from Hampton, so Nicole and I said we'd meet her at Panera for lunch. On the way there, driving through the parking lot, we were saw a car suddenly screech up and stop. A woman jumped out of the driver's door, and when I rolled down my window, she said "Call 911, my mother's having a seizure!" Suddenly our average, boring Saturday disappeared. I could feel Nicole fumbling for her cell, and since she knew better than I where we were, I leapt out of the car to see if I could help. I've taken CPR classes from the Red Cross, but it's been awhile. But I remembered that a seizure victim should be kept from banging their head around, and--once the seizure passed--to make sure she wasn't choking. I was totally unprepared though, for the sight of a woman in the throes of a grande le mal seizure. When I opened the back door on the passenger side of the car, my heart nearly stopped. The woman there was clenching her teeth and shuddering, and her face was going slightly white-blue. I think my mind must have clicked into super-hyper-memorisation mode, because everything I saw from that point on is etched pretty well into my memory, but I'll spare you the details. I felt for a pulse on her neck and then held her head, trying to decide if the seizure had passed. I could see she wasn't breathing, so I tried to open her mouth. I was ready to do rescutative breathing, but at that point she started breathing on her own again. Not normal breathing, but gaggedy, half-breaths, like someone was pumping on her lungs. I could hear her daughter on the phone explaining her medical history to the paramedics. Meanwhile, I'm patting the woman's head and telling her that we've called 911 and to try to hang on. It was very frightening, but I was trying to be calm and helpful. The woman who stopped us turned out to be a nurse, so she was also calm and collected in this situation, taking her mother's pulse and relaying information on Nicole's cell.

Somewhere in the middle of all this Erin showed up, and then a few minutes later the paramedics arrived. They loaded the unconscious woman into the ambulance, and shut the door. It got very quiet all of a sudden, and I wasn't really sure what to say to the daughter. She thanked us profusely for stopping and so we finally just left. When I got back into the car to go to the restaurant, the trauma of what had happened hit me, and I had to cry for a minute or two. It felt very weird to be going into a restaurant and ordering sandwiches...I remember thinking "I have to go wash my hands, they were in someone's mouth." But we stayed at Panara for nearly two hours, just talking about theatre, and families and CW, and gradually Saturday resumed some of its normalcy. I'm glad that I wasn't a useless wreck in a situation like that but...I think I'm going to sign up for a CPR refresher course.

The rest of the afternoon we spent sewing. Well, Nicole and Erin cut and draped and discussed trimmings, I mostly sat on the sofa practising my handstiches, nursing Midol and wailing about my continued state of spinsterhood (yes, on top of everything else, I got my Friend yesterday too). I did get most of my shirt cut out though, so maybe this afternoon I'll put P&P on and practise my mantua maker's stitch. We ordered calzones the size of footballs for dinner, along with tiramisu, and then watched "Marie Antoinette" until it was time to go to the movie theatre.

Unlike the rest of the world, we had decided to go see "Mama Mia!" opting for light, fluffy, musical, instead of dark, brooding, angst. I'm glad we saw it. I knew it was going to be cheesy and possibly horrible, but instead it was cheesy and incredibly fun and funny. The story takes places on a Greek island, so right away I was in love with it--especially the "Greek chorus" of peasants who popped up in random places to provide backup singers to the main characters. And of course, Meryl Streep was a joy to watch. Even when she was singing cheesy ABBA songs and dancing around in spandex, she can still out-act anyone on screen. By the end of the movie, the jokes and the music had gotten so good that there was literally a ten-minute period where I did not stop laughing. Although part of that might have been various associations that we made on our own, including Colin Firth's "have you ever tried...not being a mutant?" scene on the boat and Pierce Brosnan's wholehearted attempt to rock out. I also appreciated all the beach scenes with the young, hot Greek men dancing around in swimming gear, and Julie Water's use of the word "epharisto" before she bites off the cap of a Mythos beer and chugs it. Ah, Greece.

So yesterday was a very weird day. Alternately terrifying and incredibly entertaining. And also just a lot of fun. It was great to hang out with people who are near to me in age and share my theatrical passions and who don't mind if I get out my soapbox once in a while. Next time though, we may have to be sewing on ABBA costumes...Hallowe'en is coming up, after all...

Interesting...continue.

[got this off a spanish blog...I think it says "the frog princess...]
A long time ago I heard a rumor about a Disney movie that was going to feature a black princess, mercenarily because Disney had no African-American doll in its arsenal of "Princesses." Now I'm finding out that, yes Virginia, this movie is being made, but it's already starting to pick up a lot of controversy, because the story might be considered somewhat racist. Me, I'm waiting until it comes out in theatres, but if you want to read more, here's an excellent article about it. Basically, the story takes place in New Orleans in the 1920s and revolves around a black chambermaid and a white debutante, some voodoo, jazz music (of course) and apparently a prince of Middle-Eastern origin. Sounds interesting.

My biggest problem with the movie is not any of the ideas outlined in the articles I've read, but the whole idea that Disney is creating another "princess." I was madd as hell when they started marketing their heroines in a bunch, making Cinderella and Mulan hang out at the Princess Beach House and give each other pedicures. To me, the heroines of the Disney movies are unique, individual people, but Disney has, well, Disnefied them--actually, Barbified them might be a better term--so that they have zero individuality. A girl's favourite doll might be chosen simply because of the color of her hair.

Okay, full disclosure, part of the reason I liked Belle so much growing up was because she had brown hair--but also because she was smart, liked to read and walked around singing. Kind of like me. And brown hair influenced a lot of my decisions when I was younger, that's how I picked out my dog. Besides, Belle isn't even a princess. She's a commoner, one of us, who clearly is not going to let a royal marriage go to her head. My other favourite Disney princess, Ariel, is the same way--her royal birthright is hardly a factor in the movie. She certainly doesn't act like a princess, and the only time it comes in handy is when her father uses his kingly magic to give her legs. Both women were strong and independent and didn't spend their whole lives waiting around for prince charming.

My point is--I wish that Disney would stop turning their amazing heroines into mass-marketed junk. Even the dolls they sell today are wide-eyed, vapid shadows of their former selves. Don't believe me? Scan your nearest toy shelf the next time you're in Target. I don't remember Belle having doe-eyes. Disney should stick to what it did best and make good movies, great, strong female characters, and leave the rest of it alone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get my dinglehopper and sort out this mess on my head...

That was easy...a little too easy.

I stopped working at the Toymakers: now that I've passed on musketry, the additional hours will pay about the same that I made there. And I'm hoping to have other opportunities to work for CW, so I feel pretty good about leaving.

Just to give myself a reality check though, I went to my banks' websites (banks=plural) and took a look at my account balances. I was surprised to see a $6 monthly fee for my Chase account...the account I created when I was making $500 a week that required steady direct deposits, or else it would start charging me money to, I don't know, be there. There are no Chase banks in the area, so I haven't been using that money--I'd rather have it sit there in case of emergency, but $6 every month is a little too much. All my funds would have disappeared by the time there was a true emergency. So I decided to call Chase and see if there was anyway I could close the account down over the phone. I hunkered down with a margarita and a looong book (I've dealt with financial institutions via phone before) and prepared to do battle. To my surprise, not only was I able to close the account over the phone, but the entire conversation only took thirteen minutes. And the people were very helpful, just like the people in their brick and mortar stores. So that's a relief. The checks are in the mail, as they say...I'll probably buy a CD with the money and try not to think about it.

But a small part of me can't help but think that closing a bank account shouldn't be this easy. There are some things you want to be able to do in person. Granted, since the nearest Chase bank is about an hour away, this is a good option for me, but I'm glad that it was actually me closing the account and not some me-imposter.

Tonight I am very tired. I had a long day at work--lots of different things going on. CW is a major contributor to United Way, which is an organisation that gives money to lots of different charities. Today was a kickoff lunch, where you could come meet the organisations, get free t-shirts, sign up for door prizes and also free lunch. I won a "Country Cookbook" with lots of helpful receipies (like corndogs!) but I also had beef tacos so now my tummy is angry. It was nice to get out of the CDC though, and I got to meet some new people. I pledged $2 out of every paycheck for United Way, figuring I can afford that. It's only $52 a year, painless really. And the organisations that were there were all so cool and interesting. Although the ones about fostering kids and adoption poked me right in the biological clock...huh, must be nearing that time of the month. Or maybe I'm just getting anxious for some baby pictures...

