The Charnal Ship

As a storyteller for the evening programs, I take the bare bones of a tale and pad it out into a proper story. Then I present it to the director of evening programs, and he gives feedback, and we work on it until my story is "cleared"--then I'm put into the schedule for evening rotation. I haven't been cleared yet, but I'm working on my story today, and I thought my loyal readers would like to read it. (yes, I recycled an old character, but he's such a good one...)

Enjoy!

THE CHARNAL SHIP
adapted by NM Lemery

It is true I married somewhat late in life. I had almost given up hope of ever finding a husband, when I met Mr. Clarke. It happened thusly: One day, while I was walking home from church with my six brothers, Mr. Clarke fell in alongside me and struck up a conversation about some land he had recently purchased in Virginia. This continued for many weeks, while he described in detail the school he wished to build, where pupils could work the land in exchange for their tuition. A splendid plan, I thought, and I told him so. He blushed and said—“Elizabeth, you’ve heard all about my plans, but what it’s really lacking is a wife. So what d’you say? Will you come to Virginia with me and make the experiment?”

Well! I tell you, for a man to propose an experiment where a marriage proposal is expected is very bold, but I confess that is the moment when I fell most deeply in love with my Mr. Clarke, and I accepted—both him and his experiment. We were married a month later, in the presence of my six brothers, and there was never a happier woman than I.

When we had been married for a month and some days, Mr. Clarke took his leave of me to sail to Virginia, to begin building his great scholastic experiment, promising to send for me—“as soon as I get a house built to suit you.” He wrote me faithfully nearly every day, and I lived through those letters, reading about the people and climates of Virginia, about the buildings he was constructing. I only wished to be by my husband’s side, to help him build our new lives together. I imagined myself inside these letters, safe in our new house in Virginia, surrounded with the family I so longed for. At last the long-awaited letter arrived: “The house is finished to my satisfaction, Liza, come home to me.”

I booked passage on a ship the very next day. As it happened, a merchant trader, the Windsong, was due west from Portsmouth in a few week’s time. Her captain, Andrew Hollee, was a youngish man, but very well respected by his crew and his business partners. I made the necessary arrangements, and embarked on a blustery day in early March.

If you have never been aboard a ship, you cannot imagine it. Everything is crammed together, folded and stacked to take up the least amount of room possible, for space is at a premium on a ship. The ship itself feels like a live being—the timbers under your feet constantly roll with the waves. The hull and masts creak in the wind, the rigging and sails groan with the strain. The first night I lay in my bunk listening to the sounds thinking I should go mad from them, but after the course of a few days they became familiar and dear to me. The crew was a diverse group of men from all over England, united only in their distrust of me. I had heard that some mariners considered it ill luck to have a woman on board, and so I took it upon myself to lay in a good supply of “trinkets” so that I might “make friends with the natives.” Accordingly I brought along numerous small cakes, and some traveling Bibles, which I distributed with goodwill. I never saw the Bibles again, though, I was assured by Captain Hollee that the crew had taken to reading them most assiduously before they turned in to their hammocks for the evening. After that we got along splendidly.

Yes, the voyage looked to be a rather unremarkable one. We cut through a stormy grey Atlantic, bound westward toward the setting sun day after day. Then one day, about two weeks out, I awoke to notice the air had grown considerably colder. I wrapped myself in my warmest clothes and came on deck. What I saw chilled me even more thoroughly than the wind had—in the night we had approached a field of icebergs. I cannot begin to attempt to describe them. They are so utterly massive, so devoid of life, yet so silent and terrifying, moving through the water without aim or intention, but capable of sinking a ship or crushing her. I wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself as Captain Hollee approached me. He touched his hat. “Mrs. Clarke, I’m afraid that we will be in for a bit of weather tonight—but you must trust me to bring you through safely.” I assured him I did so, but the sight of those icebergs terrified me. The smallest was easily five times the size of the Windsong, and an unexpected breeze could have dashed her upon that ice as if she were running aground upon the hardest rock.

The wind and the waves began to pick up, tossing the Windsong from side to side. The familiar comforting sounds of the ship began to pick up, moving into new territory that froze the blood in my veins. The rigging no longer sang, it screamed under the wind, the sails were like uncontrollable birds that flapped in the wind. The ship’s crew ran to and fro in an orderly fashion, bringing in the sails, tying down the items on deck, and generally preparing for the storm. I thought the worse had hit, but at nightfall—the storm increased.

Now, friends, you may have seen such a storm on land, but to ride through one on a ship, you cannot imagine. The very deck beneath your feet heaves and rolls so that you must cling on to something or you will be tossed overboard, into the churning waves. The waves roll over the deck so that every minute you are convinced you are swamped, only to have the ship rise again. The masts sway like the trees of the forest they once were.

I secured myself in my tiny cabin, falling to my knees and clinging to my bunk, gasping every prayer I had ever learned, seeking to God to save us. I was in mortal terror, thinking about the giant floes of ice that surrounded us, imagining each creak of the ship to be the sound that signaled her imminent destruction. The noise was unbelieveable. The friendly sounds of the ship’s timbers groaned and creaked like a dying creature. The wind pushed through the rigging like a banshee, the shouts of the crew sounded like the desperate cries of haunted souls. I thought I was going mad from the cacophony. Animal cries could be heard upon the wind, mad singing, and then—strangest of all—I heard a baby’s cry rising loud and clear above the din. It was so clear that I found myself rising to my feet, determined to find the source, before I remembered myself. It was only a trick of the wind, but oh how real it seemed…

Sheer exhaustion finally took me to sleep. I awoke to find myself huddled on the floor of my cabin, still dressed in my warmest clothes, clutching my blankets. The ship was still. I flew up to the deck to see what had happened. A sorry sight greeted my eyes—one of the masts had been swept away, and the ship’s crew was engaged in replacing it with a jury-rig, while others were sweeping debris or repairing the canvas on the remaining mast. They all looked exhausted, haunted, as I knew I myself must look. Captain Hollee himself was at the helm, grim and determined. And all around us were the silent icebergs, like sentinels on the side of a Pharoh’s tomb, waiting for their chance to send us to the bottom of the ocean.

Captain Hollee ordered one of the boats lowered, and several of the ship’s crew went into it and began to pull us through the field. It felt like walking through a graveyard. We were surrounded by flat, blue-black water, out of which thrust the white, utterly silent mountains, like the tombs of the long-dead where the names have been eroded away. It was very cold, and very quiet, the quieitude only magnified by the tumult we had gone through the night before. So very cold, and so very quiet. We moved past the silent mountains, hardly daring to breath, as though any noise would bring them down upon us.

Then suddenly, a black trail leading through the white jags, beyond which was the open sea and safety. Cheers greeted this sight, and the men in the boat pulled harder. We moved forward at a snail’s pace, eager to be free of this haunted place, when suddenly--we spied another ship! A ship which had not survived the storm, alas, but was wrecked upon one of the treacherous icebergs. Her masts and rigging were in sad disarray. There was not a soul in sight. Captain Hollee halloe’d them several times, but there was no reply. “I will go aboard,” he said “it is clear they are in need of whatever assistance we can give.”

At that moment I thought of the baby’s cry I had heard the night before—perhaps the wind had carried that cry from a child on board this wrecked ship! “Captain Hollee!” I said “I wish to go with you!” And I quickly explained what I had heard. “If there is a child on board that ship—or another woman—they will be grateful for the presence of another female.” Captain Hollee protested most strongly, but I insisted. I had survived the terrible storm, and I felt alive and invincible and determined.

We made the only noise that day, the oars cutting through the black water, the heavy breathing of the straining mariners. And the occasional halloo from Captain Hollee, which was never returned. When we came alongside that ship, Captain Hollee insisted on going first. He was followed by two of his sailors, and then I was handed up. The deck presented a strange sight—even I, who was only recently indoctrinated into that orderly world of the sea—could see that the deck was in total disarray. It was as if no attempt had been made to put to rights what the storm had torn asunder. Ropes and sails hung where they had fallen, barrels and boxes lay broken upon the deck. And all around us…that eerie silence.

We began to grow uneasy, and a pistol or two appeared. Captain Hollee bade me stay where I was, and advanced towards the captain’s cabin. The other sailors fanned out along the deck, searching for signs of life. The silence was so deafening I wanted to sing to break the tension—and then I heard it again. A baby’s cry. Fainter now than it had been when it first came to me in the storm, but there was no doubt in my mind that it came from belowdecks. I moved towards the hatchway, unobserved by any of the crew, and went down a flight of stairs.

