Mea culpa, mea culpa. I apologize to all who regularly visit my blog for being negligent in posting. (Wow, what do you people do all week?) I am shocked myself at the passage of time since my last posting and can blame only myself. And the all-consuming holiday season.
David and I took the entire week of Thanksgiving off (well, David did). This year was a St. Louis year. So, we decided to repeat our itinerary of Thanksgiving 2001 and book a couple of nights in a tiny hunting cabin on Lake Carlyle in southern Illinois. It was bliss. We ate comfort food and drank coffee and read books in front of a roaring gas fire. It is perfectly silent at the cabin (except for the occasional gunshot in pursuit of a pheasant during the day), and penetratingly dark at night. We had a great time again this year. We got up on Wednesday morning and made the short drive to St. Louis to spend Thanksgiving with many members of my family.
Upon returning from Thanksgiving, Dave and I made plans to buy a Christmas tree. A real one. For the two of us. In our own home. Dave and I have never bought a tree – or had even a real fake one. We have lived in separate apartments for so many years and always traveled on Christmas. I bought a couple of tiny fake trees that I put lights on. For years, Dave had one in his apartment window, and I had one in mine. Last year was our first Christmas as an officially married couple. We spent the week and a half before Christmas on the best honeymoon ever in Germany. Thus, we passed on much Christmas decorating. We returned to the states on December 23rd, I flew to St. Louis on the morning of Christmas Eve, and Dave drove to the outer suburbs to spend the day with some of his family. Not much Christmas at home together.
This year is different. We're around this year for much more of December, our apartment is pretty much unpacked and stuff is where we want it, and the screens were removed from the front porches of the apartment building this summer. What do screens have to do with it you ask? Well, let me tell you.
I have always wanted to buy a real tree. Just a small one. Perhaps a little taller and fuller than Charlie Brown's. Our living room ('fronchroom' so as not to confuse you Chicago types) is not big. A tree would overtake it and most likely leave needles everywhere. Oh, and we do not have any ornaments. Not my idea of Christmas.
Since the icky screens were stripped from our porches this summer, I have had visions of a small, perfect tree atop a small table out on the porch perfectly adorned with white lights – that stay on, I hate the flashing types. I knew I had to approach Dave deftly on the subject. I had my strategy planned. I had arguments at the ready. I was prepared for a battle, and I was prepared to win.
I started my advance with a casual mention of a tree as we noticed lots popping up around the city. Before I could begin a true assault, Dave acquiesced. All of my preparations were for naught! He not only agreed to buying a real, live tree, he said he was excited about it, and said he thought the porch was the perfect place for it?!
I calmed myself. I checked that I was in fact talking about spending money on a real tree that would only be tossed…wait a minute. It all made sense. Dave admittedly likes the tree that now fills our porch. However, his favorite part about the plan to buy this tree is his disposal plan. Upon the beginning of the new year, Dave will gleefully remove the tree from its stand and then check for my all clear from the alley below. Then, with much gusto I am sure, he will launch our real tree from the second floor porch onto the alley below. He can't wait.
We decided to buy our tree from a lot at nearby St. Mathias Church and School. I thought it would be a good thing to do since it would allow us to walk the tree home and since St. Mathias is one of several Catholic churches that was drive past in order to get down to St. Alphonsus. Also, previous generations of Dave's family (including Grandma Lu) were parishioners there. So, it would be good for us to spend a little money there, right?
We made our plan. The forecast called for snow showers the night we had free to look at trees. Visions of Currier and Ives danced in my head. Dave and I would bundle up and walk over to St. Mathias (over Lawrence Avenue and through the bank parking lot) and pick out the perfect tree that was being decorated by nature's falling snowflakes and Dave and I would carry it home through the snow where we would put it up and drink hot chocolate and…
It was freezing cold. Dave had to stay at work longer than he wanted. It was raining. We drove to St. Mathias. We did find a gorgeous tree and bought it from a friendly Cheesehead (aka Wisconsonite). As the rain came down, we popped the trunk, tossed its contents into the back seat and shoved the tree in. Not exactly an image you'll find on blue and white dinnerware.
The tree ended up spending a week on the porch. We didn't have a tree stand. And then I was in Champaign for a couple of days (blissfully ensconced in the king of all libraries). I bought a tree stand while I was downstate. It was defective. While I suffered bravely on the couch with a monster cold, Dave ventured out to Menard's to get us a tree stand. He battled with the tree out in the freezing cold while I watched (and offered just a few pointers) from the warm side of the porch door.
I bundled myself to Michelin-man proportions and joined Dave out on the porch to string the lights and hang some they-look-like-glass plastic silver ornaments. Just as we got the lights connected (Kate on bar stool, Dave as my safety belt, one extension cord, two light strands, and two adapters later), perfect, quiet snow began to fall. It wasn't forecasted (I am addicted to the Weather Channel). It was better than Currier and Ives.
Dave helped me hang the big paper star that I bought in Toronto. It hangs in the center of our front window. We cleaned up the plaster dust, put the couch back, turned off the regular lights, and sat in the merry glow of our Christmas star and tree under a blanket and some used kleenexes.
A Note About Advertising
Since it has been so many days since my last posting, a few things that I would typically blog about have occurred to me and then slipped away from my memory. However, one such topic was refreshed for me the other day at the doctor's office.
I had been meaning to blog a bit about advertising. It is more than ever-present during the holiday season. I am more struck, however, by the innovative ways that advertisers battle for our attention. For example, the changing ads behind baseball players at home plate, the ads for breath mints or cars or theater performances (that was today's) on the cuffs to protect your fingers on to-go coffee cups, or don't even get me started on pop-up ads online. The point is this – advertisers are learning to put ads anywhere there is space. And entrepreneurs are learning to sell every conceivable space to advertisers.
A good friend of ours used to sell pharmaceuticals for a major drug company. She would occasionally supply us with the giveaways she bestowed on the doctors she visited. Note pads, pens, clocks, clocks with picture frames, tiny flashlights, headsets for cell phones, travel coffee mugs – you name it, she had something with the name of drug emblazoned on it. I thought about this while I was sitting in the waiting room at my new doctor's office looking at drug posters and using a drug pen to fill out my medical history on a drug clipboard. Even the box of kleenex had a drug ad on it.
The exam room provided evidence of a new low in advertisement placement – in my opinion. This doctor visit was not my favorite kind of visit: the annual gynecological exam. Fun! For those of you unfamiliar with the equipment necessary for such an exam, I will not freak you out with the details. However, as you may guess, one essential piece of equipment for such an exam is a table with stirrups. These stirrups are often made of metal and can be quite chilly when one clothed only in paper places naked feet into them. Many kind physicians place socks or booties on the stirrups in an attempt to make a very uncomfortable position less shockingly cold.
This is a long way of revealing what you have probably already guessed – the booties on said stirrups were a noticeable purple color and clearly stamped with the consumer name of a birth control pill (and the official drug name that no one can pronounce beneath it). I still can't believe that. I'm sure that many women who are trying to figure out what brand of pill they want to take will think, "hey, that sounds like a good pill!" as they are spread out in the most vulnerable position humanly possible trying to make small talk with someone who is, um, well, I said I wouldn't freak you out.
I would wrap this get-to-the-point story up with the query "Where could advertisers possibly go next?" But I know better.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
The Profile
I think I remember hearing that the US Supreme Court will be hearing a case this term about the legality of police randomly checking for drunk drivers, seatbelt violations, etc. I could be wrong.
I was thinking about it last night, though, as I was driving east on Lawrence Ave to get to Lake Shore Drive to pick Dave up from work. The trip on Lawrence can be tricky – sometimes easy, sometimes not so easy. The section between Broadway and the lake can be interesting in terms of the view. As I approached the el stop and the Aragon Theatre, things got a little congested. This is normal. There are stop signs for a couple of blocks and often people just standing around – sometimes in the middle of the street. Welcome to Uptown.
As I waited at a stop light, a man in a large SUV parked on my right started honking his horn. I looked over at him. He pointed at me and pulled on his seatbelt. Right. Is he congratulating me for wearing my seatbelt? Is he asking me to applaud him for the same? Whatever.
Then I approached the stop sign at the next block. An orange diamond-shaped sign like one sees at construction zones was placed in the middle of the 4-way intersection. It read "Seatbelt Enforcement Zone." Police officers stood at each entrance to the intersection stopping every car so that they could shine a flashlight into the vehicle to check for seatbelts. The westbound traffic was backed up for blocks.
I noticed that the parking lot on the southeast corner of the intersection was full of cops – and poor saps who had were identified as lacking seatbelts. Every kind of car and utility company van was represented. I wondered how one could be caught at this slow intersection. Even if one did not know what was happening ahead, one would have the time to at least recognize that there were cops ahead and that people were being asked to pull over. Even if one thought that the cops were looking for a suspect, wouldn't one check that they were legal – headlights on, seatbelts on, beer and other contraband under the seat?
The guy two cars in front of me obviously didn't get it. The cop placed his hand on the hood of the car, shined the flashlight into his car, and then asked him to pull into the lot. The officer had to practically walk the car over. Once he returned to his post at my end of the intersection, he continued stopping cars to shine the light into them, and then direct them to a ticket or back on their way.
I was legal. I was wearing a black sweater and seated against the black interior of the car that has black seatbelts. The car in front of me was stopped for inspection as was everyone else in this "Enforcement Zone." I rolled up to the officer. He didn't move to put his hand on the hood of the car as he had for everyone else. He didn't even has his flashlight on. There is no way he saw inside the car. He smiled at me and waved me on.
How is it that a police officer can look at me at an intersection where they are stopping every single car and just decide that I am not what they are looking for, I am not possibly doing anything wrong? In a weird way I was kind of disappointed that I hadn't been checked. I was left out. Do I really look so law-abiding? And if I do, when will the airport security types who check the metal content in my bra figure that out?
I was thinking about it last night, though, as I was driving east on Lawrence Ave to get to Lake Shore Drive to pick Dave up from work. The trip on Lawrence can be tricky – sometimes easy, sometimes not so easy. The section between Broadway and the lake can be interesting in terms of the view. As I approached the el stop and the Aragon Theatre, things got a little congested. This is normal. There are stop signs for a couple of blocks and often people just standing around – sometimes in the middle of the street. Welcome to Uptown.
As I waited at a stop light, a man in a large SUV parked on my right started honking his horn. I looked over at him. He pointed at me and pulled on his seatbelt. Right. Is he congratulating me for wearing my seatbelt? Is he asking me to applaud him for the same? Whatever.
Then I approached the stop sign at the next block. An orange diamond-shaped sign like one sees at construction zones was placed in the middle of the 4-way intersection. It read "Seatbelt Enforcement Zone." Police officers stood at each entrance to the intersection stopping every car so that they could shine a flashlight into the vehicle to check for seatbelts. The westbound traffic was backed up for blocks.
I noticed that the parking lot on the southeast corner of the intersection was full of cops – and poor saps who had were identified as lacking seatbelts. Every kind of car and utility company van was represented. I wondered how one could be caught at this slow intersection. Even if one did not know what was happening ahead, one would have the time to at least recognize that there were cops ahead and that people were being asked to pull over. Even if one thought that the cops were looking for a suspect, wouldn't one check that they were legal – headlights on, seatbelts on, beer and other contraband under the seat?
The guy two cars in front of me obviously didn't get it. The cop placed his hand on the hood of the car, shined the flashlight into his car, and then asked him to pull into the lot. The officer had to practically walk the car over. Once he returned to his post at my end of the intersection, he continued stopping cars to shine the light into them, and then direct them to a ticket or back on their way.
I was legal. I was wearing a black sweater and seated against the black interior of the car that has black seatbelts. The car in front of me was stopped for inspection as was everyone else in this "Enforcement Zone." I rolled up to the officer. He didn't move to put his hand on the hood of the car as he had for everyone else. He didn't even has his flashlight on. There is no way he saw inside the car. He smiled at me and waved me on.
How is it that a police officer can look at me at an intersection where they are stopping every single car and just decide that I am not what they are looking for, I am not possibly doing anything wrong? In a weird way I was kind of disappointed that I hadn't been checked. I was left out. Do I really look so law-abiding? And if I do, when will the airport security types who check the metal content in my bra figure that out?
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Loaves, Fishes, and David's Undershirts
I had to do the laundry again yesterday. It wasn't a big deal this time. We've recovered from the long road trip and the tons of laundry produced by it.
I like to do laundry on Monday mornings. I am usually the only one in the laundromat. Occasionally, a man living at the nearby YMCA might come in with a small load, or a woman might drop by to pick up her AVON order from the lady who works there.
I entered the laundromat with a full laundry hamper and a full mkuh bag (the name David uses for a canvas bag with my initials stitched on it). This is a typical load for us. I sorted the laundry into the front loaders: two loads of color, one load of white. Our white loads, now that David's office has gone casual year-round, are typically underwear, tube socks, towels, and David's undershirts. Back when we had dress shirts to deal with and in the summer when I wear a lot of white t-shirts, we could do two white loads.
These are important points to make due to my recent complaints about David's undershirts. I hate folding his undershirts. David and I have different ways of folding our clothes. At about the nine year mark of our relationship, we decided to stop trying to get the other to fold according to our individual patterns. So, if David does laundry, he folds my laundry my way, and I grant him the same courtesy.
The thing is, there are always so many undershirts to fold! And to top it off, David's method for folding makes the undershirts lopsided squares – thus creating leaning towers of undershirts on the folding table. Once, when I tried to counter the effect by alternating the way I stacked the undershirts so that the bulky sides balanced each other (my Dad is an engineer), David requested that I cease and desist as it affected his morning procedure for removing the undershirt from the drawer, snapping the undershirt to its unfolded state, and slipping his arms and head through in one motion.
I have started to count the number of undershirts. If I do laundry approximately once a week, there should be no more than, say, nine undershirts per trip, right? Yesterday, I folded 12 undershirts.