If Music Be The Food of Love

One of the best things about my job is the fact that I can listen to music all day, but that makes for some crazy playlists. Today, for example, I listened to Hedwig and the Angry Inch (Original B'way version, in case you were wondering), Roast Beef of Old England and Spring Awakening, a new-ish musical. I think the show is cool and important, but the music is sort of pop/boy-bandish and a little annoying to listen to via headphones.

Roast Beef is the CD I bought to reward myself for having apartment, it's a collection of Navy chanties from Nelson's navy. Some of the songs get stuck in your head, but I haven't quiiite learned all the lyrics yet. That hasn't stopped me from singing as I trot back and forth between the racks though:

Farewell and adieu to you Spanish Ladies,
Farewell and adieu, to you ladies of Spain
For we are commanded to sail for Gibralter
We hope we may shortly see you again.

We'll rant and we'll rave like true British sailors
We'll rant and we'll rave, all on the salt sea.
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England.
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

Huh. Wow.

Or: Better Than I Remembered.

Or: Why I Now Own a Laser Printer.

My boss's boss asked me to come into her office today...nervously, I complied, only to find that she had a copy of my resume open on her computer. She asked me to sit down and then said, "You have a master's degree in playwrighting?" in a somewhat incredulous tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise, but--you have a master's degree? In playwrighting?"

Um. Yes, I was aware of that fact, but really it's....

"You do realise you're grossly overqualified for this position, don't you?"

Weeeell...actually, yes.

I tried to explain that I knew when I came to Williamsburg that this was going to be my "day job" not the sum total of my career, that this was merely a way to see a new part of the world and pay the bills, until Broadway came a'knockin'... In the back of my mind I'm desperately trying to quell the part of my brain that's shouting "Aha, and how much have you written lately? Really written? I mean--written down on PAPER?!"

Then my boss's boss started talking about other departments. Departments where they write things down. Things which get said in front of other people--sometimes even memorized!--and occasionally these other people applaud. She mentioned several areas where the words which had been written down might need a titch of improvement. She wondered if I could bring in samples of my work.

Could I!!!

First though, I had to buy a printer. And even though I was hoping to find a version of my old faithful HP, what I electrocuted in London, in the end I went with a low-end version of a laser printer. No color, no picture capabilities, no, this baby is all about black and white and pages and pages and pages of glorious text.

Kinda like a professional writer might have.

The next step was wading through all of the scripts I have. Half-finished scripts. Scripts which are not appropriate for mixed company. Scripts that have two stories haphazardly sewn together. I pulled out six scenes, a couple of my favourites and some new ones, a few essays (I swear, I've gotten more real estate out of that Assassins essay...) and finally I decide to "sacrifice" one of my Goldsmith's books. The printed, bound "professional" books they gave each of us a stack of at graduation. I have four left--one is going to CW. The scenes and essays got three hole-punched and stuck into a binder, the book was carefully bookmarked with a London postcard. Prayers are currently on the wing.

But before I finish my "portfolio," I read Unexpected City for the first time in, oh, at least a year and a half. And I surprised myself. It's good. I mean, it's really freaking good. I can't believe how good it is. I'm SHOCKED at how good it is. I'm actually tearing up slightly, disbelieving. Could it be? After years of shrugging off heartfelt praise from other people, I suddenly Believe that I'm just as damme good as everyone says I am. Better, even. This ain't ego talking, this is...the proof is in the print, people.

I'm amazing!

A: "The Colour of French Blood"

Q: "So, what color are you looking for, anyway?"

Other Nicole asked me that as we innocently wandered into Hancock Fabrics five minutes before they closed. I was determined to find a sheerish fabric to hang over the uglay lighting fixture in my bathroom. I want to decorate my bathroom in a Nile theme, as in "Battle of the" so in addition to Egyptian-inspired fabrics and paintings (and a crocodile in the bathtub), there will also be pictures of 'splody battleships. I only wish I could paint the walls. Sigh.

Nicole and I went to see Wall-E today, which was pretty good. I have to admit I was quite engrossed, although not for the reason the filmmakers wanted. Spoiler alert! Within the first couple minutes of the movie you realise that Wall-E is alone on Earth, which is covered with garbage and junk from the wasteful human beings who are...where? Ah, well, I won't give that part away, but let's just say it definitely hit home, especially coming hot on the heels of my successful dumpster expedition. The amount of stuff we throw away every year is staggering. I'm as bad as most people, but I'm trying to mend my ways.

More spoilers! The movie was focussed a lot on the robots, of course, so it was easy to overlook the plight of the humans. When they did appear, their cheerfulness and determination to start over was laudable, but it was hard to believe they were actually going to survive, because we in the audience had SEEN what awaited them. I was glad that the robots of the future were so durable, because I honestly do not give the humans of this movie much of a chance. Also, one of the "themes" running through the movie was a song from "Hello, Dolly!" Slightly incongruous, especially when Wall-E starts watching the same part of the video over and over...Michael Crawford dancing around in tighty-pants was extra weird when superimposed on a backdrop of total desolation. I guess "Sweeney Todd" would have been too obvious...

The other bit of Wall-E I enjoyed was the credits, which moved through different styles of paintings, starting with cave-drawings, then Egyptian hiroglyphics, etc, until a Turner-inspired page scrolled past. Very cool, Pixar.

In other news, I'm not feeling well. I don't know what's wrong with me. I have a pain all over my right side that comes and goes and moves around, and a sore throat and sometimes my balance feels a little off, which could explain all the needle pricks last Friday. Or maybe I'm just tired. Today was my first day off in a couple weeks--literally, the first day I had nothing on the schedule. Tomorrow I'm going to make a doctor's appointment, since my insurance kicked in, huzzah, finally, but I wish I could perk up a little bit.

Dumpster Diving: Varsity Team

My roommate and I were having a discussion the other night about the Single Woman’s Dilemma, which goes something like this: Should I buy nice things now, because I have no current marriage prospects and therefore no hopes of getting Nice Things via a wedding shower OR do I buy cheap things and hold out hope that I’ll be able to replace them soon when I get a man and a wedding shower?

It’s mercenary, I know, but at least I’m not the only one who’s thought that way.

For the record, if I ever get married, the only thing I want is a Kitchen Aid mixer, in eggplant. Oh, and love everlasting. Thank you.

I have no problem with cheap, if it’s good quality, which usually means that I buy stuff secondhand, and that’s fine. I have been moving a lot recently, which means that things come into my life and quickly go—by my count I’ve bought several irons, various dishes, linens, glasses, hangers, etc. Lately I’ve become more conscious of trying to stay out of the consumer culture, which means I try not to throw stuff away. This also means that recently I’ve been buying the Nice Things (like a new bed!) knowing that I’m going to hang onto it for a loooong time.

Sometimes though, you have to go cheap, like my $30 Target bookcase which still reeks of woodglue and formadahyde a week after I’ve unpacked it. I was feeling guilty as I went to throw the box away—it’s cardboard! It should be recycled!—because we have no recycling facilities onsite, but imagine my horror when I looked into the Dumpster and saw an entire set of frying pans, barely scratched, that someone had thrown away.

The horror. The horror.

Now, we have pans. We have enough frying pans that—should we choose, we could fry an entire carton of eggs, with each egg in its own special pan. We do not, however, have saucepans. But as my eyes traveled over the pile of white garbage bags and the various other items, I saw a gleaming pile of saucepans just out of reach. I could not believe it. I went back into the house and quickly made up a fishing pole, using the handle from our broom, a wire coathanger and one of my grosgrain ribbon belts, and proceeded to fish the saucepans out of the Dumpster. The first try bent the hook on the hanger straight, but with patience I managed to extract a stock pot, a medium-sized saucepan, a larger, flatter saucepan, a small saucepan, and (miracle of miracles) a vegetable steamer! Which is something I’ve been lusting for lately. Huzzah!

The reason why the hook was bent straight was made abundantly clear when I flipped over the small saucepan—these aren’t your cheap, Dollar Tree aluminum saucepans, oh no. They are heavy duty, Faberware Millenium stainless steel cookware, with the copper bottoms, heavy enough to commit murder with. They are wedding-registry worthy Nice Things. And they are all mine.

What’s a little dumpster diving and some heavy duty scrubbing?

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.

Quite a Good Day, Actually

Today was crazy, but it was a good day--I passed musket training, so now I am qualified to march in the military review on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. I only swallowed about half a cartridge's worth of black powder. Then I had choir practise--first time in two weeks. I didn't realise how much I missed it. And now I have a delicious brownie to end the day on. I probably shouldn't eat the whole thing, but, eh. If I don't it'll only get stale, right?