Fainter and fainter that cry grew until it disappeared all together, but not before I could see where it came from. The air was so cold—that poor child, I thought, as I moved down the tiny hallway—to have survived such a storm and now this coldness! Something fearful must have happened to its mother, to leave it in such a dire situation. I pushed open the door to the cabin—a cabin not unlike my own aboard the Windsong--

There was a woman there, lying in a bunk that was not unlike my own aboard the Windsong. She was wearing a white shift and was quite asleep. Lying in the crook of her arm was the baby I had heard, one tiny hand clutching at a strand of her brown hair. Mother and baby were fast asleep, holding onto each other. My heart was softened at the sight of such a sweet image. But it was too cold by far for them in that room. It was clear that they were ill prepared for such cold weather—they must come onto the Windsong, where there would be warm food and blankets for them. I went forward to wake the woman and her exhausted child, to tell them that their delivery was at hand.

But when I touched her hand, I instantly knew something was wrong. It was cold, too cold by far for a living person…and that’s when I noticed the sunken attitude about her cheeks, her closed eyes. And the child as well, no baby ever lay so still in its mother’s arms. They were dead—dead! The baby—the slightest opening of an lid revealed a glitter of an eye, as though the tiny corpse were playing a joke on me and wanted to see my reaction. Dead in each other’s arms, the mother clinging to her baby in death as she must have in life. The brown curl which the baby clutched a cadaver’s curl, no comfort to be found there.

I screamed. I screamed and ran out of the room, back up the hallway. There were more shouts to greet me—the Windsong’s crew had discovered similar bodies in other places among the ship. “The ship’s boy is frozen, standing at the bottom of the stair!” I heard one cry, while another described the ship’s crew frozen in their hammocks, hands still clutching onto the mouldering canvas. We flooded onto the deck in a terror—my heart was pounding my chest worse than it had the night before. We had not stumbled onto a ship in need of rescue, but into a tomb, a frozen tomb, afloat in a frozen world.

Captain Hollee came out of the great cabin, and we quickly got into the boat and away from that horrible charnal ship. I could not stop thinking about what I had seen. The two pale, sunken faces, together in death, haunted my thoughts and my dreams for days and weeks to come. I took to my bunk aboard the ship and remained there for the rest of the voyage, where I would start out of sleep, shaken awake by a baby’s wail.

We reached Boston soon after, and finally Virginia, sweet Virginia, where spring had finally made its appearance, although the warmth of the sun did little to dispel the chill in my bones. On the last day of our trip, I brought the subject up to Captain Hollee, saying, “It is terrifying to think we might have suffered a similar fate, if Providence had not protected us.”

Captain Hollee looked disconcerted for a second, then he said, “Mrs. Clarke, before we left the ship, I took the liberty of taking away the ship’s log. The last entry was made twenty-five years ago!”

Friends, I had not yet made my appearance on this earth twenty-five years ago. And already that ship was afloat on the high seas with its terrible cargo. That woman and her ghastly baby—already dead and frozen, condemned to circle the north Atlantic unceasingly. They are there still. Waiting for someone to set them free—although I hope, friends, if you make a voyage, you will not suffer the sights I have seen. And still see, in my dreams, in my nightmares. I often pray that I will be able to put this disaster behind me…but then a dark night will arrive, a cold night, and a baby’s cry will come to me upon the wind. Then I must get me to bed with a pile of blankets and a bed warmer, and I shake and shake…I cannot get warm. I cannot get warm.

get on the bus..I ain't never turning back!

So I was babysitting again today, and I'm not proud to say that I resorted to television a couple times to keep an eye on the girls while I prepared a delicious meal of peanut butter and jelly. But I thought I'd mix things up a little and put on the Doodlebops instead of Dora. The Doodlebops--pay attention new parents, because you'll want to know this--are apparently a trio of siblings who are rock stars of the pre-school variety. IE, they wear crazy-ass makeup and sing repetitive songs all the while talking directly to the camera.

Some of my loyal readers know how I feel about High School Musical and other mass-marketed commercialized crap. It is crap. There's plenty of regular musicals out there for young people, like Newsies or Hairspray, stay away from High School Musical! Hannah Montana, I'm looking at you! But the Doodlebugs get the Nicki stamp of approval because you can see how they are a gateway drug to more hardcore musical interests. Namely, Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself:



See what I mean?



I bet the actors who play the brothers Doodle sit around in the dressing room and fight over lipliner and argue about who looks better in tight pants. Yeah. So I definitely say Doodlebops for everyone...it'll make my job easier when the kids get older and I get them a box set of Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Training the Human

First off, a confession: I called Grandma last night just to catch up, since it's been awhile...and as we're wont to do, we discussed the current political situation, with me cheerleading Barack Obama and Grandma admitting that she really didn't want to vote for either of them. So I candidly suggested that she could, if she wanted to, write-in someone on the ballot, casually suggesting Mike Huckabee, since I know she liked him when he was still in the running. That seemed to perk her interest, and while I tried to sound patriotic, explaining that as Americans we can vote for whoever we want! in the back of my mind I must confess I was thinking "one less vote for..."

I am a bad, bad person. As punishment, I forced myself to write this a hundred times:

"I will not coerce my 93-year old grandmother into voting for a third party so I can get my candidate one step closer to the White House."

So. Yeah.

Zomg! Debate! Still on! Half an hour now--beer is chilling and buffalo wings are defrosting! You can keep your Superbowl parties...I only wish I had a crowd of Barack supporters here to share the love with me. O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma!

In the meantime, I still have a beagle. I'm starting to feel like the Dread Pirate Roberts--you know: "Good work, Wesley, sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning." Only here it's more like, "I'll most likely get rid of you in the morning." But we're starting to speak each other's language, so it's getting easier. Oh, believe me, there are times when I am thisclose to chucking him off the verandah, but it is really nice having a dog around, especially one who falls asleep in your lap. Aw.

We've been having a problem with peeing in the house though. I know he can hold it, because he does while I'm away at work, but in the evenings--when he has to go, he'll find a spot in the house and let 'er rip. It's not marking, but full on splashdown. I posted a pic of Kiz in her oh-so-sexy bellyband, but even that didn't stop him. Then I started thinking--it's not him, it's me. He doesn't bark, he doesn't whine, he doesn't let me know he needs to go out. Sure, he hangs out by the door, but if I'm in my room, that does neither of us any good. I don't want him barking, but there must be something...so I bought a cat bell and hung it from the doorknob. I won't say that he's understood the concept yet, but just now he rang it to go out. WHOO. Of course, that necessitated a lot of Nicki fumbling into her shoes, saying "good dog, good dog, hang on--!" but that seemed to amuse him. If only I had some sexy wellies...



And the best part about the dog is you get to tell dog stories and be the person on the end of a leash who gets to generously ask kids if they want to pet your puppy. It's a novelty to have a friendly puppy instead of a cantankerous older dog--although when I picked Kizzy up from playcare today I learned that he got put into time-out a couple times for getting into an altercation with a black Lab. I won't say that having a dog is like having a baby, but I feel somewhat responsible, especially since I told him it was okay to defend himself if he was being roughed up. I am a lazy parent, what can I say? I even let him watch TV--but only until mommy's shows come on.

Dizzy & Ill

I swear, I've been feeling crappy more in the past month than I have the last two years. This morning I got up an hour early to wave at the Today Show people, which confused the hell out of Kizzy, since we were walking at quarter to six (yes, you read that right) when it was still pitch dark out. I tried to convince myself that the drumming I heard off in the forest was actually the William and Mary marching band practising early, but when I got to work I found out that Williams and Mary...doesn't have a marching band. The only other explanation I can come up with is ghostly drummers beating the march. Awesome.

The Today Show was a bust, I'm afraid. I hope everyone saw it so they could get a taste of the historical area, but we arrived too late to be visible. I was just behind a large group of people waving McCain signs, coughing "yes we can!" under my breath every now and then. I left early for work because I was starting to feel bad...sort of light headed and chilly and my stomach hurt. But it was cool to see CW getting some national attention...this is where I live!

I kept feeling bad at work today--after the chills, I started getting feverish, and I wasn't really able to focus. I stuck it out though, since there wasn't any one thing that was weird enough to warrant me going home. I did skip militia though...probably shouldn't be shooting off a musket when I'm having problems keeping my balance. My roommate was courteous enough to take Kizabiz for a walk when she got home, so I snoozed for a half hour. Then I had some bean soup ($1.50 for a bag of mixed beans! For three quarts of soup! Crap economy be dammed!) and a sourdough roll and now I feel better.

I'm so ready to go home in October--for anyone who hasn't heard, I'm leaving on the 10th of October for a week or so of family, weddings, homecooked meals and cheese curds. I can't wait. Lately I've been thinking a LOT about London and really missing it, but I think that's just because I have the wanderlust again. Hopefully going home will help. If not...London next year possibly. Possibly. Economy permitting.

angry panda is angry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bold as brass

The apartment complex where I live is full of spotty college students, because we're right near William & Mary, and because the rent is pretty low. Which means that when I take Kizzy out for a walk I have to keep an eye out for half-eaten pizza crusts and broken bottles of Bud Light. Honestly, I know you're nineteen, but if you're going to drink illegally, at least make it a good beer. Honestly.