Typically, I would complain, David would claim innocence, and we would move on.
However, yesterday was a different story.
Yesterday, when I had folded the last undershirt, matched and folded all of my socks, matched and balled up all of David's socks, and started to reload the hamper and mkuh bag with clean laundry – the laundry did not all fit!
This is an anomaly. Usually, the clean, folded laundry takes up much less space than the dirty, balled up laundry. Logical, right? I walked into the laundromat with two containers of dirty laundry, and left the laundromat with three containers (my backpack was enlisted to help) of clean laundry – just as Christ's apostles started with one basket of loaves and fishes and ended up with multiple baskets of leftovers.
I know that the hamper and mkuh bag did not get smaller as I could not fit all of David's undershirts into his drawers when I returned home.
I can't explain it.
I like to do laundry on Monday mornings. I am usually the only one in the laundromat. Occasionally, a man living at the nearby YMCA might come in with a small load, or a woman might drop by to pick up her AVON order from the lady who works there.
I entered the laundromat with a full laundry hamper and a full mkuh bag (the name David uses for a canvas bag with my initials stitched on it). This is a typical load for us. I sorted the laundry into the front loaders: two loads of color, one load of white. Our white loads, now that David's office has gone casual year-round, are typically underwear, tube socks, towels, and David's undershirts. Back when we had dress shirts to deal with and in the summer when I wear a lot of white t-shirts, we could do two white loads.
These are important points to make due to my recent complaints about David's undershirts. I hate folding his undershirts. David and I have different ways of folding our clothes. At about the nine year mark of our relationship, we decided to stop trying to get the other to fold according to our individual patterns. So, if David does laundry, he folds my laundry my way, and I grant him the same courtesy.
The thing is, there are always so many undershirts to fold! And to top it off, David's method for folding makes the undershirts lopsided squares – thus creating leaning towers of undershirts on the folding table. Once, when I tried to counter the effect by alternating the way I stacked the undershirts so that the bulky sides balanced each other (my Dad is an engineer), David requested that I cease and desist as it affected his morning procedure for removing the undershirt from the drawer, snapping the undershirt to its unfolded state, and slipping his arms and head through in one motion.
I have started to count the number of undershirts. If I do laundry approximately once a week, there should be no more than, say, nine undershirts per trip, right? Yesterday, I folded 12 undershirts.
Typically, I would complain, David would claim innocence, and we would move on.
However, yesterday was a different story.
Yesterday, when I had folded the last undershirt, matched and folded all of my socks, matched and balled up all of David's socks, and started to reload the hamper and mkuh bag with clean laundry – the laundry did not all fit!
This is an anomaly. Usually, the clean, folded laundry takes up much less space than the dirty, balled up laundry. Logical, right? I walked into the laundromat with two containers of dirty laundry, and left the laundromat with three containers (my backpack was enlisted to help) of clean laundry – just as Christ's apostles started with one basket of loaves and fishes and ended up with multiple baskets of leftovers.
I know that the hamper and mkuh bag did not get smaller as I could not fit all of David's undershirts into his drawers when I returned home.
I can't explain it.
Monday, November 03, 2003
Saturday
Dave and I were at Sam's again on Saturday. This trip was more of a strategic strike than a shopping trip. We had our list and fought our way through the crush of humanity to grab our items. The mass of people always shocks me. Most people's inability to drive their cart and be aware of the people around them scares me. If we were a herd of humans out on the savannah, most of these people would have been dragged off for lion food long ago.
When we maneuvered ourselves into a checkout lane that would take less than a year to get through, I knew I had enough time to hit the bathroom. I left Dave to fend for himself and went to the ladies room -- which is oversized like everything else at Sam's. Once inside my stall, I became distracted by the shiny silver lock mechanism on the door. The manufacturer's name is stamped into the lock: "Hiny Hider."
I can't really add anything to that.
Once home, Dave and I decided to enjoy the digital cable we have purchased. We haven't really yet had a chance to surf all the channels. Dave did the driving with the remote while I set up the ironing board to iron some chair covers I bought for some old chairs of ours. When I finally got everything set up and all the chairs arranged, I asked Dave what he had found for our television viewing pleasure. He said, "I love cable tv." He told me he had two channels set up on the jump.
The first was AMC which was showing Airport '77. We had missed the crash, but the American Airlines plane was now completely submerged in the ocean. The cast of thousands was amazing. We recognized everyone but only knew a few names. The other channel was ESPN2. The program was ESPN Speedworld. They were showing rider lawnmower racing. I'm not kidding. Dave was beside himself watching grown men and women race lawnmowers. Lawnmowers.
I can't really add anything to that either.
When we maneuvered ourselves into a checkout lane that would take less than a year to get through, I knew I had enough time to hit the bathroom. I left Dave to fend for himself and went to the ladies room -- which is oversized like everything else at Sam's. Once inside my stall, I became distracted by the shiny silver lock mechanism on the door. The manufacturer's name is stamped into the lock: "Hiny Hider."
I can't really add anything to that.
Once home, Dave and I decided to enjoy the digital cable we have purchased. We haven't really yet had a chance to surf all the channels. Dave did the driving with the remote while I set up the ironing board to iron some chair covers I bought for some old chairs of ours. When I finally got everything set up and all the chairs arranged, I asked Dave what he had found for our television viewing pleasure. He said, "I love cable tv." He told me he had two channels set up on the jump.
The first was AMC which was showing Airport '77. We had missed the crash, but the American Airlines plane was now completely submerged in the ocean. The cast of thousands was amazing. We recognized everyone but only knew a few names. The other channel was ESPN2. The program was ESPN Speedworld. They were showing rider lawnmower racing. I'm not kidding. Dave was beside himself watching grown men and women race lawnmowers. Lawnmowers.
I can't really add anything to that either.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Tis The Season
Catalogs now arrive by the dozens every day. I love catalogs and all that they represent. I love catalogs like I love magazines. Those who know me are aware of my love for words, know how I crave the circles and lines that organize themselves into words on the page that allow me to consume the thoughts of another – but I love pictures too.
I think it goes back to my childhood – all children love pictures that go along with or provide the inspiration for a story. I remember an early reader I had in kindergarten that substituted pictures for words that were beyond my reading level. I distinctly remember a story having a picture of a sandwich, instead of the letters s-a-n-d-w-i-c-h, and demanding my mother to reveal the letters to me.
Today I had to take my Wagenschen to SEARS to get a new battery. The original battery lasted 96,702 miles, and finally went kaput. My dear husband bought jumper cables last night so that we could jump the car this morning. (He was sweet enough to let me read the directions rather the two of us using our combined intelligence and stubbornness to get one of us killed). He followed me out to the SEARS at Six Corners on the northwest ('nortwest' if you're from there) side of Chicago to make sure I made it.
While I waited for my little car to get a transplant, I walked across Cicero to our favorite magazine store. It is heaven. Shiny covers on bound shiny pages peek out from their allotted slots. Pick a topic, pick a hobby, pick a language – this place has everything. I bought three magazines to add to my holiday catalog collection from our tiny mailbox, and today's New York Times (an anniversary present for David from which I also benefit) from the front door step.
I had discovered my little car needed a battery yesterday morning when I attempted to take our many pounds of dirty laundry to the laundromat. The guys at SEARS had to deal with the proximity of my driver seat to the steering wheel (and my Kmart seat cushion for height), as well as a duffle bag of stinky laundry for a passenger, and a nagging laundry hamper in the back seat. I still needed detergent.
There is a Walgreen's down the street from the magazine store (there seems to be one on every corner now). I went in to grab detergent. While standing in line at the register with my other package, an elderly woman in front of me turned around and surveyed me from top to bottom. She was five foot in her heels and perfect trench coat and one of those hair covers that fold up to fit neatly in your handbag, and white gloves(?!). She was picture perfect with pink lipstick and permanent curls. She had to be 75.
I regretted my quick Illini shower (brush teeth, load on deodorant, wet the hair or cover with a hat), and worried that I looked like hell. She turned back the other way and then said, "Time to do the laundry, is it?"
"Yes," I replied, "as soon as I pick up my car."
"What's wrong with your car?" she said as she finally turned around to face me.
I told her the short story and said that as soon as I got my purchases across the street and picked up the car, laundry-doing would commence. She picked up her things from the register counter and stepped aside,
"Here," she said, "you go in front of me. It sounds like you could use a good deed to turn your luck around."
I asked her if she was sure, and then thanked her and stepped ahead.
She said from behind me, "You see, not all old people are so bad."
I turned around and said, "I would never think such a thing."
"I do sometimes," she replied, "they all walk so damned slow and none of them can drive!"
I was happy to get to the laundromat (go figure) and once I got all of our clothes into three double-loaders I went through my magazines. Oh how I hate all of the inserts and different paper weights! Perhaps more damning evidence of my OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is my need to remove all page-altering inserts from magazines before I can read them. All floating and attached subscription cards, all full-page perfume inserts (instant headache), all of the heavier-weight designer catalog inserts that force you to flip to their navel-revealing pictures of a new winter collection (of purses). Today I was exposed to the latest in frustrating magazine advertising inserts. It reminded me of the first time I came across a cosmetic sample in a Seventeen magazine. You could pull back small labels to reveal an small smear of the latest purple metallic lipstick like some kind of Mabelline advent calendar. What fun! My InStyle magazine produced a surprise for me. This ad was particularly stiff. As I pulled on the corner of the page to rip it from the magazine's spine, a large advent calendar window popped open and a full size panty liner sprang forth.
Luckily, I have reflexes like a cat.
Words of Wisdom
Found on a sticker-laden file cabinet at the magazine store: A sticker with the image of an AK-47 surrounded by the words, "It's not guns that kill people, it's the drunken lunatics I sell them to that do." Brilliant.
I think it goes back to my childhood – all children love pictures that go along with or provide the inspiration for a story. I remember an early reader I had in kindergarten that substituted pictures for words that were beyond my reading level. I distinctly remember a story having a picture of a sandwich, instead of the letters s-a-n-d-w-i-c-h, and demanding my mother to reveal the letters to me.
Today I had to take my Wagenschen to SEARS to get a new battery. The original battery lasted 96,702 miles, and finally went kaput. My dear husband bought jumper cables last night so that we could jump the car this morning. (He was sweet enough to let me read the directions rather the two of us using our combined intelligence and stubbornness to get one of us killed). He followed me out to the SEARS at Six Corners on the northwest ('nortwest' if you're from there) side of Chicago to make sure I made it.
While I waited for my little car to get a transplant, I walked across Cicero to our favorite magazine store. It is heaven. Shiny covers on bound shiny pages peek out from their allotted slots. Pick a topic, pick a hobby, pick a language – this place has everything. I bought three magazines to add to my holiday catalog collection from our tiny mailbox, and today's New York Times (an anniversary present for David from which I also benefit) from the front door step.
I had discovered my little car needed a battery yesterday morning when I attempted to take our many pounds of dirty laundry to the laundromat. The guys at SEARS had to deal with the proximity of my driver seat to the steering wheel (and my Kmart seat cushion for height), as well as a duffle bag of stinky laundry for a passenger, and a nagging laundry hamper in the back seat. I still needed detergent.
There is a Walgreen's down the street from the magazine store (there seems to be one on every corner now). I went in to grab detergent. While standing in line at the register with my other package, an elderly woman in front of me turned around and surveyed me from top to bottom. She was five foot in her heels and perfect trench coat and one of those hair covers that fold up to fit neatly in your handbag, and white gloves(?!). She was picture perfect with pink lipstick and permanent curls. She had to be 75.
I regretted my quick Illini shower (brush teeth, load on deodorant, wet the hair or cover with a hat), and worried that I looked like hell. She turned back the other way and then said, "Time to do the laundry, is it?"
"Yes," I replied, "as soon as I pick up my car."
"What's wrong with your car?" she said as she finally turned around to face me.
I told her the short story and said that as soon as I got my purchases across the street and picked up the car, laundry-doing would commence. She picked up her things from the register counter and stepped aside,
"Here," she said, "you go in front of me. It sounds like you could use a good deed to turn your luck around."
I asked her if she was sure, and then thanked her and stepped ahead.
She said from behind me, "You see, not all old people are so bad."
I turned around and said, "I would never think such a thing."
"I do sometimes," she replied, "they all walk so damned slow and none of them can drive!"
I was happy to get to the laundromat (go figure) and once I got all of our clothes into three double-loaders I went through my magazines. Oh how I hate all of the inserts and different paper weights! Perhaps more damning evidence of my OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is my need to remove all page-altering inserts from magazines before I can read them. All floating and attached subscription cards, all full-page perfume inserts (instant headache), all of the heavier-weight designer catalog inserts that force you to flip to their navel-revealing pictures of a new winter collection (of purses). Today I was exposed to the latest in frustrating magazine advertising inserts. It reminded me of the first time I came across a cosmetic sample in a Seventeen magazine. You could pull back small labels to reveal an small smear of the latest purple metallic lipstick like some kind of Mabelline advent calendar. What fun! My InStyle magazine produced a surprise for me. This ad was particularly stiff. As I pulled on the corner of the page to rip it from the magazine's spine, a large advent calendar window popped open and a full size panty liner sprang forth.
Luckily, I have reflexes like a cat.
Words of Wisdom
Found on a sticker-laden file cabinet at the magazine store: A sticker with the image of an AK-47 surrounded by the words, "It's not guns that kill people, it's the drunken lunatics I sell them to that do." Brilliant.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Homecoming
David and I returned last night from a lengthy road trip across two countries and four states. We both enjoy road trips, but we also enjoy coming home.
It's so nice to sleep in your own bed, sort through days of junk mail, lament at the empty fridge, feel guilt over dying house plants, hide from the mountains of dirty laundry, and relax under the drip of your own no-water-pressure shower.