Crack, boom!

Wmsbrg was rent asunder this afternoon by a thunderstorm of truly epic proportions. I am skittish around thunder at the best of times, but being in a large metal barn while lightning is striking the church just over yonder almost caused me to crawl under my work station. Only the thought of a bolt of lightning traveling down the needle on my machine and hitting me in the head prevented me. Well, that, and finally losing what little dignity I have left.

I assumed that because of the lightning, militia practise would be cancelled, so I didn't go. One of my coworkers made fun of me for being a sissy about the rain, which sort of rankled. I stood out in the rain for three hours last Friday--it's the "walking around in the thundery weather with a LIGHTNING ROD resting on your shoulder" that got me. Adult that I am, however, I assumed a Zen position and allowed the comments to roll off me. Ommm....

I really like being in the militia. For the past couple weeks I've been "drilling"--which basically means learning the commands so I can execute them in front of a crowd of people without a) looking like an idiot and b) hurting anyone. I have to pass on musketry and artillery (yea, cannon!) before I can get assigned a uniform and a spot in the military review, but I'm hoping it will happen soon. Being a part of a pretend militia is very weird. As most of you probably suspect, I'm a fairly huge liberal, and I like to think I'm a pacifist, but I have seen the appeal of guns. They go BOOM. Actually, flintlock muskets go "click--ssst---BANG!" and they spit black powder in your face. I'm trying to work up a "character" not so I can be a jerk and walk around pretending like it's the 18th century, but so I can react to things how my character would. So far I have it that my husband has been pressed into the British Navy (what can I say, some things never change, even in the 18th century) and since we lost our farm I decided to take up arms and fight to get him back. So I've disguised myself as a man and joined the 2nd Virginia Regiment. Of course, it's hard to stay in character when your searjeant is teasing you for forgetting which is your right and which is your left.

It's easy to forget that the guns we use are actually weapons. They can kill people. We load them with black powder and a bit of cartridge paper, but if a ball was rammed down the barrel, it would kill someone. Even powder and paper has the potential to burn--I wasn't kidding when I said that it will spit in your face occasionally. And after each review we have to go around and pick up bits of burned paper. I've been so focussed on getting the techniques and the movements right that sometimes I forget that this is the same training a soldier would have received 200 years ago. Only their aim would be at a human being.

The weirdest part of the training has to be fixing bayonets. A bayonet is a bit of metal that screws onto the end of your musket. If the enemy is advancing quickly, or you're running after them, or there's no time to reload, you can take your musket and stab people to death with the bayonet. There is nothing theatrical about a bayonet, even when it's not sharpened, like CW's. They are bits of metal designed to stick into people until they die. End of story. I try not to get distracted by the murderous intentions of my weapons, but everytime I get a little too geeked out about the black powder bangs, I remind myself that this is not a toy.

Still--it's a re-enactment. Our militia has more in common with a theatrical event than an actual fighting corps. And it's enjoyable. Especially the part where we present bayonets and shout "HUZZAH!" I can hardly wait for my first review...I hear General Washington is going to be there...

nightmare

Most of you know I blog, some of you know I journal, a few of you have read my plays and only rarely have I inflicted poetry or art on people I love. Last night I had a nightmare that the books and notebooks I journal in were filling the rooms of my house, spilling out of boxes, off of shelves and pushing out the windows. That my whole life, neatly writ down in black and white was taking over my REAL life, lived in vivid technicolor. It was quite alarming.

I woke up thinking I must write the play that's been knocking around in my head for awhile. I want to write what I know, namely, a play about Me. How to stop it from being narcissistic I have no idea, but that seems to be the story that wants to come out. Everyone has a past, and mine is better documented than most. So why not a play about my life, my thoughts, my fears and dreams?

The history of me is a history of Me in Love, of being Hurt and making myself Strong again. Maybe I'm afraid that if I write the script people who love me will look at me askance, will worry and ask if that's what I really think. That they'll get upset or angry or even refuse to love me anymore, a fate I could not bear. But then again, the idea of finally opening up--of truly freewriting, a freewheeling historic sprawl across super-sized paper--is sort of liberating. I have the outline here and ready, the characters in the wing, I just have to see if I'm brave enough to write it down.

And if I am, if I'm brave enough to let anyone read it. A life recorded and locked away for Posterity is safe, but a life uponstage feels more dangerous than a thin cord stretched across Niagara.

The Moste Fun Fourth

Apart from the fact that I’m limping on both legs and my feet are so cut up I can’t wear shoes, the Fourth of July was a total success! I never had so much fun in my life.

I’ve finally started my militia training, and even though I haven’t passed on musketry, my captain asked if I’d like to work with the military program guys on the Fourth. They’re in charge of setting up the barricades around the firework display—in addition to putting on all their military programs for the day. That included a military review at ten in the morning, with most of the militia present. I couldn’t drill, but I did stand by one of the gates and direct guests around by the street. (“Why?” “Because, sir, the cannons are pointed this way and they’re about to be fired.”) Then I helped pound wooden stakes into the ground, which was slightly softer than concrete—one moment when I wished that CW wasn’t quite so bent on periodness. Plastic CAUTION tape would have suited me just fine. By this point the thermometer was hovering around ninety degrees and the humidity was rising. Keep in mind I’m wearing cotton stockings, silk and cotton breeches, a linen shirt, a cotton weskit and a straw hat. And period shoes. I learned that period clothes get sweaty very quickly, but they also dry out very quickly, which was good. And after about the first hour of sweatyness, you don’t really care anymore. Everyone is sweaty and dirty. It happens.

The militia had been asked to supply a color guard for the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Most of the part-timers had already scattered, and the regular guys were busy, so the captain sent a squad of newbies down to the Capitol. Including me. I borrowed a purple hunting frock and a black cocked hat, grabbed the yellow flag and followed our lieutenant down the street. We ducked through the back alleys as much as possible, but we did attract quite a bit of attention—five women, four of whom are armed with muskets, one carrying a bright yellow flag—as we got into position behind the bakery. The Fife & Drum boys were already there, beating out a VERY modern tattoo on their drums—that is, until their drum major arrived and stopped it short like. THAT. We walked out onto the street, “formed up” and waited for the order to forward. MARCH!

Now, keep in mind that Duke of Gloucester Street is only a mile long total. And we were only marching, oh, maybe a hundred and fifty yards of that. But historical armies marched slowly. A slow, steady beat that they could keep up for hours and hours. And they march literally shoulder to shoulder so that you can sense what is happening by the person standing to the right of you. As we got the order I remember thinking “This is going to take all day!” but in truth it went a lot more quickly…several of the interpreters took off their hats to us and shouted “Huzza, boys!” before realizing that, uh, we were all women. That’s okay. Historically, we probably would have been impostors, so cheering us on as men is totally okay by me. People were clapping, tourists were taking pictures, I was hard pressed not to keep from grinning like an idiot.

We marched down to the Capitol and stood at rest while the Declaration was read—actually a dramatic performance by six or so interpreters—and then shouldered arms for the walk back up. When we turned around, I swear, I’ve never seen so many people, and I had a moment of stage fright. Thousands of people taking pictures and cheering, it was quite overwhelming. But I thought about General Washington and doing my duty and the carnage I’d soon be seeing and managed to keep a straight face. We marched back up the street, and then disbursed for chow. The military guys provide a BBQ for their own people, since they are there all day, so I had an all-American hamburger, chips and apple pie for lunch, washed down with two quarts of water and a Diet Coke.

In the afternoon I helped out with a kid’s program: tomahawk training. They set up a canvas target with a hat on top and handed out wooden sticks with leather “blades” nailed on, and let kids practise trying to knock the head off the Enemy. It was a blast to watch the kids being allowed to throw their toys for a change, and occasionally parents jumping in to be part of the fun.

After that we finished the barricades and broke for dinner. I had about a two-hour break before I was supposed to report back to the office, so I crashed at one of the interpreter break rooms, took my shoes off and attended to my wounds. Period shoes don’t have arch support, so I had added my own insoles. That made my feet and knees feel fine, but it lifted the backs of my heels so they were rubbing against my shoes, resulting in giant blisters. I had gotten some band-aids from somewhere, but they needed changing. Also, it was eating time again. My colleague from work, Other Nicole, who had also signed up for the fireworks, showed up with a salad for me, just enough to keep me going. I kept drinkin’ the water…I reckon I downed about two gallons just in the afternoon. I don’t know why I was so thirsty, because I kept going to the loo instead of sweating it out like I thought I would. Without being too obvious: breeches are not designed for female anatomy. The fall-front is a genius design if you don’t need to sit down, but they are a challenge if you are in fact trying for a larger range of movement.