But surrounding our apartment is an amazing assortment of greenspace. You just have to be rather adventurous to get to it. For example, if you cross the street and duck through a hedge surrounding an orthopedic sports clinic, you'll be in a little oasis of concrete that contains several office buildings, with four walls of forest on either side. I can be walking sedately on a sidewalk while Kiz is nose deep in nature, red in tooth and claw. Alternately, you can take the secret back way out of our complex, cross through the parking lot that surrounds the funeral home (yes, I live behind a funeral home, although it's not a very busy one), through the parking lot next to the middle school and voila--you're back into the forest surrounding W&M. There's even a fenced-in drainage ditch that works as an impromptu dog run when I shut the gate. Although there's usually less running, more sniffing when I drop the leash.

There is also a new development being working on across from me, a new neighborhood for Williamsburg called (wait for it) Newtown. This is where Other Nicole is building her house, and it's usually where I take Kizzy for his evening drag. (He's a beagle. He wants to stop and sniff. I want to wear him out so I can blog and take a shower without him chewing on power cords. I pull. He pulls. He weighs 17.5 pounds. I win.) I have mixed feelings about developments in general, but this one is turning into something pretty nice. There's lots of dog-friendly restaurants and a Lane Bryant. And I like having pavement to pound, instead of slogging through muddy forest when I'm just out for an evening stroll.

But it makes me sad that the entire world is being covered by concrete. And that's greenspace we'll never get back again. All the planned parks in the world can't make up for the beautiful caos that is a forest in its prime. When I was younger I walked through a half-developed neighborhood with another dog, to an untouched forest where we used to play all summer long. But when it came time to say good-bye to that other dog, I had to walk through someone's backyard. It makes me slightly crazy that the James City County courthouse has such a lovely green lawn--and for what? For nothing. So Kizzy and I romped around on it tonight...it's so squishy and green, perfect for a rubber beagle who likes to turn somersaults while six lanes of traffic meander by. And if we get yelled at, so what. I'll just tell them that we're taking advantage of the pretty greenness, since our apartment doesn't have any, and besides--the court is closed, everyone's gone home. I pick up after him, who are we hurting? Someone's got to take advantage of all this beauty mixed in with the concrete and bricks.

So I might have been feeling a little cocky when we returned home...remember that orthopedic sports office I told you about? Well, as we were walking past, I noticed they had a Coke machine in the lobby...I didn't even want a soda, but I wondered if the door was still open at a quarter after seven...it would be nice to know that it's possible to get a Coke later at night, should the need ever arise. Ah, the door is open. Kizzy and I strolled in, popped in a couple dollars and retreated, clutching a bottle of diet brown, much to the amusement of the few therapists there working late. Hee. Like I said--you've got to be willing to take advantage of your surroundings.

Marching On

Oh man. I just came back from the bathroom to find Kizzy perched on the sofa arm, nose in my half-drunk cup of tea. That would be his British heritage, I'm guessing. Aaargh...

I'm feeling quite proud of myself today, because yesterday I finished my Fife & Drum coat. The corps got all new coats back in June, before they went off to exotic Switzerland to compete in a tattoo there, and now we're getting some new coats in as people join or leave. Most of the coats are being done by contractors, but I begged, pleaded and cried a little to get assigned one. I know that it was probably a calculated gamble on the part of my bosses, since I've never built anything from scratch before, but it was nice to have a challenge.

I got a bag full of cut out pieces--heavy red and blue wool, with a lighter tweedy wool for the inside facings. The historical fife and drums were in red coats so that the enemy would know they were young kids and not to aim for them...not exactly sure how that prevented the Continentals from taking potshots at their own boys, but whatever. There were no instructions, no neatly numbered steps to follow, so I pretty much made it up as I went along. I did have an already constructed coat I could pull apart to check out inside construction, but it was sort of exhilarating, figuring stuff out. The most interesting part was attaching the sleeves: I put the body of the coat on the form, tacked the sleeves up, made a mark with a pin where they would match the seam, and then took it all down, pinned and stitched. It was quite a challenge, especially by the end where everything was together and suddenly I was struggling with twenty pounds of red wool coat. I know all you stitchers out there are probably going "yes, and?" but I had a good time. Especially the part where I pretended I was making a coat for my beau who was going off to fight and who might get shot in the coat I was making for him. Sigh. Little tear.

The reason I'm telling all y'all this is because you'll get a chance to see this coat if you tune into the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade in NYC...the guy who's getting "my" coat is one of the drum majors, so he'll be easy to spot. Thanksgiving Day! Watch it!

You should also tune into the "Today" show THIS WEDNESDAY, September 24th, from seven to nine eastern time. They're broadcasting live from CW as a part of their whistle-stop, cross-America tour...I'm not sure if I'll go down there and wave at the cameras like an idiot yet, but if I do, you won't want to miss it!!!

Save Bitch!

I know most of you think I read Bitch just for the thrill of carrying around a magazine called "Bitch" but they really are a great, intellectual response to the pop-consumer-culture that surrounds us everyday. Great My Little Pony debates aside. And they're struggling. I have less than no money, but if you're able, I would really encourage you to donate to keep this brilliant rag alive. Think of it as an easy way to get my birthday pressie out of the way.

More updates later...my plug shipped from Hong Kong today, so hopefully I'll be back on my own machine soon.

karma bites back

In retaliation for yesterday's time off, karma has decided to get even. So today I:

Put the pocket on backwards in the coat and then, once I had got that sorted, put the facing in backwards.

Came home to pizza and a dog who was happily enjoying his chew toy...until I discovered that his chew "toy" was actually the cord to my computer and he had worked the plug clean off.

Had exactly $2.75 for the washer, but I need $3.00.

Fell and twisted my ankle slightly--enough to curtain Kizzy's evening walk, resulting in a major case of the zoomies.

Arg. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was Monday.

Computer's dying now...hopefully the plug I ordered from Hong Kong will get here soon or else I'll

sick day

I called in sick today, even though I'm not actually sick. Well, at least not in any quantifiable manner, ie, coughing, cramps, tummy upset, but I know there's something wrong with me, so I'm not lying. Exactly. Still, this is the first time I've called in sick when I haven't been at death's door, so I feel slightly guilty. Enough to keep me inside and docile when other people might be tempted to go frolicking at the mall or something.

Last week was slightly crazy. My schedule is getting fuller--and now I have a dog to take care of. So the scheduling craziness is due to the challenge of not only how I'm going to get myself around, but how I'm going to make sure that Kizzy is fed, walked and watered. Meanwhile, I've got to practise my story for the evening programs so I can get cleared to perform, concentrate during the militia review because they changed the order of things and in the middle of all this, I had a guest last weekend.

Over Memorial Day last May I went to visit Alison in Schenectady (fun to say, hard to spell) and this weekend she returned the favor. We didn't really do much of anything, mostly bumming around Wmsbrg and Yorktown, although we did hit the President's Park, a slightly lame tourist trap that features (wait for it) giant concrete heads of all the presidents of America. Also some presidential memorabilia that was, sadly, on loan to the DNC and RNC and therefore not on display. Next to each head was a sign listing important facts, achievements and quotes, although Dubya's quote board was sadly lacking in some of his more colourful manglings. I did finally get to release some pent-up frustration by pressing ham against our current president though. Aaargh.

Then last night we made our own sushi out of a kit and watched TV. Alison brought me some squash from London, so I was drinking apple and black currant-y bliss all weekend, and I've also got some Bisto granules too, so hopefully I'll be able to do a Sunday roast soon. huzzah. Overall, it was a pretty relaxing weekend, but I'm still tired from last week. I think it's the turn in the weather. Cooler, then hot and stuffy, and now today, cool again.

But I'm not missing much. After begging my supervisor for weeks, I'm getting to build one of the shiny, shiny fife & drum coats, and it's not due for another nine days. And I rented a car for the weekend, so before I dropped it off today, I stopped by the place and had an x-ray taken. Thirty minutes of driving around getting lost for two minutes under an x-ray machine and "we'll have the results over there this afternoon!" It's okay. It took me over a month to get here...there's no rush. Now I'm back home catching up on emails after a long satisfying nap, ignoring the reproachful looks from my beagle, who's wondering why exactly we haven't gone for an hour long walk yet. No one can reproach quite like a beagle with eyeliner. Sorry pooch. Gotta let everyone know I'm still alive--even if I am taking a sick day.

I'm still here...

...but I'm exhausted.

so much hatred for such a little beagle...

Kizzy has started marking around the apartment, so in an effort to limit his leakage I made a makeshift "belly band" out of an old pair of jeans. I tried not to find humor in the situation--after all, this is a serious behavioral problem...but let's face it, Kizzy is too adorable in his little jean wiener wrap. Hardcore ripped jeans, 80's style, yeah.