To be honest, I am really glad to be home. I always feel a renewed invigoration after being away from home for a while. After visiting with friends at U of I, seeing the fall colors from Toronto to St. Louis, and spending time in hotel rooms and family members' homes, I am inspired on several fronts.
Being away from home for a week has given me a fresh perspective – and, surprisingly, an appreciation for the way Chicagoans drive.
It's so nice to sleep in your own bed, sort through days of junk mail, lament at the empty fridge, feel guilt over dying house plants, hide from the mountains of dirty laundry, and relax under the drip of your own no-water-pressure shower.
To be honest, I am really glad to be home. I always feel a renewed invigoration after being away from home for a while. After visiting with friends at U of I, seeing the fall colors from Toronto to St. Louis, and spending time in hotel rooms and family members' homes, I am inspired on several fronts.
Being away from home for a week has given me a fresh perspective – and, surprisingly, an appreciation for the way Chicagoans drive.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
O Canada!
David and I have been in Toronto (or really, outside of Toronto) for a few days. He is attending some conference – I’m hanging out and enjoying the cool weather.
Years ago, Dave and I were attending a wedding in the Detroit area and decided it would be fun to cross into Canada just to say we'd done it. We got into Canada, drove around a couple of blocks, and then got back in line to cross the bridge into the US. The US Customs person wanted to know how long we had been in Canada. We couldn't help chuckling. Obviously, we did that long before 09.11.01. Today, you wait on the bridge forever to get into the US.
Since that excursion, I have spent some time in Vancouver for a conference of my own, we have driven across part of Canada (Detroit/Windsor to Niagra Falls) on one of our roadtrips, I visited Canada for my bachelorette celebration, and we used Canada as a thruway to Michigan recently after attending a wedding in Rochester, NY – when we waited in line for a couple of hours. And here we are again.
We got here the night of our first anniversary – making it two years in a row that we have stayed in a very nice hotel suite. While Dave attends import/export talks and works to avoid insulting the hosts when not toasting the queen (?!), I have been heading out into the area to explore.
We're east of Toronto proper in an area called Markham. It's like most areas on the edge of urban sprawl – big roads, big new houses, the occasional farm field, large corporate campuses, strip malls, and one or two small, old communities. So now you know where I was headed.
Historic Unionville is not far from the hotel. It was founded in 1794. It has a Main Street with ancient, beautiful homes and quaint shops and trees that are the height of their autumn glory. I spent a good part of yesterday there and made some purchases at a neat little shop that had paper stars in the window that light up. They are exactly the same as the stars Dave and I saw all over Dresden on our honeymoon. I looked into buying some there – but they were expensive and had German electrical plugs. When I stepped into the shop in Unionville, I was afraid they were for decoration. I started a conversation with the two owners about them.
You might be able to guess how that went. My crooked pinkies are not the only proof that I am my mother's daughter. I talked with the owners for some time. Topics ranged from the paper stars, their use for decoration in parts of eastern Germany and among Christians in India, the length of the drive from Chicago, the Cubs, the Blues, the Hull family of hockey fame, etc. I had a great time – but I am still amazed when I walk away from an encounter like that that I actually talked so long to and learned so much about strangers. The friendly Canadians succeeded in selling me one of the very cool paper stars (including the light fixture), as well as two glass stars that hang from chains and hold tea lights.
So this trip to Canada has been fun. I’m still fascinated by how much the same and how different Canada is from parts of the US. I've gotten more of a feeling of a love/hate relationship that some Canadians have with the US this time around. I'll have to blog about that some other time. I need to get packing so that we can head out on time for the next leg of our journey: Urbana, Illinois!
Years ago, Dave and I were attending a wedding in the Detroit area and decided it would be fun to cross into Canada just to say we'd done it. We got into Canada, drove around a couple of blocks, and then got back in line to cross the bridge into the US. The US Customs person wanted to know how long we had been in Canada. We couldn't help chuckling. Obviously, we did that long before 09.11.01. Today, you wait on the bridge forever to get into the US.
Since that excursion, I have spent some time in Vancouver for a conference of my own, we have driven across part of Canada (Detroit/Windsor to Niagra Falls) on one of our roadtrips, I visited Canada for my bachelorette celebration, and we used Canada as a thruway to Michigan recently after attending a wedding in Rochester, NY – when we waited in line for a couple of hours. And here we are again.
We got here the night of our first anniversary – making it two years in a row that we have stayed in a very nice hotel suite. While Dave attends import/export talks and works to avoid insulting the hosts when not toasting the queen (?!), I have been heading out into the area to explore.
We're east of Toronto proper in an area called Markham. It's like most areas on the edge of urban sprawl – big roads, big new houses, the occasional farm field, large corporate campuses, strip malls, and one or two small, old communities. So now you know where I was headed.
Historic Unionville is not far from the hotel. It was founded in 1794. It has a Main Street with ancient, beautiful homes and quaint shops and trees that are the height of their autumn glory. I spent a good part of yesterday there and made some purchases at a neat little shop that had paper stars in the window that light up. They are exactly the same as the stars Dave and I saw all over Dresden on our honeymoon. I looked into buying some there – but they were expensive and had German electrical plugs. When I stepped into the shop in Unionville, I was afraid they were for decoration. I started a conversation with the two owners about them.
You might be able to guess how that went. My crooked pinkies are not the only proof that I am my mother's daughter. I talked with the owners for some time. Topics ranged from the paper stars, their use for decoration in parts of eastern Germany and among Christians in India, the length of the drive from Chicago, the Cubs, the Blues, the Hull family of hockey fame, etc. I had a great time – but I am still amazed when I walk away from an encounter like that that I actually talked so long to and learned so much about strangers. The friendly Canadians succeeded in selling me one of the very cool paper stars (including the light fixture), as well as two glass stars that hang from chains and hold tea lights.
So this trip to Canada has been fun. I’m still fascinated by how much the same and how different Canada is from parts of the US. I've gotten more of a feeling of a love/hate relationship that some Canadians have with the US this time around. I'll have to blog about that some other time. I need to get packing so that we can head out on time for the next leg of our journey: Urbana, Illinois!
Friday, October 17, 2003
I Love You, David
I am married to the most wonderful man in the world. Our first wedding anniversary is on Sunday – it is also the 12th anniversary of our first kiss.
I was straightening up the apartment this morning in preparation for the cable guy – long, ugly story, and because the apartment needs it, and because we will be on the road soon and it is so nice to come back to a clean apartment.
I had to pitch the beautiful arrangement that Dave sent me for my birthday. I had trimmed it down to its last blooms and it was shedding all over the dining room table. Just as I was cramming the slimy stems into a garbage bag, the doorbell buzzed. The cable guy? He was supposed to call first!
I grabbed my keys and jogged downstairs (the door buzzer functions only now and again). There was a young man at the door from our most favorite florist. Flowers for me? He asked if I was Kate. I said yes and signed for them. He said, "Didn't I deliver some flowers here a couple of weeks ago?" I said yes.
I took the tall package upstairs into the living room and tore back the brown paper to reveal an arrangement of a dozen Leonidas roses with hypericum berries – flowers from my bridal bouquet. Is he romantic or what?
Not only did the woman taking his order have to track down the vice president of the florist company in order to get the information about my bouquet (he is the designer and worked with me on planning the flowers for the wedding and is a super guy), but David also had the flowers delivered early so that I could enjoy them.
I am constantly amazed by this man. I can beat him at rock/paper/scissors to the point of embarrassment because I know what he is going to do, but he surprises me on a regular basis. I am still shocked that he was able to pull off the most romantic and perfect marriage proposal I have ever heard of (okay, I might be a little biased). He surprises me all the time – and not just with gifts.
The fun surprises like birthday pizzas and tiny cakes, flowers unannounced, playing cards and tacky tourist magnets, and a necklace with a beautiful diamond on our wedding day that made me blubber like an idiot are really just bonuses.
The true gift I receive from David is himself – his love, his confidence, his thoughtfulness, his support, his generosity, his intellect, his humor. David makes me better, he amplifies my good qualities and accepts the bad ones, he frees me and makes me truly happy.
He is my perfect partner. He is my match. I am thankful every day that David is in my life.
I was straightening up the apartment this morning in preparation for the cable guy – long, ugly story, and because the apartment needs it, and because we will be on the road soon and it is so nice to come back to a clean apartment.
I had to pitch the beautiful arrangement that Dave sent me for my birthday. I had trimmed it down to its last blooms and it was shedding all over the dining room table. Just as I was cramming the slimy stems into a garbage bag, the doorbell buzzed. The cable guy? He was supposed to call first!
I grabbed my keys and jogged downstairs (the door buzzer functions only now and again). There was a young man at the door from our most favorite florist. Flowers for me? He asked if I was Kate. I said yes and signed for them. He said, "Didn't I deliver some flowers here a couple of weeks ago?" I said yes.
I took the tall package upstairs into the living room and tore back the brown paper to reveal an arrangement of a dozen Leonidas roses with hypericum berries – flowers from my bridal bouquet. Is he romantic or what?
Not only did the woman taking his order have to track down the vice president of the florist company in order to get the information about my bouquet (he is the designer and worked with me on planning the flowers for the wedding and is a super guy), but David also had the flowers delivered early so that I could enjoy them.
I am constantly amazed by this man. I can beat him at rock/paper/scissors to the point of embarrassment because I know what he is going to do, but he surprises me on a regular basis. I am still shocked that he was able to pull off the most romantic and perfect marriage proposal I have ever heard of (okay, I might be a little biased). He surprises me all the time – and not just with gifts.
The fun surprises like birthday pizzas and tiny cakes, flowers unannounced, playing cards and tacky tourist magnets, and a necklace with a beautiful diamond on our wedding day that made me blubber like an idiot are really just bonuses.
The true gift I receive from David is himself – his love, his confidence, his thoughtfulness, his support, his generosity, his intellect, his humor. David makes me better, he amplifies my good qualities and accepts the bad ones, he frees me and makes me truly happy.
He is my perfect partner. He is my match. I am thankful every day that David is in my life.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Rainy Tuesday
Fall has decided to return to Chicago. We have had mid and high 70s for a while now, but the rains came last night – and are still coming. The high will be 53 today with rain most of the day and winds gusting to 25 mph for the remainder. I love this stuff. It is dark and cool. Tree trunks are black with rain and are being stripped of many of their brightly colored leaves.
The fall weather makes me want to clean. And eat. I always enjoy a good spring cleaning manic episode, but the fall is different. I want to purge and nest. I have been watching programs like Clean Sweep on TLC, and Clean House on the Style Network lately. They are tremendous.
I have a lot of stuff – but the people on these programs are nearly beyond help. I feel better when I see how bad they are. I envy only the help they get. A crew shows up and empties your clutter-filled room or rooms. On Clean Sweep, they lay tarps in your front yard and put everything you own on them. Then you and your spouse/partner (with the help of a pushy person from the show) engage in the "one touch" rule. You pick something up from the pile and decide to keep it, sell it, or toss it. Do you love it? While you're agonizing over years of crap, a team of cleaners and designers are revitalizing your space. On Clean House, they use your garage sale proceeds and match the total up to a certain amount to do the same – they even have a professional organizer. The people can then gradually bring the small fraction of their possessions that they have decided to keep into clean and organized spaces. I love it.
So now I want to do purge and revitalize. Actually, I've wanted to do it for years, but now I am inspired by these shows. My task is different in that I don't have nearly as much stuff as the people on TV, but most of my stuff is paper. I know that I am ready for such a step (and perhaps am getting older as pointed out to me by a friend) because I have started to dream about having a tube that extends from our back porch into the dumpster below for all of my paper. As I dump crushing loads of paper, I am able to straighten and organize my space, clean and dust every surface with my arsenal of Swiffer products, and fill ample shelving with my cherished books (which have already been entered into my personal library database). The Swiffer products are crucial and are a really big part of enjoying the whole process. Thus, the getting old part. I used to lust after toys – now I desire cleaning products and appliances. When did that happen?
My neurotic personality allows me to visualize this process, and then condemn it to long "to do wish lists." My German blood fuels my desire that everything be in Ordnung, but my lazy side rarely makes it happen.
I used to be able exert the German side in my office when I worked. I relaxed in my strategically-placed lighting that freed me from use of the overhead fluorescent stadium lighting. I had a coffee maker, organized bookshelves (along with a system for colleagues and students to check out books), a color-coded filing system, post-its of all shapes and sizes, desktop wire racks for my current files, places for all supplies, an intricate network of extension cords for all of my video and audio equipment – it was bliss. My apartment was always another story.
Now I have no tiny office in a tornado-proof building to escape to. I have to deal now with my personal possessions and the collections of my former work life in one space. I have decided that this is the week to do it. I have recently celebrated a birthday, and Dave and I are days away from celebrating one year of marriage – I think these are good rationalizations for plugging in the shredder and wiping the slate clean. Oh! and the garbage strike is over too.
I'll keep you updated.
ALSO…
The Cubs play Game Six tonight against the Marlins in Chicago. If the Cubs win, they go on to the next level (I don't like to type or speak the actual name of the next level so as not to incur the wrath of my jinx-fearing husband). It should prove to be perfect weather for Chicago baseball.
Dave and I had "Traditional Austrian Breakfast" yesterday at my favorite Austrian café – Julius Meinl: toast, butter, some slices of incredible ham, some slices of tasty Emmentaler cheese, and a soft-boiled egg in a egg cup accompanied by a tiny spoon. Heaven. Each time I go back to Meinl's, I am reminded of just how Austrian they truly are. Eating the golden yolk of my egg gave me flashbacks of sitting in Arthur and Brigitte's tiny kitchen in Vienna waiting for my eggs. Brigitte used to eat kiwi from her egg cups – which drove Arthur crazy. Obviously, egg cups are for eggs only.