Speaking of the loo, brb.

…

Okay, that’s better.

So finally, to the fireworks. We had been setting up the barricades all day, and the firework people had been setting up their equipment all day, but once the fireworks were “armed” about seven PM, it was necessary to keep people out of the safety zone. That’s where we came in. I was stationed near a tied-off gate across from Bruton parish, ostensibly to keep people safe, but also to answer questions about where things were located. It started raining about seven thirty, not a heavy rain, but steady and warm. After that people were asking if the show would go on—“Yes, ma’am, nine-fifteen.” It was a lot of fun to be actually talking to people and interacting with them, instead of being sequestered away as I usually am. One woman, who I’m guessing from her accent was from Eastern Europe, asked me if women would really wear this type of clothing in the 18th century. I had to answer in the negative, “Nope, I’m just wearing this because it’s easier to move around in.” But I was also getting really tired. Wearing shoes with no support on a brick pathway was incredibly wearing, and I could feel the ache moving up from my feet to my knees and into my back.

The show went off without a hitch exactly at nine-fifteen, in spite of the rain, which was still falling, steadily, warmly, straight down. Most of the crowd was in good spirits, having come armed with umbrellas or ponchos. I had to take off my hat so I could see the fireworks, and—holding it there against my weskitted heart—it occurred to me that the Fourth of July was more than just eating and drinking and making merry, that we were commemorating an anniversary, that we were celebrating a birthday. That even though this country is crazy and sometimes screwed up and sometimes embarrassing, today we could look at the events of 232 years ago and say “aw, Happy Birthday, America. Today you’re number one!” I felt like Williamsburg was the perfect place to celebrate the beginning of the country. Without any subsequent history, it’s easy to be excited about the declaration of independence, about the birth of a new nation. But I also saw people from other countries, heard people speaking Spanish and women wearing hijabs walking around, carrying American flags and small children in red, white and blue. I’m also grateful that our founders put enough stretching room into the Constitution to make room for everyone.

After the crowds cleared I quickly helped cut down the barricades (with my Leatherman—still useful!), and then signed out. Thank God Other Nicole had offered me a ride home, so I didn’t have to worry about taxis or buses at that time of night. I hobbled home, stripped off my breeches and jumped into the shower where I made use of the odd little seat that is part of the surround because my legs were a liiiitle shaky. Yesterday I had to work at the Toymaker’s, and I’ll be back there again today. In total defiance of the dress code I wore my sneakers, but I’m still sore. I’m so glad that I got to play in the 18th century all day on Friday, but it’s good to be back in the land of sneakers and indoor plumbing.

Huzzah, America!

Breeches: Not as Sexy As I'd Hoped

I can't believe that it's Thursday already. This week has flown by and there are so many things I want to tell everyone about! Like militia training--I didn't make anyone cry this week, but I did get into some more photo albums. March, march, march down the street, wheel about and boom: a dozen tourists interestedly watching me put through my paces. honestly, doesn't anyone have anything better to do?! I'm only shooting a black-powder Brown Bess!

Meanwhile: We had fire alarm yesterday, and all I could think about as we watched the firetrucks pull up was "I wish I'd grabbed Captain Cooke's coat!"

Meanwhile: My bed was delivered today. YAY! When I first started fantasising about a bed, I thought "I want my bed to be so new that the last person who touched it was some burly hard-hat wearing foreman named Dick at the factory." And today my bed came and it was so new I got to rip the plastic off! YAY! Finally, I get to be the first and only body in a bed!

Meanwhile: Tomorrow is the Fourth. I'll be working "security" which basically means I'll be standing around the barricades explaining where the toilets are and why people can't go on the green. ("Because there are cannon out there. And while they are not loaded with shot, they are still very 'splody. Please stand back.") I had gotten a set of girl clothes to wear in the evening, but I also managed to score a set of boy clothes to wear during the day. What can I say, it helps to know people in the CDC. So yes, dear readers, Nicki has finally finagled her way into a pair of breeches.

And I have to say...they are not quite as sexy as I'd hoped. Perhaps it's the bubble-butt effect, or the fact that a fall-front was, er, not designed for the female shape. They are damme comfortable, but you have to be absolutely okay with your body shape because they leave nothing to the imagination.

I'll try to post some pictures soon and update a little more cognitively next time...I'm not doing anything tonight and the pizza should be here in ten minutes. The shock of free time is overwhelming. Just enough time to practise putting my stock on.

You Are In The Prefence of a Hoftile Army...

During the Revolution the British army, under the command of General Cornwallis, briefly took over Williamsburg in 1781. They abandoned it a few days later when they headed to Yorktown, where they expected to be met by the Navy, who would pick them up so they could live to fight another day. Instead, they were greeted by the French Navy--and coming down the road right behind them was General Washington. The British were surrounded and they surrendered. Ta-da.

Last weekend CW hosted a re-enactment of the British taking over Williamsburg. They hired several professional interpreters to play Cornwallis and his men, but they also had camping for "amateurs," meaning groups of people who interpret various battalions and troops of soldiers, along with civilians or camp followers. These are not your weekend interpreters, oh no--a lot of them wear clothes more accurate than CW's allotments, handsewn and so on, and they know their history frontwards, backwards and sidewards. Friday afternoon I saw people "hiding" their cars in the employee parking lot so they could walk to the historical area in full dress, carrying period camping equipment. There were even toddlers running around in little gowns. Aw.

It was bloody hot on Saturday, so I didn't dress up originally, but Dad and I ran into a couple of colleagues who convinced me to slip on the ol' red stockings and dive into the fray. It was sort of like being at a renaissance festival--it was more fun if you were dressed up. The British (along with a troop of Hessians, boo, hiss) had set up checkpoints at either end of the main drag, and you had to either show a pass or tell them the password on demand. They handed out little pamphlets containing "The Rules:" Anyone in period dress was subject to questioning and search. If you weren't okay with that, you should change into 21st century clothing.

About a half hour after I returned petticoated and capped, a soldier asked for my pass. Indignantly I told him that I had lived in Williamsburg all my life and that I didn't need a pass to get around. People started looking at us. The soldier called over a corporal to arrest me and escort me to the magazine, where a small tent had been set up for dissenters. As we were walking I tried to get some of the modern tourists involved by telling them about the indignity of being arrested, but they mostly goggled.

When we got to the magazine I was put in front of the local authority--I never did get his title or his name, but apparently he was the one in charge of deciding whether or not you were a royalist or a traitor to the crown. He was handing out passes that showed the bearer had sworn an oath to the king. I refused to swear the oath, so he made me stand off to the side in the sun. Meanwhile, Dad was hanging around in the background, taking pictures. Now, my colleagues had also followed us, and since they too were in period dress they were also subject to questioning--but they quickly assured their loyalty and were issued with passes. I entertained the crowd by shouting out "traitors! cowards!" as they left. Then I was brought in front of the magistrate again. He made me take off my straw hat and my cap and then my shoes--I felt dumb because my hair was being held up by very not-period bobby pins and an elastic tie--but it was quite exhilarating because it was a little bit like improvising. I said I lived in the Lightfoot Laundry when asked, and he said "oh, are you a laundress?" and I said yes, thinking that would be a good job for a woman in my type of clothes to do. And if anyone asked, I could say that my husband had been pressed into the British Navy and that was why I was so all-fired uppity against the British.

We parried a bit more--he told me the light of King George's benevolence could shine upon me, I said thanks but no thanks--and then he ordered me put into shackles. When the soldier attempted to shackle me I tried stabbing him with my hat pins. No good--I couldn't get much leverage and he was wearing a wool coat. Like I said--total authenticity. Well...okay, mostly it was all in good fun, but I think they appreciated actually having someone resisting taking the oath for a change. Finally someone suggested putting me in the stocks, and my interrogator threatened to have me take my stockings off. Well, I wouldn't have minded agitating from the stocks for awhile, but the stockings were no go since a unicorn tattoo would DEFINITELY have been non-period. Also, I was getting hot, and hungry, and I had to work in a couple hours. So, broken, defeated, I allowed myself to take their stupid oath. I got the last word in though--when the questioner said that he would be sure to send some of his shirts my way I said "Oh sir, I shall give them such a scrubbing--you will not recognise them!"