Not much else going on on a Sunday...had militia today. Curse the gods of modern technology. All summer I was gearing myself up to ask a fellow minuteman out for coffee, but I kept chickening out. Then we Facebook'd each other...and it turns out we have nothing in common with each other in the 21st century. Arg. Oh well. We'll always have those right wheels. Nothing more romantic than taking a right turn on the field, staring deep into each others eyes, the captain yelling...sigh.

that's it?

Supply List for Hanna:

1. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (deluxe 2 disc edition DVD)
2. 1 pkg chocolate chip cookies
3. 1 case bottled water

I got home to find my roommate had already bought candles--"just in case!" so there wasn't much we needed. I had peanut butter and bread, so if the power went out, we could sit around eating PBJ sandwiches. Thought briefly about buying a little smokey joe grill, but then realised that I just wanted to buy one, I probably didn't need one in case of hurricane. And it turns out my precautions were pretty much in vain. The "hurricane" was a tropical storm by the time it got here--barely that even--and the wind and the rain didn't get any more exciting than it does during a run of the mill storm. We didn't even have any thunder or lightning. Yawn. The only time I got really wet was when I got up at six-thirty to take Kizzy for his first walk. Our mid-morning walk was totally dry, and by the time we went for our evening walk, the sun was out. I'm a little disappointed there wasn't more excitement, but I remember how hellish it was to be without power and water for three days in a dorm in London, so I guess I should count my blessings.

Of course it was pretty miz all afternoon, so I stayed in and watched Sweeney and then Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and worked on the new draperies for our living room...it's such a dark room, and the curtains that are currently hanging there are a heavy, ugly red fake-brocade, so I bought some light peach fake silk--they'll let in more light and brighten things up purely by their colour. I'm so domestic.

stormy weather

Kismet is, of course, named after one of Admiral Nelson's most famously misquoted "last" words: "Kiss me, Hardy," a request for Captain Thos. Hardy to bid him farewell as he lay dying on the orlop deck of the Victory. The Victorians (who are also responsible for largely cutting Lady H. out of the story) couldn't handle the remotest possibility of any suggested hint of the love that dare not speak its name, put it about that what he had actually said was "Kismet, Hardy." "Kismet" being, of course, a Turkish word that he picked up on his travels meaning fate or destiny. Fortunately we, in these more enlightened times, know that this is utter nonsense. Still, it makes for a good story. Especially the part where they named an ale "Kiss Me, Hardy" and made it taste fantastic.

It is appropriate that the dog is named after a last kiss, since he loves people, and he loves to give puppy kisses. He is an absolute joy to walk around (despite his unwillingness to walk in a straight line), because for once I get to be the person who says "you wanna pet my dog? Go ahead!" Usually I keep a hand on his harness just to make sure he doesn't jump up and lick people to death. This week has been much better, frustration-wise. I think the problem with this weekend was the fact that it was just the two of us, all weekend long. Kizzy needs a pack around him--but so do I. And we both do better with backyards, although I definitely prefer a hammock in mine.

He will still be going back into foster care, although I don't know when. Now, after spending a happy week actually enjoying him instead of enduring his energy and his attention-seeking ways, I'm able to make the decision that living in an apartment is not the best arrangement--for him. I still think I have a good home to offer for a dog, but maybe an older dog that enjoys couch time as much as I do.

I will say this though: having to get up and walk Kismet every morning has given me a new appreciation for the beauty of Virginia. The forests around our house that connect to William and Mary are positively primeveal, and beautiful in the morning mist.

But the weather is a changin'. If any of my loyal readers have been watching the news lately, you've heard that Hanna is headed this way--right now she's a tropical storm, but she could make landfall with hurricane status. I'm a little weirded out by hurrican predictions: It's a lovely day today, and tomorrow might be a little grey, but on Saturday, at 2 pm, we will be in the middle of a hurricane. Weird. They're not predicting mass destruction and caos, although we might lose power and water, so tomorrow I'm going to Loewes to lay in a good supply of batteries and water. My friends and I are planning on holing up at someone's house and watching DVDs and handsewing until the storm blows over. And if the power goes out we'll eat ice cream. Woo, storms.

sad and tired puppy

So I just called Kizzy's foster mom and told him that he wasn't going to work out here. A serious case of "it's not him, it's me." We went for a long walk this morning, through the beautifully hilly forests of William & Mary College. Then when we got home I had to slip out for two minutes to put his blanket in the washer because he had an accident last night--my fault for not taking him out one last time. But when I went to open the door he was out in a heartbeat, down the stairs and poking around in the bushes...I was momentarily grateful for the college student that had thrown up in the mulch on Friday night, because that was the only thing that stopped him. I picked him up and put him in his crate and headed back out the door, blanket and vinegar in hand. He barked. And barked, and barked and barked, barked like he's never barked before. Coming back I could hear him in the parking lot. I think he's figured out that when he's in his crate, I'm gone--and he's alone.

And that was the moment when I knew Kizzy isn't the dog for me. He's a wonderful, sweet, generous dog, but he needs a family, kids, other dogs, he doesn't need a single mom who's turning into a workaholic and who has not been feeling the best lately. I feel terrible for having put him through the ordeal of coming to live with me and my roommates, and now he'll have to adjust to a whole new place and a new family--but I know that that's the best for him. Sure, I could keep him, crate him all day and totally break his spirit, but that's not what I want, and that's not what he deserves. He deserves better than me, basically.

So that was unfun. Thank you everyone for your kind words of encouragement and the gifts...I don't know when he'll be leaving, but it will probably be next weekend.

Tough Decisions

When I was in high school, I had a dream that I turned into a three-part story. The first part was about a woman walking down a dusty road. She saw a box that had a dead dog and a litter of puppies inside--only one had survived, so she took it with her (against her better judgement) and named it Folly. The second part happened years later. Bad things were happening. The woman and her dog were traveling through a small village where soldiers were taking away children. They were luring them into brightly coloured circus wagons--the children were laughing and excited to go, but the old people in the village were crying and upset to see them leave. The third part happened a few years after that--the woman and her dog were walking through a pine forest, and they passed a large open barn. Then they came upon a green retention pond--the woman knew that it contained poison and wasn't safe to drink, but the dog was so thirsty it ran up and drank before the woman could stop it.

It wasn't a pleasant dream, but it was really vivid, obviously, and the images have stuck with me through the years. I was reminded of it tonight when I was walking Kizzy--there's actually a lot of greenward around here, but it tends to be mixed in with industrial and office buildings. So after you traipse through the lovely landscaping, there's tons of trees and wildlife all around. We were trekking behind a local bank when the sun went behind some dark clouds, and then we passed by a retention pond made green with algae. It was a little spooky--all of a sudden the lovely normal day disappeared. We got it back pretty quickly, but for a second it was eerieness.

I'm feeling bad today. Kizzy was in his crate for ten hours because I stayed late to play militia--he has no problem with accidents, but he shouldn't be left alone for so long. We're starting to get along with one another, and have fun, but I'm already worried about what happens when I start working the night programs.

So I looked into doggy daycare. It's expensive, but it'll be worth it. Not to keep Kizzy occupied, but just to assuage some of this crippling guilt I feel leaving him alone for so much. So he can go to doggy daycare during the day, and some of my friends have offered to babysit in the evening if necessary, but I didn't get a dog to have other people look after him. I'm trying not to regret getting a dog--or resent him for infringing on my swingin' singles lifestyle. I love my dog, but I love CW too. I frickin' love working where I do, being involved in all the programs, from the tailor shop (woot for sexy Lafayette!) to the militia to the storytelling programs.

Then there's the fact that I don't have reliable transportation for myself. I can get myself around, but not quickly, and not after Labor Day when the buses stop running at seven. I seriously need to look at getting a car.

But I can't really afford a car if the dog is in daycare.

I know, I know, I should have thought about all this before I got Kizzy. And I did. I just didn't reckon on how difficult it would be to be a single parent. I'm trying not to worry too much about the future. Kizzy's working so hard to be good for me, the least I can do is work hard for him.

How to Get a 35" Waist

Now that I'm signed up to do the evening programs, I get an allotment of girl clothes. So today I had my fitting. At one point the fitter had me in hoops and a gown that made me resemble nothing so much as a sofa, prompting me to ask "Where do I put my arms?" She replied "You pretty much rest them on your hoops." I grumbled at first when she pulled out a set of stays, but when she got them on me and cinched them up good and tight, I had a thirty-five inch waist. I couldn't breathe, and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to tell stories, but damme I looked good, even if my hips were about three inches higher than I'm used to. I'll be getting a green and gold jacket and a cream-coloured petticoat eventually...more pictures coming soon, I hope.