Each Sunday I cross the altar at St. Alphonsus after the 7:45am mass to get into the sacristy and then into the rectory for choir rehearsal prior to our 10:30am mass. This Sunday, I got there early and had to wait for the 7:45 mass to end. I stood in the back of church and noted how tiny the altar servers (one boy, one girl) were. With the new school year, new servers have been inducted into service. But these two were tiny! Servers at St. Al's carry candles on wood candle holders that appear to be about 3-feet tall during the procession, they carry and hold them up during the gospel, they carry them down and back up the aisle at the offertory, and then carry them out for the recessional. I got back to the sacristy just as the servers had returned from that last leg of candle duty. As they let the candles clunk to the floor with a thud and then blew them out, the little boy said to the little girl, "Gee whiz. I don't know about this. These things are heavy!"
The fall weather makes me want to clean. And eat. I always enjoy a good spring cleaning manic episode, but the fall is different. I want to purge and nest. I have been watching programs like Clean Sweep on TLC, and Clean House on the Style Network lately. They are tremendous.
I have a lot of stuff – but the people on these programs are nearly beyond help. I feel better when I see how bad they are. I envy only the help they get. A crew shows up and empties your clutter-filled room or rooms. On Clean Sweep, they lay tarps in your front yard and put everything you own on them. Then you and your spouse/partner (with the help of a pushy person from the show) engage in the "one touch" rule. You pick something up from the pile and decide to keep it, sell it, or toss it. Do you love it? While you're agonizing over years of crap, a team of cleaners and designers are revitalizing your space. On Clean House, they use your garage sale proceeds and match the total up to a certain amount to do the same – they even have a professional organizer. The people can then gradually bring the small fraction of their possessions that they have decided to keep into clean and organized spaces. I love it.
So now I want to do purge and revitalize. Actually, I've wanted to do it for years, but now I am inspired by these shows. My task is different in that I don't have nearly as much stuff as the people on TV, but most of my stuff is paper. I know that I am ready for such a step (and perhaps am getting older as pointed out to me by a friend) because I have started to dream about having a tube that extends from our back porch into the dumpster below for all of my paper. As I dump crushing loads of paper, I am able to straighten and organize my space, clean and dust every surface with my arsenal of Swiffer products, and fill ample shelving with my cherished books (which have already been entered into my personal library database). The Swiffer products are crucial and are a really big part of enjoying the whole process. Thus, the getting old part. I used to lust after toys – now I desire cleaning products and appliances. When did that happen?
My neurotic personality allows me to visualize this process, and then condemn it to long "to do wish lists." My German blood fuels my desire that everything be in Ordnung, but my lazy side rarely makes it happen.
I used to be able exert the German side in my office when I worked. I relaxed in my strategically-placed lighting that freed me from use of the overhead fluorescent stadium lighting. I had a coffee maker, organized bookshelves (along with a system for colleagues and students to check out books), a color-coded filing system, post-its of all shapes and sizes, desktop wire racks for my current files, places for all supplies, an intricate network of extension cords for all of my video and audio equipment – it was bliss. My apartment was always another story.
Now I have no tiny office in a tornado-proof building to escape to. I have to deal now with my personal possessions and the collections of my former work life in one space. I have decided that this is the week to do it. I have recently celebrated a birthday, and Dave and I are days away from celebrating one year of marriage – I think these are good rationalizations for plugging in the shredder and wiping the slate clean. Oh! and the garbage strike is over too.
I'll keep you updated.
ALSO…
The Cubs play Game Six tonight against the Marlins in Chicago. If the Cubs win, they go on to the next level (I don't like to type or speak the actual name of the next level so as not to incur the wrath of my jinx-fearing husband). It should prove to be perfect weather for Chicago baseball.
Dave and I had "Traditional Austrian Breakfast" yesterday at my favorite Austrian café – Julius Meinl: toast, butter, some slices of incredible ham, some slices of tasty Emmentaler cheese, and a soft-boiled egg in a egg cup accompanied by a tiny spoon. Heaven. Each time I go back to Meinl's, I am reminded of just how Austrian they truly are. Eating the golden yolk of my egg gave me flashbacks of sitting in Arthur and Brigitte's tiny kitchen in Vienna waiting for my eggs. Brigitte used to eat kiwi from her egg cups – which drove Arthur crazy. Obviously, egg cups are for eggs only.
Each Sunday I cross the altar at St. Alphonsus after the 7:45am mass to get into the sacristy and then into the rectory for choir rehearsal prior to our 10:30am mass. This Sunday, I got there early and had to wait for the 7:45 mass to end. I stood in the back of church and noted how tiny the altar servers (one boy, one girl) were. With the new school year, new servers have been inducted into service. But these two were tiny! Servers at St. Al's carry candles on wood candle holders that appear to be about 3-feet tall during the procession, they carry and hold them up during the gospel, they carry them down and back up the aisle at the offertory, and then carry them out for the recessional. I got back to the sacristy just as the servers had returned from that last leg of candle duty. As they let the candles clunk to the floor with a thud and then blew them out, the little boy said to the little girl, "Gee whiz. I don't know about this. These things are heavy!"
Friday, October 10, 2003
Mein Geburtstag
On Wednesday I tuned a year older. Again. I remember agonizing for weeks when I was young waiting for my birthday to finally arrive. Now I seem to have a birthday twice a year – they can't possibly be occurring as frequently as they seem to now.
And still – I love birthdays. I have had a cold this week and was feeling miserable on my birthday morning. My outstanding husband left me to slumber. The doorbell rang later in the afternoon – a beautiful arrangement of flowers in a gorgeous vase from my David. I also received a surprise skirt (we never buy each other clothes) from one of my favorite catalogues. I had folded down the corners of pages that contained items I liked in one of my catalogues. I do this a lot. I rarely actually purchase anything. David apparently came across this catalogue and made the purchase.
When the UPS man arrived with the package, I was afraid that I had started to order my wish list clothes during some sort of blackout and therefore couldn't remember purchasing this skirt. David picked out a great skirt from many many dog-eared pages. He has revealed his ability to not only pick something nice for me, but also to determine which item from the many on the page was the one that I was attracted to. What a good husband!
That night I had two separate meetings at church, so going out to dinner was a no go. When I got home at around 9:30, David was there with a Little Ceasar's pizza (and crazy bread!) for me. He was on the phone with a friend of ours. While I chatted with her, Dave disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with a tiny birthday cake from Dinkel's (where we were engaged) and one number 3 candle on it! He was sweet enough to not sing to me.
So I sat on the couch and gorged myself with pizza, crazy bread, and birthday cake while we watched Dave's Cubs destroy the Marlins.
Getting older is okay by me.
And still – I love birthdays. I have had a cold this week and was feeling miserable on my birthday morning. My outstanding husband left me to slumber. The doorbell rang later in the afternoon – a beautiful arrangement of flowers in a gorgeous vase from my David. I also received a surprise skirt (we never buy each other clothes) from one of my favorite catalogues. I had folded down the corners of pages that contained items I liked in one of my catalogues. I do this a lot. I rarely actually purchase anything. David apparently came across this catalogue and made the purchase.
When the UPS man arrived with the package, I was afraid that I had started to order my wish list clothes during some sort of blackout and therefore couldn't remember purchasing this skirt. David picked out a great skirt from many many dog-eared pages. He has revealed his ability to not only pick something nice for me, but also to determine which item from the many on the page was the one that I was attracted to. What a good husband!
That night I had two separate meetings at church, so going out to dinner was a no go. When I got home at around 9:30, David was there with a Little Ceasar's pizza (and crazy bread!) for me. He was on the phone with a friend of ours. While I chatted with her, Dave disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with a tiny birthday cake from Dinkel's (where we were engaged) and one number 3 candle on it! He was sweet enough to not sing to me.
So I sat on the couch and gorged myself with pizza, crazy bread, and birthday cake while we watched Dave's Cubs destroy the Marlins.
Getting older is okay by me.
Monday, October 06, 2003
Wild Weekend
We had a wild, busy weekend. I admit that I am still recovering from Oktoberfest – I have a debriefing meeting on Wednesday night that should provide closure. I also have a choir rehearsal scheduled for the same time just down the hall.
Dave and I started the weekend with dinner at one of our favorite German places with a friend of Dave's from high school and his wife – who were married in Rochester, New York in August (see earlier blog). We had a blast. And we stayed up way too late. It was great to get a chance to hang out with them – I had met the wife previously only at our wedding and theirs. German taverns with super food are a great place to hang out and socialize – in case you didn't know.
After staying up too late on Friday night, we got up Saturday morning to take care of household stuff. I also ran to the grocery store to get some ingredients for a birthday cake I was making for our visit to Jason and Christine's that afternoon (Christine's birthday was last month). I got up, showered, and took off for the store. Dave did not. I got back and started working on the cake, icing, real whipped cream, and raspberry sauce (I amazed myself this time).
While cooking and loading the sink with dirty baking tools and bowls, I noticed the water pressure dwindling. Dave heard someone yell out into the courtyard about the water. By the time Dave went into the bathroom, the water was gone. Luckily, it had returned by the time he needed to flush and then jump in the shower.
Now we were running late. I was waiting for the toothpicks to come out of the cake cleaner than Dave was. I called Jason and Chris and said we would (as can be usual for us) be late. As I was coaxing raspberry sauce through the strainer I heard Dave,
"Ohhhhhhh nooooooooo, ohhhhh nooooo, oh no oh no oh no!"
I ran into the bathroom to find by darling husband soaped up from head to toe. He was covered in suds. His hair was full of shampoo. He had rubbed soap all over his face. He was blind and all foamy.
And the water had been turned off again.
Why he soaps every inch of himself and then rinses off, I don't know. I am fond of washing one part (or pair of parts) at a time myself. But that is beside the point. Dave was living the modern nightmare of the water supply drying up at the moment of complete soapy suds coverage.
I told him to hold on. I ran into the kitchen and gathered up armloads of small water bottles that were in the pantry from Dave's last Sam's run. I opened one as I got back into the bathroom to help him rinse his face. He started screaming again. Our pantry apparently chills water as well as the fridge does.
I spent the next ten minutes or so checking on the birthday cake in between microwaving batches of water for Dave's slow rinsing. His anger subsided as the suds were slowly washed off.
We had a super time visiting with Jason, Chris, and Devon. Jason grilled the last of the fresh Oktoberfest brats while we watched the Cubs game. We played an outstanding game of dominoes (I won, Dave came in last). Even though the Cubs lost, we had a great visit, super food, and we had water again when we got home.
We got up early on Sunday so I could go to choir rehearsal and then sing at 10:30 mass. We also bummed around Barnes & Noble for a while after a bagel and some coffee at Vanessa's. We went to Whole Foods later on to pick up some fresh pot stickers and two huge salads so we wouldn't have to cook before the baseball game came on.
As we walked into the store, a woman walking out of the store and talking on her cell phone neglected to notice the tall, bright yellow curb in front of her, and fell on her butt. There is no other was to describe it. It was a wipe out like I haven't seen in a long time. Cell phones are dangerous when driving, and perhaps more so when walking. I walked up to her and asked her if she was okay. She was trying to explain to the person on the phone what had happened. I asked her if she need some help getting up (and out of parking lot traffic). She said she was fine and just embarrassed. When Dave and I finally got to the door, our pastor was looking out the door. He had just noticed that a woman had fallen down. Dave thought that my attempt at a good deed must get some kind of bonus points for being witnessed by a priest.
So we got home and got comfy on the couch with pot stickers and salads. As I am sure you all know by now, Kerry Wood and the Cubs made history last night as they won Game 5 against the Atlanta Braves to win their first post-season series since 1908. Now they will play the Florida Marlins for the National League Championship. Atlanta and Florida ranked one and two for the most wins in the regular season in the NL. The Cubs will not have nearly as many total wins as the regular season records of Atlanta and Florida even if the win the whole deal. I think that's interesting. Any team on any day. Don't you just love baseball?
My wonderful husband is quietly optimistic and doing a great job at not getting too upset on those occasions when things go wrong for the Cubs, or when Dusty Baker has Alfonseca warm up in the pen. (Rather, he says, "I'm not going to get too wrapped up in this." or "I'm not going to let this get to me.") I am a Cardinals fan and will forever remain one – but it is nice to see Dave being able to enjoy baseball in October. A Cubs fan in Atlanta had a sign that read "Cubtoberfest." I like that.
This weekend was not concluded with the usual early Monday morning concert of garbage truck music. We are in day six (day seven?) of a garbage strike. The strike includes several private garbage companies – and includes us. Our building has one dumpster for the entire building – so it is emptied three times a week. Therefore, a six day strike is a big deal. The Mayor has promised that city trucks will pick up any overflow from private dumpsters as they make their usual trips down the alleys for city garbage pick up. I love The Mayor.
Dave and I started the weekend with dinner at one of our favorite German places with a friend of Dave's from high school and his wife – who were married in Rochester, New York in August (see earlier blog). We had a blast. And we stayed up way too late. It was great to get a chance to hang out with them – I had met the wife previously only at our wedding and theirs. German taverns with super food are a great place to hang out and socialize – in case you didn't know.
After staying up too late on Friday night, we got up Saturday morning to take care of household stuff. I also ran to the grocery store to get some ingredients for a birthday cake I was making for our visit to Jason and Christine's that afternoon (Christine's birthday was last month). I got up, showered, and took off for the store. Dave did not. I got back and started working on the cake, icing, real whipped cream, and raspberry sauce (I amazed myself this time).
While cooking and loading the sink with dirty baking tools and bowls, I noticed the water pressure dwindling. Dave heard someone yell out into the courtyard about the water. By the time Dave went into the bathroom, the water was gone. Luckily, it had returned by the time he needed to flush and then jump in the shower.
Now we were running late. I was waiting for the toothpicks to come out of the cake cleaner than Dave was. I called Jason and Chris and said we would (as can be usual for us) be late. As I was coaxing raspberry sauce through the strainer I heard Dave,
"Ohhhhhhh nooooooooo, ohhhhh nooooo, oh no oh no oh no!"