The whole time this was going on we were surrounded by a couple of touristy families. I quite enjoyed the attention, actually, apart from thinking at one moment "what the hell am I doing?! I don't know anything about 1781!" When I was being shackled (shackles are heavy, btw), a soldier turned to a little girl and asked her if she would take the oath, or if she would like to be chained up with me. She quickly shook her head, even though I encouraged her by saying "Courage, friend, we must stand up to these tyrants!"

Even after I got my pass I refused to be quiet...as Dad and I were walking to the car (parked, luckily, right behind the Magazine) I shouted over the stockade "God save General Washington and General Lafayette!"

Oh man, it was a blast. I could have gotten arrested all afternoon--I would have too, if I had not had to work. Or if I had planned a little better I could have printed up some revolutionary pamphlets and had them be "found" on my person when I was "searched." Or at least done a little more reading about that year and that moment in history. I had an awesome time being part of the action for once instead of being backstage...I definitely need to get out in costume more.

Apparently, the Americans are coming in September, a reenactment of Washington's march on Yorktown. Some of the same regiments of people will be back--this time though, they'll be the Continental Army. Someone suggested I too should flip sides and become a rampant Royalist. Not a bad idea, actually, that way I get the best of both worlds. God save General Washington! Long live King George!

A Singular Impression Things Are Moving Too Fast

Buckets o' apologies to everyone who emailed--I'm not going to be able to reply tonight, since my computer refuses to connect to the internets, and I don't want to tie up my (new) roommate's PC too long.

I just wanted to update and say that I'm moved into my new apartment. Dad, who is the awesomest dad on the planet, drove down from Wisconsin with all my Chicago boxes (yay, Nelson biography & fully poseable 12" figure of Washington!) and helped me move.

Repeat: awesomest. dad. EVER.

The good news is I also got a real, honest to goodness, grown-up, brand spankin' new bed. The bad news it'll be delivered Thursday. So I'm not really settled in yet. Dad and I did all the shopping necessary for a new place Friday afternoon and spent Saturday bumming around the historical section. I got arrested--more on that later--and then went to work at the Toymakers for a couple hours and made a small child cry. Sunday we went to the Mariner's Museum, Newport News' answer to the NMM. Imagine my surprise when I discovered they had a whole exhibit dedicated to you-know-who called "THE NELSON TOUCH."

Naturally, Dad and I spent most of the weekend eating and making merry, so my first day back at work I was feeling a little tired, little overwhelmed. But that didn't stop me from making pasta for dinner--my first cooked meal in over three months. Woo indeed.

It's nine pm, I'm bloody exhausted and I still have to go make some kind of sense of my room. I promise I'll write more later. I'm still hangin' in there, but it's going to be a looooong week.

Thanks Dad. Happy birthday!!!!

Today's Forecast: Highs & Lows

Today was both frustrating and fun. I got a shirt back--twice--to redo botched repairs, and then I spent all afternoon fixing the lining of CW's version of this coat:



I was hanging a jacket up when I turned and spotted a special event coat, a coat that I could have seen from a mile away because it was a) not an era CW normally deals with and b) a British naval uniform. So I naturally made an idiot out of myself by petting the pretty, pretty gold braid, which prompted an amused co-worker to point out that it needed a button replacing.

I volunteered.

Yay, lapful of awesome!



I was quite proud of myself for correctly identifying it as a 1760's captain's uniform before I was told that it was Captain Cook's coat. Captain Cook, of course, was famous for circumnavigating the globe. Also, being eaten.

So that was fun. But that was nearly eight hours ago and I'm tired. My hands are hurting from overtime and sewing through wool all day. Now I'm going to go home and pack...and possibly prance around in my July 4th costume, which was issued to me today. woo.

The Lifestyle to Which I've Become Accustomed

I don't have a car, I don't particularly want a car, and I'm getting along fine without one. But people I meet on the street or people I go to church with don't know this--they see me strapping on my helmet and assume that I'm doing it for the environment. Or because of the high cost of gas. More than once in the past couple weeks I've had folks come up to me and say "I see you're riding your bike!" with a metaphorical pat on the back. Meaning "Thanks for saving the planet!" *pat pat* or "Gas sure is getting expensive!" *pat pat* And I almost hate to shatter the illusion by saying "Well, actually, I don't have a car." But I do. This almost always silences the person. A few blinks, perhaps, but the concept of nocar ownership is so foreign to most Americans that they can't comprehend it.

Sorry, the image you've got of the eco-warrior is the complete wrong picture. What you're actually looking at is a young adult struggling with student loans and a high cost of living. Same picture, different social problem.

Inadvertently, however, I've become one of those bitchy bikers who shouts things like "nice use of the turn signal, jerk!" as I'm cycling through a yellow-tending-to-red-light. I'm actually getting a little vain of my gluteus maximus, even though my sculpted posterior is an unexpected benefit of my person-powered transportation. The truth is, if I could, I'd have a car. Sure. Who wouldn't? But I can't afford it, so I don't have one, and instead--you know how they say that smiling puts you in a better mood, even if you're not? Well, biking has definitely turned me into a more enviromentally conscious person, even if it's just enjoying the smell of the pines on a hot day.

smoke on the waaaaater...

I'm going to apologise for that last post: there's a place for whingy, why-me melodrama, and NLD is not it. Sorry for making you all read that crap. I know I have one of those obsessive personalities that makes me constantly re-evaluate my life, but I shouldn't subject my Loyal Readers to it. No, no, I save that kind of stuff for my journal: let the generations of the future suffer through it. Can't you just picture it? "Mom, wth, seriously?!" I promise to stop and count my blessings before I start whinging next time. Thanks everyone for the supportive slaps upside the head...just what I need to knock me back to reality.

Yesterday I ended up going back to Yorktown for another swim. I put on less sunscreen this time, so I'm beautifully tanned, save for the two pink squares on my back where I couldn't quite reach into the corners of my suit. Whoops. I was only there for about an hour (just long enough to grab a quick swim and a Ben & Jerry's Cookie Cookie Sundae oh my god...), and by the time I got back to Williamsburg it was thundering and lightening. Not too much rain, just enough to make the tourists run for the nearest building. I spent the rest of the afternoon napping.

Today I have a sore throat, which I blame on the fires currently raging in North Carolina and the Dismal Swamps. Interesting historical note: Geo. Washington owned stock in the Dismal Swamps and was part of a group trying to drain it and develop it for sale, but it never happened. I suspect this was because he was busy being distracted by being president. Anyway, the smoke from these fires is drifting northward, right over the Peninsula, and since I spent quite a bit of time outside on my bike (read: panting for air) yesterday I think I probably inhaled more than was good for me. Hence, sore throat. I'm going to have to stop and get some Haribo gummies.

I stayed late again tonight helping out with the Fife & Drum coats. Imagine, if you will, a bag full of pieces of coat, red and blue wool, white lining, a smaller bag of pewter buttons, ties, thread, etc, and no directions. Oh, sure, there's a mockup on a mannequin in the corner, but exactly how you put this together is up to you. And it's totally backwards from what you'd think: you want to put the cuff buttons on last, don't you? No! You put them on first, punching a hole through that pristine wool with an awl--a hole you CAN'T TAKE BACK--and then tie them together with a bit of India tape and THEN you sew in the lining. Just thinking of it gives me the vapours. I am going incredibly slowly: two sleeves done and my coworkers are already attaching the name tags on theirs. But I want it to be perfect. And hey--better to practise on company fabric before I get my hands on my own stuff.

What to Do with my Life (pt 72)

Have you ever seen a movie where an ex-junkie, now reformed and living a normal life in everyday company falls completely, totally, utterly off the wagon and goes on a heroin and cocaine fueled binge that only stops when they wake up, three days later, disoriented and not knowing where they are, usually someplace like Neasden?

Okay, now picture that, but with dogs.

So I thought I was doing okay with the no dogs in my life thing, ya know, you get used to not having a small furry to trip over. But this morning I went to a "meet and greet" with the local greyhound rescue group and spent two glorious hours surrounded by needlenosed ex-racers. And I am totally out of my gourd for a dog. It's all I talk about. I am covered in dog fur, as God and nature intended, and even if I don't end up with a greyt, I'm so gaga for a puppy that I may actually do someone physical harm if I don't get dog.

Which, naturally, has led me to reflect on my life. One of the women I work with is contemplating buying a house with her nearly-fiancee who just joined the Navy, all the while making fabulous reproduction period fashions and eventually going back to school for a master's degree in historical design. And she's 22. I, on the other hand, have cul-de-sac'd here in Williamsburg. Don't get me wrong, I still love it here. I love the history, the costumes, the people, the two kinds of roaches. I'm so grateful to have a full-time job in this economy, with health insurance, and I'm looking forward to moving into an apartment that has both a kitchen and private bathroom. But I'm not using my degree, I'm not even writing very much anymore. Without any pressure to produce written words--either for a class or other public consumption--I've just sort of drifted away from it. The Goals of my Life include A) getting a dog and, uh, B) well, that's pretty much it.