In other news, Barack Obama has been officially nominated to be the Democratic presidential candidate. I didn't actually get to see the historic event, because I was out walking Kizmo, but I did get a replay on YouTube. But that's what happens when you become a new mom, I guess, your priorities change...ah. Seems so recently I was a young and fancy-free singleton...

Behold the Perfect Baby!

(with apologeez to baby gaboda...)

NICKI: (thrusting pictures into coworker's faces) Have you seen how gorgeous my niece is?!
COWORKERS: Yes, Nicki, I have...
NICKI: Yes, but have you seen her RECENTLY?!

Finally got some photos...I had to tranquilize my dog to get enough time to post them, but behold! the most beautiful baby in the world:



This is officially my new favourite picture...I love the expression of shellshock on Peter's face. :)



Mom and Dad and baby Lily...awww. What a happy family.



Grandma and baby Lily--this time showin' off those Lemery lungs. O SOLO MIO...



nope, that's not a doll...it's my beautiful niece!

Separation Anxiety

"He's fine." Is the refrain I constantly heard today. I felt so bad about taking Kismet out and then crating him again so I could go to work that I felt physically sick to my stomach for the duration of the morning. I know he's fine. He's in his safe place with his toys and water, with his brand new Kong stuffed full of organic, good for you with flaxseed peanut butter that his mommy can't afford to feed herself.

He's fine.

But I still feel stressed and worried and guilty. When I came home we went for a long walk, then he had a bath and ran around the house like a crazy person, and now he's cheerfully chewing his frisbee to bits.

He's fine.

He's such a good dog. I just hope he doesn't hate me for keeping him in an apartment and relying on strangers to take care of him while I work late and gallivant around with a musket--which are so scary!!!

xcsd

woops. That was kizwiz Ó WITH A PAW ON THE....caps lock key. snort. damme dog.

Okay. This has to get easier, right? The--for me, I mean. Someday I won't feel like a horrible person for leaving him alone, right?

Bringing home baby

I knew that adopting a dog was going to be hard, but oh my word, I never realised how difficult it would be. I'd never say that getting Kismet was like having a baby, but last night was definitely like having a newborn in the house. Every time he snuffled in his crate I would bolt upright from sleep to make sure he was okay, which means that today I am exhausted. Ex-hau-sted. I woke up at six-thirty to walk him before church, and then again afterward, and then I went out for lunch with Nicole and Erin, and then we picked him up and they walked him around the historical area while mommy played militia. And now he's back in his crate. I feel really, REALLY guilty about crating him so much--he's used to having a bigger house, with a yard and other doggy playmates--but I'm so tired right now that I can't discipline him properly when he jumps up or licks my face.

Part of the problem is, I think, that we packed a lot into one weekend. Usually I'm sitting around watching "Animal Planet" but for some reason I felt the need to entertain him by taking him to Lowe's (so we could buy some netting for the porch so now he can't get through the railings) and scare him half to death by exposing him to cannons, fife & drummers and cats--all in one day. Tomorrow he's in for a shock, while I'm gone to work. I'm hoping that he'll adjust to my schedule instead of becoming a neurotic puppy.

He's a sweet boy. And when he's being sweet, he's really sweet. But when he's being a boy and making friends with your leg (oh yes--now THERE'S a problem I've never dealt with before) he drives mommy crazy.

Meet the New Man In My Life

For all of you out there going, "oh no, Nicki, you didn't..."

Yes, yes, I did.

Meet Kismet. This is another reason I've been so quiet lately. The stress of work and trying to keep my roommates organised has been compounded by the fact that I've been busy adopting a beagle this week. Kizzy was found wandering next to a highway down in North Carolina, just about the time I was getting serious about finding a dog, and through a network of dog rescuers, we were introduced and I decided to make him mine.

I had to jump through a million hoops: the adoption agency wanted to make sure I was serious and capable of taking care of a dog, and the landlord had a dozen requirements as well. I wasn't sure if I was going to bring him home this weekend or not, but in the end it all worked out. Erin, Nicole and I drove about an hour to meet up with a willing volunteer who had brought him from North Carolina, and an hour after that, he was here in Williamsburg.

Kizzy's pretty young, probably less than a year, but he's housebroken and fantastically good with people. He has an incredible amount of energy though, so we're both going to be signing up for obedience classes, as well as getting him trained not to jump up and lick people in the face. I never thought I'd love a little dog, but he's only eighteen pounds and thirteen inches high at the shoulder--but he's about as much personality as a dog four times his size. I'm so happy to have Puppy in my life again. I just hope I'm up for the task.



Kizzy entertains me and Erin

My Friends, I Am Dying

Weep not for me, but gather 'round and smile sadly upon this visage that was once the proud and noble house of Nicki. For I am dying. Yea, I shall pass away unto the earth and lie down with my ancestors and feel no pain, nor happiness, nor any mortal emotion save that of relief that I am dead, for only in death will I find relief from such pain.

Oh yes. It's that time of the month. I managed to make it through two hours of work today before I finally broke down, crying and nauseous, and went home. Agony, such as poets can only dream of, splitting the heavens, causing my heart to pound, my limbs to shake, my eyes to start from their head, and thoughts of self-harm to flit through my mind. I'm so unfocussed that I can't even fall asleep.

The worst part is I'm missing militia. Although, since my medicine of choice is all-natural Beer, it's probably a good thing I'm not shooting off a weapon tonight.

A Funny Story

I was going to be really mean and petty and selfish and post a picture of a newborn up here and then say that I had to put a random picture up because I don't have any of Lily yet, but then I decided that would be mean. So I didn't. I know people are busy, I'm not complaining. Newborn baby and all. But I still don't have any photos to share with my rabid readership, and I'm starting to feel like a total narcissist (more than usual, I mean) because the wallpaper on my computer is a picture of me in the ranks. Soon though. Soon.

In the meantime. My roommate and I get along quite well. She's a flighty theatre type, I've been known to have fits of drama myself. Like today when I threw down the frock coat I was altering and declared in a fit of hysteria, "I've ruined it! It was perfect until I touched it with these hands of ineptitude!"

Which is not entirely true: Granted, the sleeves still aren't sitting right, but at least I didn't put the pleats in backwards.

But back to the story. So my roommate and I understand one another. When I told Am about my ambition to Start Recycling, she said, "okay" and then (two weeks later) when I mentioned that the recycling center for Williamsburg was right down the road, she only hesitated a minute before volunteering to take us there, along with two week's worth of recyclables. The problem was though, the drop-off center closed at four, and it was now eight pm. What to do. Picture it: two young women, sitting on a darkened county road, in a black car with the vanity plate "HAM1ET", staring forlornly at their goal which is securely locked behind a ten-foot tall chain link fence.

"What should we do?"

"We could leave it here and they could pick it up tomorrow."

"No, we can't."

"No, I suppose not."

"It's okay. I'll get it on Saturday."

"Or I could come tomorrow. I have tomorrow off."

"I feel bad making you do it. It was my idea."

"It's okay."

"You know what? Let's just leave it. It's not like we're littering."

"Yeah. It's not a crime to recycle."

"Or is it? 'Sorry officer, we just wanted to recycle!'"

"Tee-hee!"

"Maybe we should throw it over the fence so the critters don't get it."

"Okay. I feel so naughty!"

"They've probably got cameras posted. They're going to come knocking on our door tomorrow."

"They probably can track your car."

"Ohmygosh, you're right!"

"Oh well, too late now!"

"This is totally the naughtiest thing I've done all week."

"hee, hee, hee..."

"You totally have to blog about this."

"Oh, absolutely."

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

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

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

In the Meantime...

While we're waiting for baby pictures, I thought I'd talk briefly about the forum that Obama and McCain participated in. I know some of you probably haven't seen it, after all, there was a Packer game on last night, but I watched it and found it interesting.

The forum was hosted by Pastor Rick of the Saddleback Church. Which is, from what I can tell, a biggish church heavy on the conservative Christian ideology of bad music and pro-family values. What gets me most about this is not the idea of having forums, debates and town halls with the two candidates (bring 'em on, I say, the more the merrier), but the fact that a nation which professes to keep the idea of Church and State separate allowed a forum to be mediated by an ordained pastor and broadcast live on a national television channel. I know that Americans have never accepted the idea of keeping church out of politics (Geo. Washington went so far as to say he hoped it "never happened") but I prefer to keep my religious identity far, far away from my politics. Naturally I want good moral people leading our country. But I do not believe that morality has to be backed up by a Christian identity and a little white chapel in the hills somewhere. Yes, "Love thy neighbor as thyself" just happens to be sound advice if you're trying to govern a nation, but that's a double edged sword: how can anyone professing to be a Christian declare war as Commander in Chief?