I ran into the bathroom to find by darling husband soaped up from head to toe. He was covered in suds. His hair was full of shampoo. He had rubbed soap all over his face. He was blind and all foamy.
And the water had been turned off again.
Why he soaps every inch of himself and then rinses off, I don't know. I am fond of washing one part (or pair of parts) at a time myself. But that is beside the point. Dave was living the modern nightmare of the water supply drying up at the moment of complete soapy suds coverage.
I told him to hold on. I ran into the kitchen and gathered up armloads of small water bottles that were in the pantry from Dave's last Sam's run. I opened one as I got back into the bathroom to help him rinse his face. He started screaming again. Our pantry apparently chills water as well as the fridge does.
I spent the next ten minutes or so checking on the birthday cake in between microwaving batches of water for Dave's slow rinsing. His anger subsided as the suds were slowly washed off.
We had a super time visiting with Jason, Chris, and Devon. Jason grilled the last of the fresh Oktoberfest brats while we watched the Cubs game. We played an outstanding game of dominoes (I won, Dave came in last). Even though the Cubs lost, we had a great visit, super food, and we had water again when we got home.
We got up early on Sunday so I could go to choir rehearsal and then sing at 10:30 mass. We also bummed around Barnes & Noble for a while after a bagel and some coffee at Vanessa's. We went to Whole Foods later on to pick up some fresh pot stickers and two huge salads so we wouldn't have to cook before the baseball game came on.
As we walked into the store, a woman walking out of the store and talking on her cell phone neglected to notice the tall, bright yellow curb in front of her, and fell on her butt. There is no other was to describe it. It was a wipe out like I haven't seen in a long time. Cell phones are dangerous when driving, and perhaps more so when walking. I walked up to her and asked her if she was okay. She was trying to explain to the person on the phone what had happened. I asked her if she need some help getting up (and out of parking lot traffic). She said she was fine and just embarrassed. When Dave and I finally got to the door, our pastor was looking out the door. He had just noticed that a woman had fallen down. Dave thought that my attempt at a good deed must get some kind of bonus points for being witnessed by a priest.
So we got home and got comfy on the couch with pot stickers and salads. As I am sure you all know by now, Kerry Wood and the Cubs made history last night as they won Game 5 against the Atlanta Braves to win their first post-season series since 1908. Now they will play the Florida Marlins for the National League Championship. Atlanta and Florida ranked one and two for the most wins in the regular season in the NL. The Cubs will not have nearly as many total wins as the regular season records of Atlanta and Florida even if the win the whole deal. I think that's interesting. Any team on any day. Don't you just love baseball?
My wonderful husband is quietly optimistic and doing a great job at not getting too upset on those occasions when things go wrong for the Cubs, or when Dusty Baker has Alfonseca warm up in the pen. (Rather, he says, "I'm not going to get too wrapped up in this." or "I'm not going to let this get to me.") I am a Cardinals fan and will forever remain one – but it is nice to see Dave being able to enjoy baseball in October. A Cubs fan in Atlanta had a sign that read "Cubtoberfest." I like that.
This weekend was not concluded with the usual early Monday morning concert of garbage truck music. We are in day six (day seven?) of a garbage strike. The strike includes several private garbage companies – and includes us. Our building has one dumpster for the entire building – so it is emptied three times a week. Therefore, a six day strike is a big deal. The Mayor has promised that city trucks will pick up any overflow from private dumpsters as they make their usual trips down the alleys for city garbage pick up. I love The Mayor.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Time Travel
The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind for me. I have this overwhelming sensation of disorientation -- like you get when you walk into a movie theater on a sunny afternoon and are transported through a screenwriter's sense of time via the story to emerge into a world that you have half-forgotten and appears unrecognizable now that the sun has set. You know what I mean? That happens to me sometimes when I read a book for a stretch of a couple of hours. My sense of time becomes distorted.
My time has been distorted lately by Dave being home from work last week, by Oktoberfest, and by a change in the weather. I finally did the laundry yesterday -- three double loaders of clothes. Digging down to the bottom of the hamper was like viewing a geologist's cross section of soil revealing evidence of atmospheric changes: long-sleeve shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans at the top gradually yielding to clothes for much warmer temperatures towards the bottom. Rain and wind brought cool temperatures to us last Friday -- today's high will be around 55.
I can't believe it's already Wednesday -- I haven't come out of my time coma yet. To make things all the weirder, my darling husband's beloved Cubs are playing baseball in October? They beat the Braves in Atlanta. Have I entered a new dimension? A parallel universe?
My time has been distorted lately by Dave being home from work last week, by Oktoberfest, and by a change in the weather. I finally did the laundry yesterday -- three double loaders of clothes. Digging down to the bottom of the hamper was like viewing a geologist's cross section of soil revealing evidence of atmospheric changes: long-sleeve shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans at the top gradually yielding to clothes for much warmer temperatures towards the bottom. Rain and wind brought cool temperatures to us last Friday -- today's high will be around 55.
I can't believe it's already Wednesday -- I haven't come out of my time coma yet. To make things all the weirder, my darling husband's beloved Cubs are playing baseball in October? They beat the Braves in Atlanta. Have I entered a new dimension? A parallel universe?
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
I Need A Bath
I've been out of the blog loop lately. My days seem to no longer be my own, and they are rapidly passing me by.
I am up to my pits in Oktoberfest work and seem to see the priests and other rectory staff more than I see Dave. The Fest is this Friday and Saturday – ready or not.
Dave has been fighting a cold for some time and was in a losing battle this past weekend. He started running a fever and had a flare up in his old brown recluse infection (long, not-so-funny story from '98 if you haven't heard it yet). Dave actually volunteered to go to the doctor. He saw him Monday morning and got some monster antibiotics. He saw the doctor again this morning and things seem to be improving – no fever, infection subsiding, etc. That is a relief.
While battling Oktoberfest to do lists and Dave's illness, we were both happy to learn that his VW was even more ill than Dave. It just plain won't start. He had it towed yesterday and today got a phone call with the prognosis and bill. I think cars should have health insurance.
So basically, these past few days have been one of our worst weeks on record. This morning while I was battling traffic in my little car with Dave as a passenger on our way to the doctor's office, I was reminded of an old favorite commercial. I don't know where it came from – I heard it whispering quietly in the back of my tired brain,
"Calgon, take me away."
I am up to my pits in Oktoberfest work and seem to see the priests and other rectory staff more than I see Dave. The Fest is this Friday and Saturday – ready or not.
Dave has been fighting a cold for some time and was in a losing battle this past weekend. He started running a fever and had a flare up in his old brown recluse infection (long, not-so-funny story from '98 if you haven't heard it yet). Dave actually volunteered to go to the doctor. He saw him Monday morning and got some monster antibiotics. He saw the doctor again this morning and things seem to be improving – no fever, infection subsiding, etc. That is a relief.
While battling Oktoberfest to do lists and Dave's illness, we were both happy to learn that his VW was even more ill than Dave. It just plain won't start. He had it towed yesterday and today got a phone call with the prognosis and bill. I think cars should have health insurance.
So basically, these past few days have been one of our worst weeks on record. This morning while I was battling traffic in my little car with Dave as a passenger on our way to the doctor's office, I was reminded of an old favorite commercial. I don't know where it came from – I heard it whispering quietly in the back of my tired brain,
"Calgon, take me away."
Thursday, September 18, 2003
The Symphony
I have a front row seat for the symphony that is our neighborhood this summer. I have found that most of the movements of the piece allow one to synchronize one's life to the music.
Every Monday and Wednesday morning at approximately 7:00am, the garbage truck arrives in the alley below our bedroom window. The truck backs into the alley (beep, beep, beep in 2/2 time, mezzo forte). Once the truck engages the dumpster, which is immediately below our window, the tempo and dynamic increase culminating in the crash of the dumpster back onto the alley. The movement ends in a peaceful mezzo piano as the truck drives away.
Enter the landscapers each Monday. The whirring of weedwackers provides a melody over the thunder of multiple mower rotors. The occasional tenor solo in Spanish punctuates the bass of the equipment instruments. Theirs is a longer movement lasting from 7:30am to approximately 8:15am.
Each morning at approximately 8:10am a red car travels down our alley and triumphantly announces its arrival at the end of alley with four staccato fortissimo horn toots. This performance is an unaccompanied solo on days when the garbage truck and landscapers are not present.
After the initial movements of the piece, I am treated to a lengthy and repetitive roar of music from several different sources on the street. The concrete trucks prowl down the street to the large construction site a block away. The low rumble of their diesel engines is punctuated by the frequent and rapid fortissimo soprano voice of a car alarm that is much too sensitive to the engines' force. Time in this movement is kept by the piercing air horn blown at regular intervals at the construction site.
At approximately 2:30pm, the sounds of the school bus and the chatter of children enter in a gradual crescendo -- the growl of the school bus engine, the blast of the school bus horn to alert the guardian that the children's chorus is about to begin, and the apex of the crescendo with multiple soprano voices squealing with glee about their freedom.
Each movement is heavy with percussion. Various neighbors in the building and the postal carrier contribute to the rhythm of the piece with occasional cymbal-crashing door slams.
Some instruments make their contribution from the echo chamber that is the courtyard of our building. The bass voice of the handyman blends beautifully in a Serbo-Croation duet with the alto voice of our resident manager. A simple jingling of the handyman's keys announces their movement.
A male chorus of Serbo-Croation tenor voices sometimes provides the harmony and added percussion from the tools of tuckpointing. Lately, this movement has been replaced by a visiting troupe of Spanish tenors who provide uptempo voices and the scrape of tools removing decades of paint from the wooden back porches.
In the early afternoon, a father, son, and dog trio enter from across the alley. Father's cadenced bass voice like a Greek chorus ("Shoot the ball!") under the son's soprano whining ("Wait! Wait! Watch me!") is interjected by yelps from the dog. Their movement is dictated by the irregular bouncing of a basketball on the pavement and reaches a crescendo of competing voices when Mother arrives performing an aria on her cell phone.
This week has seen the addition of new instruments to the ensemble. A house across the street is being renovated. The musicians are slowly entering the piece with the buzzing of saws and the staccato tapping of hammers.
Voices and instruments of the orchestra gradually fade away as the day comes to an end. The cacophony of sound is reduced to a pianissimo tinkling of water falling from the resident manager's overflowing flower boxes on the third floor to the wooden porches below, finally sprinkling the pavement at approximately 4:30pm -- which consistently convinces me that I need to go to the bathroom. The symphony that is a weekday at the apartment, therefore, regularly closes with the diminishing sound of a flushing toilet.
Every Monday and Wednesday morning at approximately 7:00am, the garbage truck arrives in the alley below our bedroom window. The truck backs into the alley (beep, beep, beep in 2/2 time, mezzo forte). Once the truck engages the dumpster, which is immediately below our window, the tempo and dynamic increase culminating in the crash of the dumpster back onto the alley. The movement ends in a peaceful mezzo piano as the truck drives away.
Enter the landscapers each Monday. The whirring of weedwackers provides a melody over the thunder of multiple mower rotors. The occasional tenor solo in Spanish punctuates the bass of the equipment instruments. Theirs is a longer movement lasting from 7:30am to approximately 8:15am.
Each morning at approximately 8:10am a red car travels down our alley and triumphantly announces its arrival at the end of alley with four staccato fortissimo horn toots. This performance is an unaccompanied solo on days when the garbage truck and landscapers are not present.
After the initial movements of the piece, I am treated to a lengthy and repetitive roar of music from several different sources on the street. The concrete trucks prowl down the street to the large construction site a block away. The low rumble of their diesel engines is punctuated by the frequent and rapid fortissimo soprano voice of a car alarm that is much too sensitive to the engines' force. Time in this movement is kept by the piercing air horn blown at regular intervals at the construction site.
At approximately 2:30pm, the sounds of the school bus and the chatter of children enter in a gradual crescendo -- the growl of the school bus engine, the blast of the school bus horn to alert the guardian that the children's chorus is about to begin, and the apex of the crescendo with multiple soprano voices squealing with glee about their freedom.
Each movement is heavy with percussion. Various neighbors in the building and the postal carrier contribute to the rhythm of the piece with occasional cymbal-crashing door slams.
Some instruments make their contribution from the echo chamber that is the courtyard of our building. The bass voice of the handyman blends beautifully in a Serbo-Croation duet with the alto voice of our resident manager. A simple jingling of the handyman's keys announces their movement.
A male chorus of Serbo-Croation tenor voices sometimes provides the harmony and added percussion from the tools of tuckpointing. Lately, this movement has been replaced by a visiting troupe of Spanish tenors who provide uptempo voices and the scrape of tools removing decades of paint from the wooden back porches.
In the early afternoon, a father, son, and dog trio enter from across the alley. Father's cadenced bass voice like a Greek chorus ("Shoot the ball!") under the son's soprano whining ("Wait! Wait! Watch me!") is interjected by yelps from the dog. Their movement is dictated by the irregular bouncing of a basketball on the pavement and reaches a crescendo of competing voices when Mother arrives performing an aria on her cell phone.
This week has seen the addition of new instruments to the ensemble. A house across the street is being renovated. The musicians are slowly entering the piece with the buzzing of saws and the staccato tapping of hammers.
Voices and instruments of the orchestra gradually fade away as the day comes to an end. The cacophony of sound is reduced to a pianissimo tinkling of water falling from the resident manager's overflowing flower boxes on the third floor to the wooden porches below, finally sprinkling the pavement at approximately 4:30pm -- which consistently convinces me that I need to go to the bathroom. The symphony that is a weekday at the apartment, therefore, regularly closes with the diminishing sound of a flushing toilet.