I feel like I'm not building on anything I've done. Other people my age are buying houses, building lasting relationships with members of the opposite sex, demanding higher wages, raising children, and saving the planet. I'm not leaving so much as a footprint on this world. My colleage noted how "lucky" I was to be able to pack up and move anytime I wanted--I wanted to shake her and say "no, for once in my life I'd really LIKE to have some things tying me to a particular area, person, anything that stops me from picking up and moving." I'd really like to buy a house, raise children, publish a novel, maybe even, ya know, get married, but that just doesn't seem to be happening. People keep telling me I need to move back to London. I wish it were that simple.

So I'm going to get a dog. And that will be what I do.

I didn't mean for this to be a depressing post...I'm afraid I've got the hypo today, even though I spent the morning with puppies and in a few minutes I'm going to go get a wasabi (wasabiii! hyah!) veggie roll. I think I'm just lonely and reflective. I need to meet more people. Next week is going to be fun: I'm finally going to get to train for the military programs so next Thursday I'll be learning how to fire a black powder musket. And we all know what happens next: that's right, breeches. Jealous? Oh yeah.

Red stockings. Red stockings are key.

Ahhh, the Fourth of July. Never was I so ambivalent about a holiday. I used to love the Fourth--the going out, the fireworks, the food--then I stopped hanging out with the people who used to make the Fourth fun. Then my grandma died. Then I spent two years in a country that doesn't celebrate it. So I'm a little "meh" when it comes to really digging in and gettin' my patriotism on.

This year the Fourth means one thing and one thing only: overtime. I've signed up to work as an extra in the extravaganza that CW throws. I'll be standng around, directing people to the bathrooms, telling them what time the fife & drum corps start and no, you can't go there, that area is roped off for fireworks. Sounds brilliant, right? Ah yes, but here's the fun part. I get to dress up in costume. Because we're so low on stock, I didn't get much say on what I'd be wearing, except when it came to accessories. So I'll have on a boring blue petticoat, a grey jacket and red stockings. Awesome.

And our boss announced today that the new Fife & Drum coats need finishing touches put on--oh, and the shop needs to build five more. In nine days. Bring it, I thought, this sounds like, oh, any show I've ever worked on. So I'll be staying late, fray-checking and hook-and-eyeing regimentals.

I'm trying to get some extra money together because I'm going to be moving in a week and a half, and I need to buy some furniture. Also I want to get a dog, and that's not cheap either. So it's good for me to be working my butt off now, while I have the time and the energy--I just hope the weather stays a reasonable 80 degrees like it's been. But we were also asked today how we'd feel about going to a four-day, ten-hour workweek. Ostensibly, to save on gas. I'm ambivalent about it--it's a good idea and if I had Fridays off I'd be able to write more--but on the other hand, I couldn't leave a dog home alone for ten hours. And a dog is key. So we'll see. Either way it's going to be a lot of extra hours hunched over the sewing machine...I might need to invest in some new music.

he's....EVERYWHERE

So much for Moby Dick being a Nelson-free read...

"...the wall which formed [the pulpit's] back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel's face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the ship's tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory's plank where Nelson fell."

Damnit. He's everywhere.

There's no way that Melville could have known about the silver plate unless he had visited the Victory at some point, which gives me the warm fuzzies. Not only have I stood upon the deck where Nelson fell, I have also stood upon the deck where Melville stood gazing down upon the spot where Nelson fell. Hee.

Things I Know About Moby Dick

I've never read Moby Dick, but it's such a cultural bedrock that I'm familiar with the basic facts. The names of some of the characters--Captain Ahab, Queequeg, "call me Ishmael" and Starbuck--not the coffee. I know it's about one man's mad obsession with the white whale. The ship is called the Pequod. It takes place in the 1840s. And it wasn't received very well during Melville's lifetime, although many people consider it his best work.

And it's my dad's favourite book.

Dad's not what you might call a "literary person." He reads, but mostly stuff related to his beloved Packers--once he asked me how I managed to keep so many musical librettos straight in my head. "The same way you keep all those Packer stats straight, dad." Smiles of comprehension. So I was very surprised, when I asked him what his favourite book was, to hear Moby Dick. He told me that he read it in high school and it had stuck with him. I was only in high school then myself, and I didn't especially feel up to reading Melville (especially not after reading Billy Budd, thankyouverymuch Mrs. Krchmar...) but it was always on my list of books to read.

So now that I'm into the "research" phase of Bell Hollee, I've decided to read it. I need to branch out into other nautical literature that doesn't involve the British navy. I'm about ten pages into it, and I like it already. It felt strange to see those "familiar" words--"Call me Ishmael"--leading into the body of a story for a change. I like it because Ishmael gets depressed and he goes to sea--exactly what I like to do when I get down. Although, I'm not sure I'd be up for whale-hunting, but I certainly like to drown my sorrows in the nearest body of water. He calls his sadness "hypo" which is short for hypochondriasas, the medical term for depression in the mid-nineteenth century, which is also, incidentally, what Lincoln described his melancholy as.

And already I'm getting that familiar thrill as I read (and occasionally fail to recognise) the nautical words, coming aboard a ship via lines of prose is as familiar to me as a gangway is to Ishmael. I can't wait to see what happens, even though thanks to the permeation of the book I already know how it ends, but I'm looking forward to signing on for the ride.

Apparel of the Masses

When did t-shirts get so expensive? I realised that I have been wearing the same tired t-shirts for years now ("Republicans for Voldemort?" SO 2004!) so I thought I might trot over to CafePress and pick up a couple new ones. I had my eye on one in particular: "Paul Revere Was A Tattletale" which I think is hilarious. But not for $26.99 (including shipping)! Even better was a CW-themed shirt that showed a "caution: historical interpreter crossing" sign. Again, hilarious. Again, 26.99? Darr. Maybe I'll just wander over to one of those "make your own" sites and spit out that "kiss me hardy!" t-shirt I've been dreaming of. :)

Ah, how far we've come in two hundred years. For the past two weeks I've been surrounded--literally--by the outfit below, which was put together by no less than three members of the women's team at CW. Briefly, let me explain how clothes in the 18th century worked...

First, you have a shift, which is a cotton undergarment that goes from your elbows to your knees.

Then stays, which are not a corset. They are heavy cloth and metal, tying up the back, which creates a cone shape in the torso, not the hourglass figure we think of when we see people being winched into corsets.

Then you have hoops. Or not, depending on your status in society. Not "hoops" like Scarlett O'Hara type hoops, but two small cages worn on either hip that create the look of "wide birthing hips" so desired by women of this time. CW's hoops are pocket hoops, meaning there is a hole in the top of the canvas bag that contains the metal cages, so that women can carry their possessions around in their hoops. Alternately, you might wear a regular pocket, which is a pouch that ties around the waist.

Then a petticoat, which is outerwear. A petticoat is not a skirt, although it looks like one. A petticoat has two sets of ties, one ties around the back and the other around the front. A small slit in either side let you get at your pocket. A lot of people ask if the women at CW have cooler clothes for warmer weather. Not really. Usually they'll wear worn-out or lighter weight clothes, but there are no short petticoats here. The alternative is to wear more layers when it gets colder.

On the top is the gown. A shortgown, which goes to about the knees, or a full-on gown, which covers the whole petticoat, except where it's open in the front. In the eighteenth century, the stomacher (the bit that goes across in the front) would have been held closed with straight pins: CW uses hooks and threat eyes. A gown is not a dress, something I've been reminded of repeatedly, as I sit in the middle of the women's team.

Lower-class or working women would have worn jackets, which are not the outerwear of today, but single-layer shirts that are either tied in the front or pinned closed.

An apron would be tied over all to protect your petticoat (or show off your lace, if you're rich), and a kerchief would be around your neck to protect your skin from the sun and your modesty from roving eyes.

Everyone wears a cap, except for people wearing wigs. This is not the "non-period period" mobcap, but a sort of modified bonnet. It doesn't protect your face from the sun: a straw hat would be pinned in place through the hair to shield your eyes and skin.

And then in the winter you'd add a cloak and mitts--mitts have open fingers so women could still be working and sewing even if it was cold. They could also be worn in the summer to protect from the sun. No sunscreen here!