So I was uncomfortable with that. The actual forum itself was interesting--Barack Obama spoke openly about his faith and his feelings about various issues, although I think he played the politician a little too much some times, choosing to reword questions to suit answers he's memorized long ago. John McCain played to the crowd, using short, punchy answers full of buzzwords. He talked about being a POW of course, and also told the story of how his wife brought home an orphaned baby without telling him until she got off the plane and handed him a newborn. Obama quoted the Bible, McCain promised to follow Osama bin Laden to the gates of hell, etc, etc, etc.

The whole thing was very interesting. I felt bad for the Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, Jews, et al who are not personally going to be included in this little discussion on religious views--they are certainly not interested in how Christian views influence the candidates. It was a good chance to get to know the candidates personally, what their individual views were. I guess I'd rather have McCain over to a BBQ, even though you know at some point he's going to be telling that damme POW story again. And I'd rather have Obama at my Thanksgiving dinner, where he's probably be really boring until after pie when everyone is feeling sleepy and he leans back and tells some story about having Thanksgiving dinner in Hawai'i with pineapples for dessert. That's the kind of conclusions I could draw from this forum.

But I don't want to know those sorts of things, I want to know what they'll do if the phone rings at three in the morning. I want to know if the rest of the world is going to respect them or laugh at them. I want to know if they'll be capable of leading--and willing to change direction if they're leading America down the wrong path. But most of all, I want to know if they'll be willing to make the tough decisions without justifying it because of their Christian faith, but saying "This is the humanitarian thing to do--the right thing to do." And being okay with leaving it at that. That is, after all, what our Constitution asks us to do. We read a passage in Galatians in Sunday school that talked about this specifically--if you follow the law of Jesus, you will follow the laws of man naturally, there will be no discrepancy.

Whoa, Baby!

Nicki got woken up this morning at 2:30 AM by a text message from brother Pete--or should I say Daddy? Yup, Baby Lem is finally here. Lily Anne Lemery, seven pounds, seven ounces, nineteen inches, ten fingers, ten toes. Perfection, basically. Still waiting for photos--you'll have them as soon as I have them.

Congratulations!!!

Fat & Happy Puppy

It's great having people visit, because I get to be a tourist at CW without feeling like an interloper. Tonight Peter G. and I ate at the King's Arms, which is a high-class joint specialising in dishes that are inspired by the eighteenth century. We could have sat inside and listened to the violin player, but instead we chose to sit out under the grapevines. It was a cool mid-eighties today, perfect for dining al fresco. I had veggie ravioli, not very period but so good I nearly expired from the deliciousness.

Afterward we went to the Governor's Palace for another concert, this time a quartet. A German flute (wooden, forerunner of the modern orchestral flute), an English flute (basically a big fat recorder), a viol de gamba (sixteenth century instrument that was slowly going out of style due to the fact it was very quiet), and a harpsichord. From 1758. Yup--an actual period instrument, what was around when Geo. Washington was dancing the minuet.

It's okay. Have a moment. I did.

The concert was lit by candlelight and it was lovely, apart from the small child who couldn't seem to stay on her chair and spent most of it rolling around on the carpet. Afterward we caught the bus home, where Nicki found her "congratulations you got promoted" present she gave to herself waiting for her. Huzzah. I've been lusting after this book for three years, ever since I saw the Nelson & Napoleon exhibit at the NMM. And now it's mine.

Happily, my carpooling friend is back today, so I can sleep later since I don't have to catch the bus to work. It takes a lot out of you, eating and concerting your way through CW.

A Long Day

Peter G. has arrived in Williamsburg to spend a week here. I'll be working most of the time, so today we spent the day together. The first stop was a nine am service at Bruton Parish, the historical Episcopal church on the edge of the historical area. I'd attended concerts there before, but never an actual service, and it was quite refreshing. The sermon was lovely, even if they changed the words to the doxology and totally tripped me up.

Then we headed over to Yorktown for some crabcake sandwiches and beach time. Now, it hasn't rained here in over a month. July 4th (I remember, because I was standing out in it). But when we got out of the trolley at the beach, there was a giant thunderhead looming on the horizon. The weather here is so weird and unpredictable, I didn't worry about it--and sure enough, apart from a spatter of rain, we got nothing. Nothing, that is, except a massive sunburn for yours truly. Arg. "I don't need sunscreen!" she said. "I haven't burned all summer" she said. "It's not that sunny today, anyway!" she said. Famous last words. The only saving grace is the fact that my swimsuit straps covered the area where my bra straps go, so I won't have to freeball it tomorrow at work. Other than that--lobster city.

We had to come back to Williamsburg so Nicki could march in the militia. I still love being in the militia--especially now that I'm getting better, so that I'm more confident in my movements. It's also easier to march in step as well. When you first start marching, it's hard to trust the person next to you, but you really have to. You have to trust that your searjeant will call out the commands in a loud and timely manner. And you can't anticipate. Otherwise you'll be out of line--or worse, firing before everyong else, and getting yelled at. Historically accurate, fun for the guests, embarassing as hell for the person in question. Peter G. had his new 12.1 pixel camera pointed at me the entire time, and he has promised me (poke) to send me some photos (poke, poke) so I can post them here. Poke.

Then we grabbed a sandwich and headed up to the Capitol for a harpsichord concert. I was sort of tired and cranky by this point, but the concert was really entertaining. The interpreter was portraying an actual 18th-century man, Peter Pellam, who was the organist at Bruton from 1751-1802. Before the concert he gave a little speech, but then he gave the whole concert in character, telling stories and cracking genteel little jokes. And the music was brilliant.

By the time the show was getting over, I could see little flickers of lightening out of the window. We walked out into major wind and lightening, coming down the peninsula fast. I had called a taxi to meet us after the concert, so we decided to wait on the porch of Christiana Campbell's Tavern...it was lucky we did, because a few minutes later, it started bucketing down. I mean just--sheets of rain, all the rain we haven't gotten in the last five weeks. And thunder. And lightening. We got home to find the roommate tucked up on the couch, flashlight in hand just in case the power went out.

I had a lot of fun playing tourist today, despite the tiredness and the sunburn. It was really interesting to start the day at Bruton Parish and end it at the Capitol--only a mile apart, but it makes you think about the men who would have been familiar faces at both. I've read a lot of material about how religious the Founding Fathers were/weren't, or how much religion should factor into modern politics, but going from one to the other today, I guess some things will just be endlessly debated.

I'm not a number

Now more than ever I'm aware of the uniqueness of the human body, the one of a kindness that makes every individual a different shape. Where I work, sizes are merely numbers so you know where to hang the clothing in stock. Then they come to me, and I tailor it into a perfectly fitted garment. So I was slightly embarrassed at how excited I was to discover I'd dropped two waist sizes. I figured that Old Navy would be running small, but their size sixteen fits me. That's the first time I've gotten into a sixteen in, oh, fifteen years. It's brilliant. I celebrated by having pizza.

Yesterday was slightly frustrating though. I have been having these odd pains in my side, so I finally went to see a doctor about it. He examined me and told me he thought it might be kidney stones. I was actually slightly relieved at that diagnosis--it's better than the horrifying images of ovarian cancer I had dancing through my head--although, of course, it's far from a walk in the park. The way to find out for sure was to have an x-ray taken. To do this, I needed to trot down to another building, about a block away. When I got there, however, I discovered that they wouldn't take my insurance. The place I had to go to to get x-rays taken was all the way across town. ("Over by Wal-Mart," were her exact words, actually) By this point, however, it was about twenty after eleven, and I had told my boss I'd be in by noon. So I decided against medical attention and called a taxi to come get me. An hour later...it arrived. I was so mad at the taxi company for misleading me (they had originally said half an hour) that I forgot to put a tapestry needle under my first two buttons on my waistcoat. I'm trying to focus on the positive things about my experience, like a good doctor who listened to my thoughts, being able to get off of work and oh, how about HAVING insurance and only having to pay $15 for the whole experience.

Williamsburg is not designed for people without cars. It's just not. Things are spread out, stores are clustered into little mini-malls that all seem to have their own parking lot, divided by roads and trees. Most of the time (like this morning, when I had all the time in the world) it's fine. When I'm in my regular routine of working and coming home, I get along fine. But every time I have to do something out of my routine or I'm doing something for the first time, it seems to take three times as long as it should, and that's frustrating.

I'm not meaning to bitch about my situation here. Whining about it doesn't help anything. And besides, if it weren't for my bike, I probably wouldn't have a size sixteen waist and calf muscles that would make any fop jealous.

This shouldn't be this much fun...what's wrong?

Actual conversations today:

Scene: Contemplating a half-finished waistcoat:
Me: Seriously, you can't say "three-sixteenths of an inch" because that's just a number that does not exist in my universe.
Erin: Well, I could say six thirty-secondth, but that's just...well, I can't say it anyway, because apparently I can't pronounce it.
Me: Thirty-two.
Erin: Right, six thirty-twos.
Me: The only time I use my thirty-twos is when I'm...fighting the French.
Erin: ...
Me: Thirty-two pounder guns. Big guns. Throws a lot of lead. Imagine the wreckage.
Erin: Okay, back to buttonholes...