Monday, September 15, 2003
License To Drive
There was an article in the Chicago Tribune on Sunday about a driving instructor and a private driving school who's been teaching teenagers for over 20 years – and loves it. There's a waiting list for this guy. John Raffa is famous for his patience and his "Raffaisms" such as the following:
"Stay off the lines or you'll pay fines"
"Expose your rear end slowly, like a stripper" (when backing up)
"Make a full stop, or you'll talk to a cop"
"Slow down sooner, and you'll live to be a honeymooner"
"Look in the mirror more often and it'll keep you out of the coffin"
"Be patient so you won't be one."
Don't you love this guy?
The article made me think about my own experience learning to drive. I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel. My high school did not offer drivers' ed – so Dad had to teach me. Dad gave me my first few lessons behind the wheel of a dark green 1973 Ford Gran Tarino station wagon. Driving that monster was easy – all you had to do was take your foot off the brake and you were driving. We used to go to the parking lot behind the junior high school when it was empty. There were nice long stretches to drive and a stop sign at one end to practice stopping. There was a little island of grass at the other end, allowing for practice turning and using turning signals.
I vividly remember finally learning to gauge the speed of the car and being able to take my foot off the gas and then slowly applying the brake to eventually stop at the sign – not 20 feet before it, or with a screech of tires and whiplash just past it.
Mom took me for my driving test just after my birthday. For some reason, we were the only ones there. After I passed the written test, we waited for the fearless test administrator to call me for the driving test. I remember sitting there alone in the waiting area with Mom and seeing the officer come towards the room with a clipboard. He said, "Mary?" Mom and I did not even flinch.
"Mary? Is there a Mary here?"
Oh right! My name is Mary – not Kate. This was my first encounter with confusion over my own legal name versus the name I use. That confusion continues to this day.
I took the driving test – and failed. I neglected to signal when moving into and out of the parallel parking spot and I didn't know where the defogger was. I was using my grandfather's metallic pumpkin 1980-something Chevy Citation for the test and was not as familiar with the tiny car as I was with the two station wagons my family had owned while I was learning to drive.
I don't remember taking the second test – but I remember passing. Mom let me drive home and then let me drive up to school by myself to pick Rach up from basketball practice. I was alone in the car. I had a hard time taking one hand off the wheel in order to push the preprogrammed buttons on the AM radio. I remember bumping into Sr. Catherine in the hallway. She was my American history teacher. I jingled my keys for her. She rolled her eyes and told me to pray every time I got behind the wheel -- for the other drivers on the road.
Driving was bliss for me. It was freedom. Freedom from change in my pocket to call home for a ride, freedom from the 10-ride bus passes and countless transfers for the Cross County bus. I would run any errand that was needed. I begged for the station wagon every weekend. I was one of the oldest in my high school class, so my friends were depending on me for their freedom. Unfortunately, my family had only the station wagon, and I was one of four kids still at home who had rehearsals, practices, recitals, performances, games, and carpools.
The summer after I turned 16 I went to the Missouri Scholars Academy – a two-week program at University of Missouri for nerdy smart kids. I loved it – it's a whole other blog. Anyway, Dad came to pick me up at the end of the academy. When we pulled into the driveway at home, Aunt Phyllis' car was there. She had light blue 1981 Buick Skylark. I was surprised that the car had stickers on it. Aunt Phyllis' cars are always impeccably clean. The car was now bedecked with stickers from my high school, my sister Ann's college, and a great big "I love Webster Groves" sticker on the bumper.
Dad's next words were like winning the lottery to my ears. "Aunt Phyllis bought a new car." We had acquired her Skylark for "you girls" to use. Lucky for me, my older sister Ann was away at college and had not gotten her license yet. My younger sister Rach wouldn't be 16 until that next February – and then didn’t get her license for another few years. My sister Lucy was still in grade school. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right and Bob Barker just told me I won the car.
Aunt Phyllis had given Rach and me some money to buy a stereo that had FM and a cassette player. We started carpooling with the Furay girls to school – no more busses! I could drive to play practice and then take my friends over to Steak n' Shake for fries and shakes purchased with our pooled resources. The Skylark was ultimate freedom. I loved that car.
I remember Dad telling me once when I was fishing for an excuse to take the car out that I would eventually grow out of this excitement. That at some point in my life, driving would not be so much fun. I still think it is so much fun.
"Stay off the lines or you'll pay fines"
"Expose your rear end slowly, like a stripper" (when backing up)
"Make a full stop, or you'll talk to a cop"
"Slow down sooner, and you'll live to be a honeymooner"
"Look in the mirror more often and it'll keep you out of the coffin"
"Be patient so you won't be one."
Don't you love this guy?
The article made me think about my own experience learning to drive. I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel. My high school did not offer drivers' ed – so Dad had to teach me. Dad gave me my first few lessons behind the wheel of a dark green 1973 Ford Gran Tarino station wagon. Driving that monster was easy – all you had to do was take your foot off the brake and you were driving. We used to go to the parking lot behind the junior high school when it was empty. There were nice long stretches to drive and a stop sign at one end to practice stopping. There was a little island of grass at the other end, allowing for practice turning and using turning signals.
I vividly remember finally learning to gauge the speed of the car and being able to take my foot off the gas and then slowly applying the brake to eventually stop at the sign – not 20 feet before it, or with a screech of tires and whiplash just past it.
Mom took me for my driving test just after my birthday. For some reason, we were the only ones there. After I passed the written test, we waited for the fearless test administrator to call me for the driving test. I remember sitting there alone in the waiting area with Mom and seeing the officer come towards the room with a clipboard. He said, "Mary?" Mom and I did not even flinch.
"Mary? Is there a Mary here?"
Oh right! My name is Mary – not Kate. This was my first encounter with confusion over my own legal name versus the name I use. That confusion continues to this day.
I took the driving test – and failed. I neglected to signal when moving into and out of the parallel parking spot and I didn't know where the defogger was. I was using my grandfather's metallic pumpkin 1980-something Chevy Citation for the test and was not as familiar with the tiny car as I was with the two station wagons my family had owned while I was learning to drive.
I don't remember taking the second test – but I remember passing. Mom let me drive home and then let me drive up to school by myself to pick Rach up from basketball practice. I was alone in the car. I had a hard time taking one hand off the wheel in order to push the preprogrammed buttons on the AM radio. I remember bumping into Sr. Catherine in the hallway. She was my American history teacher. I jingled my keys for her. She rolled her eyes and told me to pray every time I got behind the wheel -- for the other drivers on the road.
Driving was bliss for me. It was freedom. Freedom from change in my pocket to call home for a ride, freedom from the 10-ride bus passes and countless transfers for the Cross County bus. I would run any errand that was needed. I begged for the station wagon every weekend. I was one of the oldest in my high school class, so my friends were depending on me for their freedom. Unfortunately, my family had only the station wagon, and I was one of four kids still at home who had rehearsals, practices, recitals, performances, games, and carpools.
The summer after I turned 16 I went to the Missouri Scholars Academy – a two-week program at University of Missouri for nerdy smart kids. I loved it – it's a whole other blog. Anyway, Dad came to pick me up at the end of the academy. When we pulled into the driveway at home, Aunt Phyllis' car was there. She had light blue 1981 Buick Skylark. I was surprised that the car had stickers on it. Aunt Phyllis' cars are always impeccably clean. The car was now bedecked with stickers from my high school, my sister Ann's college, and a great big "I love Webster Groves" sticker on the bumper.
Dad's next words were like winning the lottery to my ears. "Aunt Phyllis bought a new car." We had acquired her Skylark for "you girls" to use. Lucky for me, my older sister Ann was away at college and had not gotten her license yet. My younger sister Rach wouldn't be 16 until that next February – and then didn’t get her license for another few years. My sister Lucy was still in grade school. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right and Bob Barker just told me I won the car.
Aunt Phyllis had given Rach and me some money to buy a stereo that had FM and a cassette player. We started carpooling with the Furay girls to school – no more busses! I could drive to play practice and then take my friends over to Steak n' Shake for fries and shakes purchased with our pooled resources. The Skylark was ultimate freedom. I loved that car.
I remember Dad telling me once when I was fishing for an excuse to take the car out that I would eventually grow out of this excitement. That at some point in my life, driving would not be so much fun. I still think it is so much fun.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Charlotte's Web
A spider is living on my little car. I first noticed her a couple of weeks ago. I had not driven my Wagenschen in a long while, and she had been waiting patiently for me under a tree. As I described, she was covered in tree sap, leaves, and cobwebs. I rolled down the windows (no A/C) before I started out on my errands. I noticed the cobwebs on the passenger-side mirror and figured I would let wind and rain take care of them therefore not necessitating the addition of a car wash to my errand list – or requiring me to touch any web and/or spider.
A few days ago I was rolling down the windows in my little car to activate nature's air conditioning, and made eye contact with Charlotte. Eye contact. This is a big spider. I rolled the window back up a ways hoping to discourage her from joining me inside the car. I glanced out the passenger window later while I was driving. Charlotte had climbed up her web and secured herself in a crevice of the side mirror to protect herself from the 35 mile per hour winds.
The parking space choices were limited when I got home the other night. I ended parking a long block away that requires a stroll through the alley to get home. I was scrambling back through the alley to my little car last night to avoid arriving late to choir practice. Due to the location of the parking spot, I was approaching my little car from the passenger side. Charlotte has down marvelous and intricate work on that side of the car. I half expected her web to proclaim "Some Driver!" or "Incredible Woman!"
The longer she remains there, the harder I am finding it to destroy her work, and consequently, perhaps, end her life. I am realizing that though the beautiful work she is spinning does not contain actual words, her patterns are a proclamation of her own value and thus preserving her own life rather than Wilbur's – I mean, mine.
A few days ago I was rolling down the windows in my little car to activate nature's air conditioning, and made eye contact with Charlotte. Eye contact. This is a big spider. I rolled the window back up a ways hoping to discourage her from joining me inside the car. I glanced out the passenger window later while I was driving. Charlotte had climbed up her web and secured herself in a crevice of the side mirror to protect herself from the 35 mile per hour winds.
The parking space choices were limited when I got home the other night. I ended parking a long block away that requires a stroll through the alley to get home. I was scrambling back through the alley to my little car last night to avoid arriving late to choir practice. Due to the location of the parking spot, I was approaching my little car from the passenger side. Charlotte has down marvelous and intricate work on that side of the car. I half expected her web to proclaim "Some Driver!" or "Incredible Woman!"
The longer she remains there, the harder I am finding it to destroy her work, and consequently, perhaps, end her life. I am realizing that though the beautiful work she is spinning does not contain actual words, her patterns are a proclamation of her own value and thus preserving her own life rather than Wilbur's – I mean, mine.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
School Days
Before I get into my lengthy post -- I want to point out that meetings are not fun. I'm sure you all know this. My incredible husband likes to say "Meetings are where good ideas go to die." I agree. I should note that I cannot confidently credit Dave with that quote. He has always had very witty and smart things to say that I always enjoy and often repeat. However, I have learned to attribute quotes to him only after investigation. We had been seeing each other for about a year when I discovered that most of his funny one-liners from our first months together were all "sampled" from the classic movie Animal House.
So now most all teachers and students have returned to school (save, perhaps, those people on the goofy trimester system). I am jealous. A good friend of ours sent pictures of his oldest on her first day of preschool -- what promise! what joy! what freedom! Everything is before her.
I know that I am made for a life of school because I can look at the pictures of this beautiful little girl and recall detailed memories of my own days in preschool. Does that make me strange? Some have said so.
I remember the room, the toys, my blue and red quiet time mat, and a construction paper crown with a "5" in gold glitter on it for my birthday.
I remember my Mom came to help one day and she was in charge of a station where she showed us how to cut an apple to reveal a star-shape in the seeds. I remember that she had chosen to wear a blouse that was silky and off-white with a pattern of large apples in red and black before she knew what she would be doing that day. And that I thought that made my Mom very cool.
I remember another mom helping one day. She chose to wear pants and a very 1975 leather belt that had two sets of holes like one my father had. I remember a small male classmate telling the mom that she couldn't wear a belt because she was a girl. I remember her explaining to him that she could. [Note: This is one of several early feminist memories I have -- another idea for a post!]
I distinctly remember the class sitting in a circle on our "sit upons" for a lesson on shapes. The teacher held up large geometric cut outs and called on individual students to ask them the name of the shape. Square. Triangle. This is so easy! She called on me. I was excited. I confidently answered, "Circle." I was wrong. I was crushed. She politely explained that it was in fact an oval. And I never got that wrong again.
So in this theme of going back to school I am posting below the article I mentioned in a previous post. I submitted the article in an attempt to be accepted as a less-than-regular columnist (4 times in one year) on my experiences on the academic job hunt. The article that requested submissions requested a "conversational tone" essay that described the author's background, current situation, and experiences on the job market including anything that might affect his/her search for a job in academia. It pointed out that humor was good, and that this submission -- if accepted -- would be the author's first column.
In an earlier posting I explained that my article was not accepted. I am posting it here to finally set it free -- or to release myself from it...
I have been a student my entire life. I like school. I still have clear memories of preschool, and I haven't missed an academic year since then. I grew up on the academic calendar. I love that I could say "next year" in March and mean September. Each new semester provided a fresh start, a renewed energy fueled by new school supplies: a stack of used books and new course packets, the latest pen, the hippest university notebook, and the binder system with elastic bands and Velcro to rival my old Trapper Keeper that will keep me organized this semester.
After completing a BA in political science at a mid-sized, private, liberal arts university in the Midwest, I informed my mother that her dreams of an attorney daughter with the LA Law career and Susan Dey's wardrobe would have to be passed down to a younger sister. I was headed to a large, public, research university in the Midwest to pursue an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. I planned to get the masters and then graduate, take one of several job offers to work in a large Midwestern city, and get married -- in that order. After three semesters, I emailed my boyfriend of several years to inform him that I was spending a few more years in graduate school. I decided to pursue the title Dr. before assuming the title Ms.