Orange Brocade by ~ColeV on deviantART

So this dress was made for a new production at CW called "Old Maid" that is opening in a couple weeks. This dress is for the Old Maid herself--a woman who is desperately trying to attact a husband. It has two petticoats, the one underneath is barely visible here, but it's pleated across the bottom, and the one on top is gathered like like drapery. They are actually sewn together into the same waist-tape, so that the actress has less around her waist. After this picture was taken, the executive decision was made to use a set of full hoops, so the dress is actually wider than it appears here--about five feet. According to one of the women I work with, who is also teching on this show, the actress has to walk sideways through a door to make her entrance. Which is period accurate. Also hilariously funny. The aquamarine bows and tassels are only pinned on--when the dress comes in for cleaning, they will come off so they won't get crushed by the dry-cleaning process. This picture was stolen off the Deviantart page of the woman who put the gown and petticoat together and figured out how to gather it all up--she's got more geeky details of how it went together for any of you costumers out there. At one point, the petticoat was tied onto a mannequin and hoisted up onto a table for hemming--a feat that required three people--prompting her to note: "It's like raising the flag at Iwo Jima!"

I'm hoping once I move into my new place and have some room to spread out to get some fabric and some patterns and make my own period clothing...first I'd like to make a suit of clothes and then, if I'm still feeling it, a petticoat and gown of my own. Something in green, perhaps...

Safe Territory

Remind me to relay the conversation about Nicki dating a Navy man some other time.

I just read a blog post over at The Radical Write, who's a friend of a friend, where she talks about associating certain items with friends and loved ones. I do that too--stupid little things, like the Mach 3 razor that's accompanied me for the past six years, purchased when my brother got sick of me stealing his, or the pen from the hotel in Salem where my parents stayed when they took me to Massachusetts for my internship. Things that have been with me for so long I take them for granted unless I stop and think about it.

Then there's the stuff that stops you dead in your tracks and conjures up a memory so vivid that it hurts, right about where your solar plexus is. This happened the other day when a well-meaning friend sent me a link to a website (www.britishdelights.com) that sells British food here in the US--not just McVitties or Cadbury's, but proper British food, like bangers and Bistro gravy. Which is on my list of things to buy when I get a kitchen, so I can have "real" bangers and mash.

But the thing that got me the most was the Robinson's squash. I blogged about squash, oh, years ago now, as one of the things I liked most about Britain. (also: note the reference to breeches and periwigs. sigh.) Basically it's condensed fruit juice: one liter of squash will make ten liters of juice. A splash in a glass will liven up any quick drink of water. There's no squash here in the US, of course, so instead I make Crystal Light instead. And it tastes good. But I'm not thinking about the taste--I'm thinking about walking through a Sainsbury's, giggling at the Aisle of Tea, trying to figure out what some of the products are by their description or the pictures on the packet, getting eggs off the unrefrigerated shelves and buying milk by the half-pint. I'm back in London, back in the most mundane, ordinary, boring parts of living in London, and those are the moments that drive me crazy. That make me have to stop, mentally turn myself away and refocus on the task at hand.

It's okay. London is still there. It's okay.

And when I move to my new place, I'm gonna shell out for the squash.

apolitical

I've been told...er...more than once that maybe I talk a little too much about politics and some people find it, uh, offputting. I try to be inclusive and openminded, but I guess sometimes my enthusiasm for certain topics comes across as haranguing and partisan. Oops.

So I've tried to stay mainly on neutral topics here, mostly because I know that this is a more conservative area, traditionally. Also I had several family members tell me to knock it off with the politics. Grandma even went so far as to suggest that this may be the reason why I'm not married yet, although I say, if he doesn't like Barack Obama then he's not getting a second date. Anyway, I try to stick to safe topics. But I was forcefully reminded yesterday that even "safe" topics are dynamite in the right setting.

Several of us were chatting about Harry Potter on our break. Okay, I was shouting happily about how I went to Platform 9 3/4 before there even was a Platform 9 3/4! I turned to another colleage and asked if she'd read the books, anticipating either a "yes" or an eye-roll and a "no." Instead I got a polite, "Oh no, I would never, it's the occult." Which brought me to a stop dead in my tracks. Thoughts bubbled up--"But, but, but---!" Convincing arguments, logical reasonings, all sped through my brain. I had read about people who believed that Harry was occultish, but never actually met someone who believed it. I know this person. She is a good person. We get along splendidly.

And we disagree totally, utterly, on the awesomeness of HP.

And I have to be okay with that, because I'm never gonna convince her otherwise, am I? It's not like I can say "oh, just read the books" (which is how all of you fell for it, haha, suckers), because that won't happen. So--and be proud of me, faithful readers--for once in my life, I just shut up and accepted a difference of opinion.

But then later in the afternoon, a similiar situation happened. Granted, this one was slightly more political--another colleage and I were discussing Stephen Colbert's bid to become president in South Carolina and I said "the only reason the Democratic party took him off the ballot in that state was not because he wouldn't uphold the 'ideals and beliefs' of the party--they were genuinely scared that he would win the delegates! And then we would be in a worse situation than we're in now!"

At which point the woman who sits behind me turned around and said "You haven't offended me with anything you say, but I'd just like to tell you that there's two things we don't talk about here: religion and politics." I tried to explain that Stephen Colbert wasn't a "real" politician, but the conversation was effectively over. To me, I wasn't talking politics, I was just pointing out what everyone knew about a tv personality and his crazy attention-seeking media stunt. But to some people, that was too close to the line. So again, I shut up. Sometimes, I guess, respecting other people's opinions means not saying anything.

I want to engage in debate, but I guess sometimes I invite disparate opinions so I can harass them until they agree to my point of view. (see: every conversation I've had with Grandma since I was nineteen) I need to learn that "debating" means sometimes going away without winning. And that I can't just say I like America because we all have different opinions--I need to let those different opinions thrive. And flourish.

But not here on nickilovesdrama. That's why I have a blog after all, isn't it?

mah pasty white legs: let me show you them

I got out the shorty jean shorts today because it's "satan's a$$" hot again and spent all day freezing in the costume shop. Figures.

But I'm quite proud of the calf muscles that are developing nicely...should I ever get into breeches and stockings, I won't need calf-padding. Oh yeah, baby, it's all me. I'm also quite proud of the fact that yesterday I pulled out onto the road, was passed by a spotty teenager on an expensive bike--and yet I managed to pull even and then leave him eating my dust, all while carrying thirty pounds of groceries on my back.

Mah legs of steel. Let me show you them.

don't lick the cannons

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

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

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

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

Outclassed

Talk about bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Last Thursday my church choir had a picnic, generously hosted at the home of one of the altos. The house was the picture of elegance, sitting on a little dip into the James River, with rooms full of antique maps, furniture, marble flooring, and a bronzze bust of Thomas Jefferson in the foyer.

Not the neck-up bust of Jefferson. The full-torso bust of Jefferson.

Needless to say, I was on my best behaviour.

I decided not to make anything, even though I could have assembled a Greek salad, instead I brought several bags of gourmet chips and some swanky salsa and buffalo sauce/rance dressing dip that I purchased at one of the gourmet food stores here in Wmsbrg. But, after seeing the table positively groaning with fried chicken, salads, casseroles, couscous, taco salad, sandwiches, fresh veg and fruit and plates upon plates of brownies, I wasn't surprised when no one dipped into my buffalo dip. I should have remembered there's nothing like a Methodist when it comes to potluck.

Next time, I'm bringing my "A" game.

The party was nice though--I ate too much, of course, and sipped awkwardly on sweet tea while my tablemates chatted about grandchildren and people I didn't know--but I had a good time.

Meanwhile, it's a hundred degrees here. I'm not even exaggerating. I know I said once I'd rather have it be hot than be cold, but even I, in my salamander-like state of mind, am finding it difficult to be outside. I think I'm going to go find a muffin and some more sweet tea...if there's any ice left in thic town.

Yef We Can

Not having a television means I'm totally out of the loop, news-wise. With only an hour at the library, I scan most of the headlines at best, dipping into Salon whenever I get the chance.

So I was nearly undone yesterday at the laundromat, which has a TV, when I learned that Barack Obama has secured the Democratic nomination for President. At least, he's declared victory. Hillary, presumably, will fight on. The newscasters I saw attacked the story from a variety of different angles--will Hillary be asked to be VP? What does she want? What do Obama's supporters think of all this? What do McCain supporters think of all this? Is Michelle Obama the awesome, or is it just me? There were also a few montage-y segments about "how far black Americans have come" that really hit home. A pastor at a church in Ohio pointed out how one of the parishoners was shot seventy years ago for showing up and trying to vote--and now a black man is nominated for president. Is our country ready? God, I hope so. I know I am. I want to show the world how far we've come as a country since 1776, since 1964. Are we there yet? No. But getting so close it's deliciously scary.