Scene: Contemplating the industrial buttonholer
Erin: So the pedal on the left will lift up the presser foot, and the pedal on the right will make it go. Think gas-go, brake-presser foot. Okay?
Me: Okay, so at this point it's been so long since I've driven, that I'm seriously confused--which one in the gas pedal?
Erin: The one on the right.
Me: Right.

Scene: Figuring which side to put buttons on
Erin: Think of it this way. If you're wearing this waistcoat...you can slide your right hand into the openings. So the buttons go on the right, the buttonholes go on the left, if you're wearing it.
Me: Or, buttons on stage left, buttonholes on stage right, if you're looking at it on the table.
Erin: Well, now you're just confusing yourself...
Me: OR, think about if Nelson still had his right hand, it would be slid into his coat all the time. (demonstrates) Okay, got it.

Early Night

The reason I'm blogging at six-thirty instead of sitting on a bus, coming home from militia, is because I forgot a key component of my wardrobe. I was halfway into my stockings, hunched over in the small bathroom in the Roscoe Cole House, when I suddenly realised I'd left my shoes at the costume center. Bugger. There was no possible way I could get over there, retrieve my shoes, and still have time to dress and be at the military headquarters in time for the review. So, no marching for me today.

Ironically, I had all the time in the world this afternoon. We had our departmental picnic, so the CDC shut down at noon (no fresh costumes for the interpreters, haha), and we ate our way through the next two hours. Salads and burgers and chips and dips and enough brownies to go sledding down. Oh, it was bliss. Afterward, we were free to go wandering through the historical area, so that's just what I did. Another coworker and I wandered over the magazine and practised our grenadoe throwing before going into the magazine and listening to my searjeant give his speech on the weaponry stored therein. I was even cheeky and said "so...what time is the military review today?" while he sort of glowered at me. Me in my shorts and lightweight tee, he in his shirt, weskit and gaiter trowsers, me not realising the tragedy that was about to befall.

Stupid shoes. I dearly love marching.

But it's a hundred degrees out today, and, between you, me and the binnacle, maybe I'm not so sorry to have missed the review. A hundred degrees of temperature on a full stomach...maybe not such a good idea.

I'm not sayin', I'm just saying...

The tailoring job is going well. Basically, the cutter/fitter will take the interpreter into the dressing room, try a bunch of clothes on them, and pin up anything that needs fitting. Then I get the garments, and I have to turn the pins into neat seams and corners, keeping in mind period details and the possibility of ripping it all out when the spotty junior interpreters hit their growth spurt. Right now I'm working on the "small clothes" for a new Fife & Drum Corps member. Small clothes are anything that's not hugely fancy or expensive. Breeches, shirt, waistcoats, etc. All these fife & drummer kids are incredibly skinny, which leads to seam allowances the size of bedsheets. And I tell you what, nothing will cure your tendency to pull threads with your teeth like a faceful of spotty fife & drummer armpit odour.

Ooooh! Oooh! That reminds me--the Fife & Drum Corps are marching in the Macy's Day Parade on Thanksgiving Day!! Put it down on your calendars: you can see them marching in the shiny coats I helped make! They are shiny!

Meanwhile.

Being from Green Bay, I am sort of filially obligated to have an interest in the Green Bay Packers. But I have to tell you, loyal readers, I'm sort of perplexed by the news that's coming out of there right now. A few months ago, Brett Favre announced he was retiring, amid tears and gasps of "the end of an era." Seriously. It was bad. Grown men were crying in broad daylight, propped up only by their frosty beer mugs. Favre swore he didn't want to do "anything" for a year, but perhaps sit atop a mountain and contemplate his existence. Okay. I can understand. Seventeen years is a long time to do anything--no doubt the man has earned a bit of a rest. I was kind of struck at the time by the overly dramatic tone of his announcement, a sort of high choler that's usually evinced by high schoolers breaking up with their BFFs. But, whatever. It's football. I don't pretend to understand it.

Then recently Favre has announced he'd like to come back to the Packers. But as the starting quarterback. The Packers say no. Suddenly the entire world (fine, the United States) is caught up in the drama of will he or won't he--until the NFL Commissioner deus ex machina'd from on high and said he could go back to GB. But now I read today (yes, dad, I read the Packers news occasionally...especially when it's the featured story on Yahoo!) that he did not join the team practise today, but instead spent six hours talking with head coach Mike McCarthy.


McCarthy had a lot of non-things to say about their conversation, apart from "Brett's got a lot of hard decisions to make" and "we had a really good conversation" and he also mentioned they're meeting again tomorrow. Seriously? A six hour conversation--and yet still the organisation hasn't made up it's mind? It's a good thing I'm not a stockholder. I don't particularly care about football (except I like when they win, because then dad is in a good mood), but this seems a little, well, drama-queeny to me. There. I said it. Brett Favre is a huge drama queen. And there's no place in football for drama. I can't believe that the Packers organisation is tolerating this kind of behaviour...I guess it's true that the game isn't what it once was. Oh, fifty years ago now, if someone tried to pull this stunt, they'd get a curt "You're out. Man up and get over it." Now they "have conversations" and "make decisions." What decisions? It's a game--some you win, some you lose.

Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. I've been following it down here with some interest, partially because Brett Favre is practically family, partly because anything to do with the Packers makes me homesick (up to and including when I wear my green breeches with my yellow stockings), and partly because some of the women at work will poke me and say "didja hear the latest?!" Urgh, yes. And did you know that Wisconsin's exports include more than football--including some particularly fine beer and cheeses?

so much for Less TV

Spent all afternoon watching telly and nursing a headache which turned out to be from wearing my hair up in a ponytail--it's getting heavy again because I'm growing it out in the eighteenth century fashion. But, I did write a follow-up email to the person who has my portfolio...which is a writerly thing, and therefore totally counts.

"Dear Sir. Polite noises masking a desperate query: namely: DIDJA READ IT YET? More polite noises, some flattery, gentle enthusiasm, a dignified Sincerely, Me."

Doesn't exactly cancel out two hours of Animal Cops, but...at least it's something.

Good Steward, also, Less TV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday Morning Blogfest

I think I'm turning into my father...I got woken up this morning at eleven AM by the deep, throbbing bass that is the mating call of every American male ages 18-22, and the first thing that popped into my head was "They get ten minutes. After that, I'm going down there." Even though my colleagues warned me against banging on odd doors, I'm not afraid. Most of the people who live in my building are spotty college students who haven't gotten over the novelty of underage drinking in the parking lot. All I can say is--don't make it too easy for me to call the police.

Happily, they stopped. And I am somewhat mollified by a cup of sweet, sweet PG Tips tea. This was the longest week ever. In addition to getting promoted at work, I went to see two plays and "The Dark Knight" last night. I won't officially start as a tailor until Monday, but my boss has had me working on special repairs, which have been challenging. Yesterday I listened to four Sondheim musicals. Now I dream in internal rhyme. Also, on Thursday the laundry team went out for lunch for two hours, and then Wednesday and Friday I was defending liberty in ninety degree heat. Yesterday was the first time I actually worried about fainting though.

So all I want to do today is lie around...sleep a little...eat some foods...work on my new sewing project. It's so hard living in Virginia where every day is beautiful. In Wisconsin, if a beautiful day like this comes along, you feel obligated to "go outside and play." But here, where gorgeous day follows gorgeous day, I have to just stop and say "No, I will not go play outside today, today I am staying in and watching TV."

I got back from watching "The Dark Knight" at one o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't sleep right away...as those of you who've seen the movie will understand. Honestly, for me, the most distracting thing about the film was that it was filmed in Chicago, so there would be super-intense chase scenes happening, and I'd be thinking "I don't remember Lower Wacker being that long..." And the whole movie was just so dark. There were lots of moments where I was screaming internally--"Batman, what are you doing?!" And it didn't end. It just went on and on and on, getting darker and darker, until it didn't really matter who won or lost because the whole world had been destroyed in the process. The film made me feel really jumped-up inside, really unsettled.

It was really hard to watch Heath Ledger...I wanted to savour every scene he was in, but it was difficult to like his process, because his character was so inaccessible. Everytime you think you got a handle on what was motivating him, the next sentence out of his mouth would totally negate his prior statements. It was hard to watch him--it was more than a performance. The moment where the Joker put a gun to his head, I thought "wow, that looked a little too easy."

I can't say I enjoyed the movie, because it was hard to totally enter the world. It was dark, violent and upsetting. But it was definitely worth the price of admission, and I'd like to see it again. I can see why this movie has gotten so much press--it definitely kept me up last night, thinking.