My work towards an MA morphed into my work towards a PhD. I decided that while I enjoyed teaching ESL, I was very interested in conducting research in Second Language Acquisition, specifically, the teaching and learning of ESL pronunciation. It became difficult to easily formulate or elucidate an answer to the dreaded question, "What do you study?" I eventually settled on "English as a Second Language." This often prompted, "Wow, your English is so good!"
"Um, thank you. More broadly, it's second language acquisition -- how people learn language. It lots of research and --"
"My cousin teaches English in Japan..."
The decision to "go all the way" was easily made and then frequently second-guessed. I was scared to death. This was a whole new level. Friends and family lovingly joked that I did it to delay entering the "real world" or getting a "real job." I sometimes wondered if that was true. I sometimes wondered if I could actually do it. I feared that I would become one of the mythical career graduate students I had heard about. Graduate school provided just enough freedom to linger in perpetuity with just one more course, maybe another independent study project, and another time-consuming teaching assistantship -- all of which could be rationalized as providing more education and experience to enter the academic workforce.
I had planned to graduate in May 2001. I had not yet encountered a PhD candidate who had set her own deadline and met it, but I was determined. I had a life to get on with -- including a boyfriend of ten years living 160 miles away. Unfortunately, I had not put a lot of thought into the fact that the job I wanted would not exist or be available on my timeline. I began to envy the undergraduates I encountered on campus dressed in their first suits braving the early spring semester cold without a coat to avoid committing a fashion faux pas. They were going to huge job fairs where representatives from major corporations wearing work casual outfits with smart knit shirts embroidered with their logo courted undergrads with shiny briefcases (early graduation gift) and slick resumes. I longed for a job fair.
Armed with a five-page CV of teaching assistantships and conference presentations (but lacking the ever-elusive publication), I entered the market. I hoped that putting myself out there for 2001-2002 would mean my committee would have to let me finish. I focused on job listings that allowed for ABD just to be safe.
Soon, I had job application piles of paper in direct competition with my dissertation and teaching piles of paper. I applied to eight positions. Only a handful of them described a position anything like what I had envisioned. I was looking for a tenure-track position in an MATESL program that would allow me to teach ESL courses as well as MA courses while conducting SLA research in pronunciation. I applied for positions that had anything to do with any of that in major metropolitan areas. My fiance was willing to move himself and his law career with me.
I collected letters informing me that my file was complete and that the search committee would be in touch. I never heard again from some places. Others sent me succinct but polite rejection letters that attempted to soothe my ego by informing me that they were inundated with qualified candidates. I received requests for on-campus interviews from three institutions. To my surprise, all three were in the general area of the large Midwestern city I was targeting. Jackpot.
Job #1 was at an institution that had rejected my application to be an undergraduate student. It was a non-faculty position, but in my field. I did my job talk on my on-going research (requiring me and my advisor to scramble to get some preliminary results). I thought things went very well. They gave the job to one of their own graduate students.
Job #2 was a tenure-track professor position with a community college. It looked like a lot of work and was all ESL, but it was very attractive. The people I met during my two separate campus visits were wonderful. The application and interview process was tedious. For one interview, several people sat around a conference table with pages of questions. They took turns reading questions to me and then scribbled my responses in concert. I was afraid the final question was going to be about world peace or how to keep kids off drugs. They gave the job to an in-house candidate.
Job #3 was a visiting professor position for one semester. It was the most similar to the department I worked in and was great money. I had a super campus visit. The committee and I got along well. I was elated. We discussed extending the position to two semesters and allowing me to teach a seminar. This was it. My dream was coming true. An administrative type called me and made an offer for two semesters with a slight salary increase over what was published for one semester. What? We negotiated over a few phone calls. Finally, he told me that my mother would tell me to take this offer. Clearly, he had never met my mother -- she would tell me to turn him down and go to law school. I turned the offer down. I turned it down? That still echoes in my head on long nights along with names of temporary staffing agencies I should call.
During the year-long process of job hunting and gathering, I had moved to the big city. I moved back to campus three weeks later to take a job as a visiting lecturer in my old department for 2001-2002. It felt like going to work for my parents and moving home. I even had to sleep in my office that first night. I did not apply for any positions for 2002-2003. The positions that were advertised were in foreign lands and rural areas that would be impossible for my fiance to work from, or they required qualifications I did not have such as teaching certification or experience in K-12 bilingual education. I got very worried about my timeline and my future.
My life in a 15-week cycle of self-renewal ended last May when I completed my PhD. I stayed on to teach the summer session while my fiance and I put the final touches on our wedding plans. I got married with no job prospects in sight.
I have been unemployed since last August (my wonderful, supporting husband calls it a sabbatical). I went to the yearly conference wearing a badge that had my name and city on it. I have embraced the label "independent" over the brand "unaffiliated." Colleagues, friends, and family have expressed sympathy and offered suggestions. Maybe I should write a book, or take on private students, or bake, or have a baby. I fear losing touch with the field while my self-identity as an academic fades. I am looking forward to an aggressive campaign for a job for the 2004-2005 year.
So now most all teachers and students have returned to school (save, perhaps, those people on the goofy trimester system). I am jealous. A good friend of ours sent pictures of his oldest on her first day of preschool -- what promise! what joy! what freedom! Everything is before her.
I know that I am made for a life of school because I can look at the pictures of this beautiful little girl and recall detailed memories of my own days in preschool. Does that make me strange? Some have said so.
I remember the room, the toys, my blue and red quiet time mat, and a construction paper crown with a "5" in gold glitter on it for my birthday.
I remember my Mom came to help one day and she was in charge of a station where she showed us how to cut an apple to reveal a star-shape in the seeds. I remember that she had chosen to wear a blouse that was silky and off-white with a pattern of large apples in red and black before she knew what she would be doing that day. And that I thought that made my Mom very cool.
I remember another mom helping one day. She chose to wear pants and a very 1975 leather belt that had two sets of holes like one my father had. I remember a small male classmate telling the mom that she couldn't wear a belt because she was a girl. I remember her explaining to him that she could. [Note: This is one of several early feminist memories I have -- another idea for a post!]
I distinctly remember the class sitting in a circle on our "sit upons" for a lesson on shapes. The teacher held up large geometric cut outs and called on individual students to ask them the name of the shape. Square. Triangle. This is so easy! She called on me. I was excited. I confidently answered, "Circle." I was wrong. I was crushed. She politely explained that it was in fact an oval. And I never got that wrong again.
So in this theme of going back to school I am posting below the article I mentioned in a previous post. I submitted the article in an attempt to be accepted as a less-than-regular columnist (4 times in one year) on my experiences on the academic job hunt. The article that requested submissions requested a "conversational tone" essay that described the author's background, current situation, and experiences on the job market including anything that might affect his/her search for a job in academia. It pointed out that humor was good, and that this submission -- if accepted -- would be the author's first column.
In an earlier posting I explained that my article was not accepted. I am posting it here to finally set it free -- or to release myself from it...
I have been a student my entire life. I like school. I still have clear memories of preschool, and I haven't missed an academic year since then. I grew up on the academic calendar. I love that I could say "next year" in March and mean September. Each new semester provided a fresh start, a renewed energy fueled by new school supplies: a stack of used books and new course packets, the latest pen, the hippest university notebook, and the binder system with elastic bands and Velcro to rival my old Trapper Keeper that will keep me organized this semester.
After completing a BA in political science at a mid-sized, private, liberal arts university in the Midwest, I informed my mother that her dreams of an attorney daughter with the LA Law career and Susan Dey's wardrobe would have to be passed down to a younger sister. I was headed to a large, public, research university in the Midwest to pursue an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. I planned to get the masters and then graduate, take one of several job offers to work in a large Midwestern city, and get married -- in that order. After three semesters, I emailed my boyfriend of several years to inform him that I was spending a few more years in graduate school. I decided to pursue the title Dr. before assuming the title Ms.
My work towards an MA morphed into my work towards a PhD. I decided that while I enjoyed teaching ESL, I was very interested in conducting research in Second Language Acquisition, specifically, the teaching and learning of ESL pronunciation. It became difficult to easily formulate or elucidate an answer to the dreaded question, "What do you study?" I eventually settled on "English as a Second Language." This often prompted, "Wow, your English is so good!"
"Um, thank you. More broadly, it's second language acquisition -- how people learn language. It lots of research and --"
"My cousin teaches English in Japan..."
The decision to "go all the way" was easily made and then frequently second-guessed. I was scared to death. This was a whole new level. Friends and family lovingly joked that I did it to delay entering the "real world" or getting a "real job." I sometimes wondered if that was true. I sometimes wondered if I could actually do it. I feared that I would become one of the mythical career graduate students I had heard about. Graduate school provided just enough freedom to linger in perpetuity with just one more course, maybe another independent study project, and another time-consuming teaching assistantship -- all of which could be rationalized as providing more education and experience to enter the academic workforce.
I had planned to graduate in May 2001. I had not yet encountered a PhD candidate who had set her own deadline and met it, but I was determined. I had a life to get on with -- including a boyfriend of ten years living 160 miles away. Unfortunately, I had not put a lot of thought into the fact that the job I wanted would not exist or be available on my timeline. I began to envy the undergraduates I encountered on campus dressed in their first suits braving the early spring semester cold without a coat to avoid committing a fashion faux pas. They were going to huge job fairs where representatives from major corporations wearing work casual outfits with smart knit shirts embroidered with their logo courted undergrads with shiny briefcases (early graduation gift) and slick resumes. I longed for a job fair.
Armed with a five-page CV of teaching assistantships and conference presentations (but lacking the ever-elusive publication), I entered the market. I hoped that putting myself out there for 2001-2002 would mean my committee would have to let me finish. I focused on job listings that allowed for ABD just to be safe.
Soon, I had job application piles of paper in direct competition with my dissertation and teaching piles of paper. I applied to eight positions. Only a handful of them described a position anything like what I had envisioned. I was looking for a tenure-track position in an MATESL program that would allow me to teach ESL courses as well as MA courses while conducting SLA research in pronunciation. I applied for positions that had anything to do with any of that in major metropolitan areas. My fiance was willing to move himself and his law career with me.
I collected letters informing me that my file was complete and that the search committee would be in touch. I never heard again from some places. Others sent me succinct but polite rejection letters that attempted to soothe my ego by informing me that they were inundated with qualified candidates. I received requests for on-campus interviews from three institutions. To my surprise, all three were in the general area of the large Midwestern city I was targeting. Jackpot.
Job #1 was at an institution that had rejected my application to be an undergraduate student. It was a non-faculty position, but in my field. I did my job talk on my on-going research (requiring me and my advisor to scramble to get some preliminary results). I thought things went very well. They gave the job to one of their own graduate students.
Job #2 was a tenure-track professor position with a community college. It looked like a lot of work and was all ESL, but it was very attractive. The people I met during my two separate campus visits were wonderful. The application and interview process was tedious. For one interview, several people sat around a conference table with pages of questions. They took turns reading questions to me and then scribbled my responses in concert. I was afraid the final question was going to be about world peace or how to keep kids off drugs. They gave the job to an in-house candidate.
Job #3 was a visiting professor position for one semester. It was the most similar to the department I worked in and was great money. I had a super campus visit. The committee and I got along well. I was elated. We discussed extending the position to two semesters and allowing me to teach a seminar. This was it. My dream was coming true. An administrative type called me and made an offer for two semesters with a slight salary increase over what was published for one semester. What? We negotiated over a few phone calls. Finally, he told me that my mother would tell me to take this offer. Clearly, he had never met my mother -- she would tell me to turn him down and go to law school. I turned the offer down. I turned it down? That still echoes in my head on long nights along with names of temporary staffing agencies I should call.
During the year-long process of job hunting and gathering, I had moved to the big city. I moved back to campus three weeks later to take a job as a visiting lecturer in my old department for 2001-2002. It felt like going to work for my parents and moving home. I even had to sleep in my office that first night. I did not apply for any positions for 2002-2003. The positions that were advertised were in foreign lands and rural areas that would be impossible for my fiance to work from, or they required qualifications I did not have such as teaching certification or experience in K-12 bilingual education. I got very worried about my timeline and my future.
My life in a 15-week cycle of self-renewal ended last May when I completed my PhD. I stayed on to teach the summer session while my fiance and I put the final touches on our wedding plans. I got married with no job prospects in sight.
I have been unemployed since last August (my wonderful, supporting husband calls it a sabbatical). I went to the yearly conference wearing a badge that had my name and city on it. I have embraced the label "independent" over the brand "unaffiliated." Colleagues, friends, and family have expressed sympathy and offered suggestions. Maybe I should write a book, or take on private students, or bake, or have a baby. I fear losing touch with the field while my self-identity as an academic fades. I am looking forward to an aggressive campaign for a job for the 2004-2005 year.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Coffee and a Compliment
Today is the first day of a series of meetings for Dave and me -- Ofest for me tonight, choir for me tomorrow night, alumni stuff for Dave on Thursday night -- so Dave drove himself to work this morning. Which is nice except that I have to do laundry today and my little car doesn't hold the laundry containers as well as Dave's does, and we are out of milk. That's important. Dave and I usually stop for coffee on the way to work. If I don't drive him, I have to make coffee at home. No milk -- no coffee. Ugh.
So I threw on some clothes and headed out the door to walk down to our local bodega -- The Happy Food Spot -- to get some milk. Very nice place run by a really nice Korean lady. She wasn't open yet. Ugh again.
I had two choices: (1) wait for her to open, or (2) walk down another block and get a latte at Starbucks. I had to stand there for a minute to make the decision. I headed down to Starbucks after rationalizing that I would drink less caffeine if I bought a latte rather than making my own bottomless pot at home.