We're not supposed to have modern decorations on our houses in the historical area. You can hang a wreath, but it should be natural grapevine or similar. Ditto birdhouses, bird feeders, gazing balls are right off. But I couldn't resist putting a little political sign in my window--not the big blue "OBAMA" yard signs, but a little handmade calligraphied sign on a piece of parchment paper, using old-fashioned type which rendered the Senator's slogan as "yef we can." Teehee.

In other news, it's bloody hot here. I mean--it's ninety-five degrees by nine AM kind of hot. But I now understand exactly where I stand on the Grande Scheme of things: our building has been kept at a cool 68 degrees, not for our comfort, but for the preservation of our racks and racks of period clothing. They would mould and splinter in the heat, apparently. But the air con is pointed right at the stitchers, so while the clothes hang cool and collected, we're all huddled into hoodies and sweaters. And it's ninety degrees outside. Well. Priorities.

Wishlist

No small dogs.

I'd prefer a dog that's a year or two old, one with some house training.

One that doesn't mind couch potatoing it up during the day.

Not too much shedding.

Intelligent.

Color, gender, doesn't matter.

Friendly, but there's no need to worry about getting along with cats or children, as I have neither.

Hmmm...I wonder if such a dog exists...

Less of Me

"Lurking" is a term that means read people's blogs, but you don't comment or interact with the blog-owner, other than to read what they've written. I lurk on a couple blogs, mostly about women my own age who are married and pregnant and live little fantasy lives through them...ahahaha, not really. Whoo. Little kids sure are a handful, right?! Right?! hahahahaha.

But some of the blogs I read are blogs written by women who are overweight and who are blogging their journey to thinness. I feel for these women, I really do, because for a long time in my life, I believed that I was overweight. I say "I believed I was overweight" not "I was fat" because looking back at certain times in my life (say, fourth grade. Or eighth grade) I wasn't actually fat. I thought I was, but I wasn't. There were also times when I was genuinely fat, like senior year of college (I blame Ben, also Jerry. Also, three-am Country Kitchen runs), but generally, left to it's own devices, when I'm cooking for myself and not driving everywhere, my body tends to small down.

For this reason, I believe that blogging daily about your weight, or posting your weight every day is counter-productive. Which is why I don't do it, except on special occasions. (like today: lucky you) Focusing so much on what you're eating is going to make you hyper aware of when you fall off the wagon, and that will make it harder to climb back on. Instead, you should listen to what your body really needs. There will be times when I will hear "apple" instead of "cookie" and I enjoy that apple as much as if it were a cookie. I eat a lot of vegetables now, but you know what? They only go down if they are covered in ranch dressing.

I have never been skinny. But I am getting smaller. And frankly, it's really weird. Once I started feeling uncomfortable sleeping on my side because my hipbones were poking into the mattress, I thought "this has gotta end here." But it hasn't. I feel like a size-four model, even though I'm still wearing my Lane Bryant jeans no problem. I'm not bragging, honestly, I'm just observing how odd it is to suddenly be in a different body after twenty+ years of being the fat girl. In a moment of drama the other night I thought my head was starting to look like the pumpkin-on-a-toothpick sported by Paris Hilton and the Olsen twins. I'm not actually very much smaller. But for the first time in my life, I believe I could be skinny.

Last Call on the Underground

Recently, the new mayor of London announced that starting today, consuming alcoholic beverages on the Underground would be banned. This prompted a huge "last night of drinking on the Tube!" party, which got kinda out of hand from the sounds of things. Fighting, throwing up, strangers falling on top of each other...sounds like the morning commute to me.

I'll pause for a second as the realisation sits in that before today--drinking alcohol on the Tube was completely legal. I LOVE LONDON.

And I also LOVED eating and drinking on the Tube--not "drinking" drinking, but lots of times, the only way I was going to get a meal in if I was on my way from class to rehearsal or to work was if I snapped up a sandwich and an apple and chomped down on the Tube. If you're going to be commuting for an hour at a time, what better way to pass the time? And I know that this leads to a lot of the mess that people complain about on the Underground: I can see how a ban on booze is going to lead to a general bad on food consumption in general, because there will be less trash to pick up. (Chicago L to London Underground: Food bans don't work. Athens Metro to Chicago L: Yes it does. Chicago L and Athens Metro *fight*.)

So bye-bye to endless chances for continued unsobriety. Fare thee well, chavvy men with their cans of Carlsburg furtively clutched in paper bags. You will no longer be able to fool no one. But consider this: would you rather have all these people being annoying drunk jerks on the Tube, or being annoying drunk jerks in their cars, driving around in London? Presumably the Tube driver is sober, so I'll take the former. Besides, if you're on a Tube at two in the morning surrounded by sloshed people, chances are you're probably sloshed too. (Theoretically that is. I've never tested this theory, of course. Of course.)

Incidentally, smoking on the Tube was banned in the sixties or seventies, I believe. You're not supposed to smoke on the platforms either--but I did see a pair of Irishmen smoking in a Jubilee line carriage on St. Patrick's day once. I decided I'd rather suffer the smoke than tell a pair of Irishmen they needed to stop on St. Patty's and suffer the consequences.

Crack Book: Noun

While still in Point, some of my friends and I came up with the term "crack book" to describe a book that was literally too good to put down. You know--the book that is so good, you go to bed an hour early just so you can lie there reading it? The first crack book was Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, and since then, few others have entered the hallowed pantheon. Crack, of course, it the illegal but highly addictive substance, which, when applied to literature, suggests a certain metaphor. For example: if Snow Crash is addicting like crack, then perhaps other books are other edible substances. Romance novels are cookie books--so bad for you, but hard to resist and easy to consume in large quantities. Gone With the Wind could be like foi gras--delicious, but think too long about where it came from and you start getting uncomfortable. Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, on the other hand, is like a seven-course banquet with all your favourite foods, one that you could eat over and over (and over) again. I'm using my favourite books as examples, but I'm sure you could come up with some of your own.

I was musing on this, because I had a conversation the other night with a friend where I described Patrick O'Brian's books as "--crack books, but, pure, unadulterated crack, like--crack but better than crack" and she helpfully suggested "ah, no black tar heroin for you, this is pure china white," causing me to shout "yes!" (Only after we hung up did I start to wonder how she knew the difference between black tar heroin and china white, but never mind)

Patrick O'Brian is the author behind the eighteen Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin novels. They are set aboard the British navy during the time of Napoleon and they are so wonderful, so evocative, so funny and heart-wrenching that I have been forced to ration myself, or else you, dear readers, would find me in my apartment, Trainspotting-like, jabbering on about spars, Sophies and Boccherini. As soon as I finished HMS Surprise on the train back to Williamsburg, I immediately broke out into a sweat, jonesing for my next fix. Then again, that could have been the cold. Nevertheless! These books are Pure. Bliss. In. Novel. Format. Page after page of delectable naval jargon, broken up only by a description of Stephen Maturin diving naked into the Indian Ocean or Jack Aubrey queuing his hair. I wish that I could rub the pages on my eyeballs and absorb them directly into my bloodstream.

Like I said: china white.

I am rationing partly because Mr. O'Brian is sadly no longer of this world and so there are a finite number of Aubrey/Maturin novels, and there is nothing like encountering a good read for the first time. I've been holding my rapaciousness at bay by reading other Napoleonic navy books. Apparently, this is a giant sub-genre I was completely unaware of. And so far I have yet to encounter anything that satisfies as well as Mr. O'Brian's books, but, like the sport of sailing itself, there is no such thing as a bad work of naval fiction. CS Forrester's Horatio Hornblower series goes quickly, very rigidly, very by the book, no pun intended. Dudley Pope's Nicholas Ramage series, on the other hand, is not as well written, but the story lines are certainly evocative. According to these authors, there were no actual people involved in the major naval battles, just lots and lots of fictional characters. I just picked up Mr. Pope's first book and was thrilled--nay, ecstatic to see lists and lists of other Napoleonic naval titles on the inside front cover, waiting for me to snort them up my nostrils.

So, if anyone is wondering what to get me for an apartment-warming present in July, the answer is: book store gift certificates.

Or the number of a really good twelve-step program. Either way.