Sweet dreams.

seven at one blow

Good news everyone! The giant waiting game has paid off. I've been promoted at work. I didn't want to talk about it too much, in case it didn't happen, but it did. Yay, me. From now on I'll be working as a tailor, so I'll actually be constructing clothes instead of merely repairing them. I'll be starting out on the men's team...yup, that means breechy goodness by the yard.

I applied for this job nearly a month ago. My boss asked me to apply, but I had to go through the entire application process again. I didn't realise how stressful it was--probably because the first time I did it I was still working in Chicago--but this time, waiting to hear back about my sewing test was slightly agonising. And I had to go to a job interview this morning. A proper interview, with questions and darting glances at my resume. I even dressed up--and I must say, it's harder to pull together a "business casual" outfit that it once was. Not only did I misplace my bronze lipgloss somewhere, but my H&M jacket has finally reached the point of "take in or toss."

But never mind that. It's a relief to know that I'll be making slightly more money--not to mention learning some valuable skillz about how to actually take a pile of fabric and turn it into a garment.

Huzzah. And now. Bed.

The ox is slow, but the earth is patient

So now for the unfun part: waiting to hear back from all the exciting things I applied/auditioned/porfolio'd for. Patience is not one of my virtues, but I am learning it here at CW, where everything happens when they are ready. Good and.

I have to keep reminding myself that even if nothing comes through--even if I don't get that position of "writer in residence" that I was fantasising about the other day--I am still Fully Employed at a job I look forward to, and I occasionally get paid to swallow black powder and shout huzzah in a lusty manner.

(That reminds me--I want a t-shirt that says "I'd Rather Be Eating Black Powder." hee.)

And I love Virginia. I can see how George Washington could never shut up about it in his letters back home. It's constantly hot and humid and languid and I've never appreciated shade so much in my life, but the smell here is incredible: nine parts dead pine needles and one part growing green things. I took myself off for a bike ride this afternoon because I was feeling frustrated, and by the time I came back, I was singing "Hearts of Oak" at the top of my lungs.

(That also reminds me--I need to learn some American military songs...somehow singing British naval songs while marching onto the field just seems...odd.)

Virginia has a lot of insects though, including the famed Wolf Spider (ask dear brother about that one) and two kinds of roaches, and crickets that will keep you up at night with their string quartets. I'm covered in bites after rolling around in the grass on Saturday while babysitting, and when I was out bike riding tonight I must have swallowed half a cloud of gnats. (You're still a vegetarian if you accidentally get your protein from biking through an insect cloud.) I'm not used to living in an area that's so vibrantly, unashamedly alive. While returning home tonight I was startled to see an animal cross the road--at first I thought it was a greyhound (what can I say, they're on my mind lately)--but then I realised it was a deer. In the middle of the day, in a middle of a suburb. Granted, heavily wooded suburb, but still.

So I'm focused on counting my blessings and being content with what I have. It's not so long, after all, since I was miserable and had nothing good. Steady job, good. Mad sewing skillz, good. Black powder, good. Five more pages of a new play, good. Men in breeches...very good.

Bringin' tha sexay

I know some of you have been wanting to see me in my historical clothes. Today I corralled my roommate and had her snap a photo of me out on our porch. Pretty sexay, huh? Men's breeches have a lot of gathering in the back, so you get a bubble-butt effect, but they're so comfortable I could wear them all day long. Stockings--not so much. What you don't see is the elastic "garters" I'm wearing to hold them up. The hat is definitely my favourite part: a black felt hat cocked up on one side with a black cockade...and it actually fits my huge head. My shoes are also pretty comfortable, except there's no arch support. They are made on period designs, but the shoes are soled with a thin layer of recycled rubber...how do I know it's recycled? It says "Goodyear" on my right foot.

The reason for getting into these clothes (it only takes me about ten minutes now--used to take me more than fifteen) was because I had militia again today. The bus doesn't run on Sundays, however, so I decided to take my bike. I live about four miles from CW--four hilly miles. But I feel guilty using my friends as my personal taxi service, and I wanted to start biking in earnest again, so I suited up and biked over. It was about 85 degrees when I set out, with humidity hovering around ninety percent--the storms that had been heading right towards us split it two and spared Williamsburg, but at least it was overcast with a steady breeze. It's amazing how quickly one learns to appreciate a heavy breeze. Not only does it cool, it also blows the smoke away.

My gun misfired twice because of the humidity, but I still had fun. And the ride home, while arduous, wasn't agonising. My legs are a little cranky though. I feel like saying "remember this?" I selfishly admit part of the reason I want to bike more is to keep my legs in shape...after all, breeches are designed to show off those sexay calves, and while mine are pretty sexay, they could be sexayier.

I did not, however, bike to church this morning. Arriving at militia hot and panting for breath is acceptable when you're surrounded by sweaty, dirty military guys. Not so much when you're going to a genteel Southern Methodist church. But I hate asking people to go out of their way to pick me up and give me rides. I want to be more self-reliant. Maybe the time has come for me to finally go over totally into militant bike-rider. Salon had an interesting article this morning about a man who has a "SUB"--a sports utility bike, a heavy-duty road bike he uses to take his kids to school and go grocery shopping. My bike is pretty reliable, it's just the woman-power that's a little lacking. But it only takes me twenty minutes to get to work, ten minutes to get to the grocery store. That's doable.

Church was a lot of fun this morning...the choir is done now until September, so we had "family choir" instead of just the sanctuary choir. The kids were pretty well-behaved, except for the two boys in front of me who were talking loudly during the introit...it was kinda hard to discipline them though, since they were reading from the Bible. After babysitting yesterday, and now seeing the kids running around in church, I feel like I've been poked repeatedly in my biological clock.

Although, watching some of the screaming kids in the historical area will cure that pretty quick. Let's just hit "snooze" shall we?

Slow News Day

Yet another reason why you should vote for Barack Obama: the rest of the world loves him. Including the French. And the Israelis.

I saw a t-shirt a few months ago that said "This Time, I Want a Smart President" which is true. I also want a president I don't have to apologise for or explain away when I travel abroad. A president who will, in turn, make Americans not appear to be imperialistic, oil-hungry hogs, so that when I introduce myself as "le American" I don't get that momentary sniff of "Oh. Huh." Even though 90% of Americans who manage to make it out of the country are open-minded thinkers, we still have to deal with the image of Fearless Leader.

This time I want a smart president AND someone who I am proud to have represent the face of our nation.

Basically, I enjoy the attention

Like all great shows, the second time I went out to perform Militia! The Review I totally screwed it up. Forgot commands, failed to wheel correctly, started on the wrong foot, you name it. For example "make ready!" means to fully cock your gun and take the hammerstall off the frizzen...not attempt to aim in in preparation for firing. Which is what I did. Oops. Sometimes the yelling at the raw recruits bit is not actually playacting.

This was the first time that most of my coworkers saw my outfit. Somehow, I don't know exactly how, I've gained a reputation as a Fan of Breeches, so the sight of me going through my laundry chores clad in eighteenth century garb garnered more than a few snickers and playful jabs. I get dressed on my break, since I don't have enough time to change and get over to the magazine after work. Naturally, everyone also gives me the once-over to make sure I'm picture-perfect. Luckily, I'm man enough to wear my buckles all the time. Not everyone in CW is. My hair-tie (a bit of selvage from some period fabric) did not pass muster, however, causing the accessories ladies to fuss a bit until I had a proper black ribbon. When my captain came in to get his laundry he heard about this momentary lapse, and made sure to poke fun at me when I arrived at the guardhouse. Since everyone knows I'm with the costume dept, I have an extra duty to make sure that my clothes are accurate and correctly worn.

Well, duty, yes, but also the fact that the clothes are just so much more fun if you get picky about little things like buckles and ribbons. Hee.

After my spectacular performance, I was walking back to turn in my musket when I noticed a pair of young boys following the militia group. One of them was cooing over my gun. I stopped to chat for a second, and their mother came up and asked if we could have a picture. Well, sure! Why not. I let the kids pat my gun afterward. Believe me, I know a thing or two about geeking out about historical goodness.

Then I had to trot on up to Merchant Square to catch the bus. It was sort of sprinkling by this point, so I tucked my hat down low and walked quickly. As I went past a school group, huddled under an awning for protection, I could hear some of the girls whispering and pointing--then one of them exclaimed: "Look at that guy! Look at his clothes! Do you think I should go talk to him?!"

It took me a minute before I realised they were talking about me. I wanted to stop and tell them about being a woman in the militia and show them my black powder marks, but I was afraid I was going to miss the bus, so I kept walking. I should have stopped though, because I was waiting for ten minutes. But it was still kind of a kick to hear that I could "pass" for "Nick" even if it was because I was on the move with a low slung hat and man-clothes.

Oh, I do like the militia. I love marching around and having my picture taken. And you don't have to talk to people if you don't want to...I think I might have to mingle a little more on Friday. Get in a couple more photo albums...