Starbucks was nuts -- as usual. I'm rarely there on a weekday morning before 9:00am. Chaos. Lots of people trying to get a quick cup before work, lots more people with little ones. It was a veritable day care center this morning. Ironically, waiting for my first coffee of the day is tough when I haven't had any coffee yet. I was in a long line. It was great getting a baby-fix while I waited. There was a particularly cutey one in a wagon in front of me. She was maybe 9 months old and had eyes as big as her face and chocolate-colored hair that formed a perfect cap on her head and a teeny gold earring in each ear.
There were also lots of toddler-size kids around. As I surveyed the room, I realized there were lots of other kids. I started to feel trapped. I got caught between two women who had five kids between them and were discussing the features of a stroller as though it were some new sports car. I felt a little hand on my leg and realized that another small person wanted me to pick him up -- easily the youngest male to ever hit on me! (Okay, bad joke.)
I was waiting for a skim latte. That's all. No mocha, no ice, all caffeine, no whip, no caramel, no soy, no chai -- just espresso and steamed milk. It took a while. Kids were everywhere. My baby-fix had turned into a nightmare of too much of a good thing. I felt like I was being surrounded by a swarm of killer bees that might turn on me if I made any quick movements.
I stood there quietly watching coffees that looked more like desserts get called out in front of me. Finally, my grande skim latte. As I reached for it a young woman approached me. I was afraid for a moment that I had grabbed a coffee that wasn't mine in order to hasten my escape. She got my attention and said, "I really love your wedding rings -- they're beautiful. Would you mind if I got a closer look?"
I thanked her and gave her my hand for her inspection. She asked me a couple of questions, gushed about them again, and then wished me a good morning.
How nice was that?
On the walk home I passed through the weekly farmers market. I was looking at vegetables in the same spot where Dave and I stood just a few nights ago, arm in arm singing one of our favorite German songs (In heaven there is no beer / That's why we drink it here / 'Cause when we're gone from here / Our friends will be drinking all our beer / hey hey hey).
The market's goods revealed that fall is in fact on its way. One vendor had watermelon for sale next to crates of squash. Another vendor had huge pots of mums (three for $20) and a few pie pumpkins along with ears of corn. I love this time of year.
So I threw on some clothes and headed out the door to walk down to our local bodega -- The Happy Food Spot -- to get some milk. Very nice place run by a really nice Korean lady. She wasn't open yet. Ugh again.
I had two choices: (1) wait for her to open, or (2) walk down another block and get a latte at Starbucks. I had to stand there for a minute to make the decision. I headed down to Starbucks after rationalizing that I would drink less caffeine if I bought a latte rather than making my own bottomless pot at home.
Starbucks was nuts -- as usual. I'm rarely there on a weekday morning before 9:00am. Chaos. Lots of people trying to get a quick cup before work, lots more people with little ones. It was a veritable day care center this morning. Ironically, waiting for my first coffee of the day is tough when I haven't had any coffee yet. I was in a long line. It was great getting a baby-fix while I waited. There was a particularly cutey one in a wagon in front of me. She was maybe 9 months old and had eyes as big as her face and chocolate-colored hair that formed a perfect cap on her head and a teeny gold earring in each ear.
There were also lots of toddler-size kids around. As I surveyed the room, I realized there were lots of other kids. I started to feel trapped. I got caught between two women who had five kids between them and were discussing the features of a stroller as though it were some new sports car. I felt a little hand on my leg and realized that another small person wanted me to pick him up -- easily the youngest male to ever hit on me! (Okay, bad joke.)
I was waiting for a skim latte. That's all. No mocha, no ice, all caffeine, no whip, no caramel, no soy, no chai -- just espresso and steamed milk. It took a while. Kids were everywhere. My baby-fix had turned into a nightmare of too much of a good thing. I felt like I was being surrounded by a swarm of killer bees that might turn on me if I made any quick movements.
I stood there quietly watching coffees that looked more like desserts get called out in front of me. Finally, my grande skim latte. As I reached for it a young woman approached me. I was afraid for a moment that I had grabbed a coffee that wasn't mine in order to hasten my escape. She got my attention and said, "I really love your wedding rings -- they're beautiful. Would you mind if I got a closer look?"
I thanked her and gave her my hand for her inspection. She asked me a couple of questions, gushed about them again, and then wished me a good morning.
How nice was that?
On the walk home I passed through the weekly farmers market. I was looking at vegetables in the same spot where Dave and I stood just a few nights ago, arm in arm singing one of our favorite German songs (In heaven there is no beer / That's why we drink it here / 'Cause when we're gone from here / Our friends will be drinking all our beer / hey hey hey).
The market's goods revealed that fall is in fact on its way. One vendor had watermelon for sale next to crates of squash. Another vendor had huge pots of mums (three for $20) and a few pie pumpkins along with ears of corn. I love this time of year.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Sabotaging My Workout
I have decided to try to get back into a regular workout schedule. I was seeing a personal trainer -- Stephanie -- when I was still down in Champaign. Dave and I were making wedding plans, so I had the wedding dress incentive, and a doctor had informed me that I needed to change my diet and start working out or go on medication for hypertension, so I had the high blood pressure can screw with your life incentive.
Stephanie was outstanding. I saw her once a week. She immediately identified my personality type and used it against me. She was subtle but persistent, and always got me fired up. We managed to laugh most sessions, too. I was a beginner in every sense of the word, but she wouldn't let me use that excuse. During one of our sessions she introduced me to an 80-year-old woman who had just started working out also. She put us both on exercise balls for push ups -- you roll the ball down between your knees and your ankles and do push ups from there causing both your arms and every muscle you never knew in your whole gut region to get a work out. The work out room was mirrored so that you could watch your form. I watched the 80-year-old. There was no way I was going to let that lady squeeze out more or better push ups than I did. (Lucky for me, she was not there the next week when I was doing push ups on the ball and fell off.)
I always dreaded going to the gym -- that never got easy for me, it was never a habit. But I almost always loved it once I got about 5 minutes into our session. Stephanie mixed it up a lot, let me do the things I liked (any arm work while on the ball), and constantly introduced things I hated (anything having to do with squats or lunges and the damned medicine ball). I felt success and achievement after every session.
To top it off, I felt great in my sleeveless wedding gown and my blood pressure was an unprecedented 120/80 at my last doctor visit in Champaign. (The nursed ended up checking it twice and then the doctor later checked it herself since it was a much lower number than I had ever posted.)
And now all is lost. I did some workouts on my own when I moved up to the big city last August and up until the wedding. Stephanie had educated me enough to do some real work on my own and I found a great book to put a plan together. She even gave me her email address so I could ask for advice. After the wedding, and then the honeymoon and the holidays, I just plain quit.
Ironically, it is the end of summer that is pushing me towards getting back in shape. I've never liked my warm weather clothes -- but I love fall and winter wardrobes and I am worried about my size this year. I am concerned about how I look, not what I weigh. I also know that my blood pressure is probably not good. I haven't had enough information or the nerve to find and go to a new doctor up here yet (please refrain from emailing me about this -- I know, I know), so I haven't confirmed that I have lost what I achieved down at school in terms of the blood pressure.
So, I dusted off the book, cleaned off the exercise ball, and dug out my weights last week. Yep, I still hate lunges and squats. I wanted to ease back into it. I worked out on Thursday and was still hurting on Saturday. Stephanie taught me (pushed me) to do my very first push up -- of any kind. First we did them on an incline -- my hands higher than my feet, then I started doing them on my knees, and then I did my first bona fide push up. It was excruciating to do. Stephanie had me up to two sets of ten real push ups by the time I moved. We joked each time I groaned out in struggle that I would soon be doing them one handed or maybe even the cool ones where you clap in between them.
I did two push ups on Thursday -- on my knees. Ugh.
Today, I put on workout clothes when I got up so that I had no excuses when I got back from dropping Dave off. I had my mat, weights, book, ball, and step stool (I need to get one of those aerobic step sets) at the ready. I turned on the tv. Mistake.
I worked out today while watching Martha Stewart make roasted chicken and spoon bread. There was more butter in the spoon bread alone than we have in the kitchen right now. I changed channels. Oprah was doing some makeover show. Iman was talking about losing the 50 lbs she gained after having a baby at age 42?! She started boxing to get back to a size 6. Victoria Principal (of Dallas fame) was on -- she's 50-something and just can't give up eating chocolate every day. She looks better know than I did at 20.
I learned this morning that some television programs might sabotage my workout. And I also learned that lunges with hand weights are easier to do if you think about stepping on someone's head. And then punching them.
Stephanie was outstanding. I saw her once a week. She immediately identified my personality type and used it against me. She was subtle but persistent, and always got me fired up. We managed to laugh most sessions, too. I was a beginner in every sense of the word, but she wouldn't let me use that excuse. During one of our sessions she introduced me to an 80-year-old woman who had just started working out also. She put us both on exercise balls for push ups -- you roll the ball down between your knees and your ankles and do push ups from there causing both your arms and every muscle you never knew in your whole gut region to get a work out. The work out room was mirrored so that you could watch your form. I watched the 80-year-old. There was no way I was going to let that lady squeeze out more or better push ups than I did. (Lucky for me, she was not there the next week when I was doing push ups on the ball and fell off.)
I always dreaded going to the gym -- that never got easy for me, it was never a habit. But I almost always loved it once I got about 5 minutes into our session. Stephanie mixed it up a lot, let me do the things I liked (any arm work while on the ball), and constantly introduced things I hated (anything having to do with squats or lunges and the damned medicine ball). I felt success and achievement after every session.
To top it off, I felt great in my sleeveless wedding gown and my blood pressure was an unprecedented 120/80 at my last doctor visit in Champaign. (The nursed ended up checking it twice and then the doctor later checked it herself since it was a much lower number than I had ever posted.)
And now all is lost. I did some workouts on my own when I moved up to the big city last August and up until the wedding. Stephanie had educated me enough to do some real work on my own and I found a great book to put a plan together. She even gave me her email address so I could ask for advice. After the wedding, and then the honeymoon and the holidays, I just plain quit.
Ironically, it is the end of summer that is pushing me towards getting back in shape. I've never liked my warm weather clothes -- but I love fall and winter wardrobes and I am worried about my size this year. I am concerned about how I look, not what I weigh. I also know that my blood pressure is probably not good. I haven't had enough information or the nerve to find and go to a new doctor up here yet (please refrain from emailing me about this -- I know, I know), so I haven't confirmed that I have lost what I achieved down at school in terms of the blood pressure.
So, I dusted off the book, cleaned off the exercise ball, and dug out my weights last week. Yep, I still hate lunges and squats. I wanted to ease back into it. I worked out on Thursday and was still hurting on Saturday. Stephanie taught me (pushed me) to do my very first push up -- of any kind. First we did them on an incline -- my hands higher than my feet, then I started doing them on my knees, and then I did my first bona fide push up. It was excruciating to do. Stephanie had me up to two sets of ten real push ups by the time I moved. We joked each time I groaned out in struggle that I would soon be doing them one handed or maybe even the cool ones where you clap in between them.
I did two push ups on Thursday -- on my knees. Ugh.
Today, I put on workout clothes when I got up so that I had no excuses when I got back from dropping Dave off. I had my mat, weights, book, ball, and step stool (I need to get one of those aerobic step sets) at the ready. I turned on the tv. Mistake.
I worked out today while watching Martha Stewart make roasted chicken and spoon bread. There was more butter in the spoon bread alone than we have in the kitchen right now. I changed channels. Oprah was doing some makeover show. Iman was talking about losing the 50 lbs she gained after having a baby at age 42?! She started boxing to get back to a size 6. Victoria Principal (of Dallas fame) was on -- she's 50-something and just can't give up eating chocolate every day. She looks better know than I did at 20.
I learned this morning that some television programs might sabotage my workout. And I also learned that lunges with hand weights are easier to do if you think about stepping on someone's head. And then punching them.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Gemütlichkeit
The German-American Fest is in the neighborhood this weekend. It's 9:00pm on Sunday night and I can still hear strains of Ein Prosit and covers from songs popular in the 50s and 60s as I sit in our living room.
Our neighborhood – Lincoln Square – has been German for a very long time. The Chamber of Commerce here holds a May Fest every May, and a German American Fest every September. Dave and I often traveled up to this neighborhood from the old place on the el in order to attend these Fests. Now we are lucky enough to live just a block away – which means no PortoPotties for us!
The weather has been beautiful this weekend. We headed out to the Fest Friday night after Dave got home from work. The crowd was tremendous, the lines were enormous. We waited in line for about 20 minutes to get our tickets to buy Wurst und Bier. Then we tried to get to the Wurst und Bier. Wow was it crowded.
We successfully traded our tickets emblazoned with German and US flags for two Thüringer sausages – veal, my favorite. We quickly pumped some excellent mustard on the sausages and downed them pretty much where we stood. Then the hunt for beer began.
Those of you who know the love of my life know that his size is advantageous when trying to maneuver through crowds. He is great at clearing a path and is easy to spot above the masses. Before we enter crowded places I always check to see which baseball hat Dave is wearing so I can spot him. Perhaps due to our purported "equal relationship" (I throw that one around a lot), I ended up walking point as we began to reconnoiter the beer.
Does that make sense? Send the 5'5" person out in front to divide the Red Sea and have the 6' guy (on the button, by the way – I made him take off his shoes and flatten down his hair once to prove it) follow in the human wake. Right.
So that didn't work. I stopped at one point when I was trapped by lines of people to buy tickets that had converged with lines of people trying to get into a tent that had been pitched over a parking lot that served beer. I questioned our plan of attack.
When we finally got inside it was chaos. German-music-fueled chaos. Dave got us each a 32-ounce plastic mug of Beck's Oktoberfest. The mugs are classic – they have pictures of Generals Washington and von Steuben over German and American flags on them. Not only is the von Steuben picture horrible, but I'm not even sure von Steuben ever saw the black, red, gold of today's German flag. I love them.
We found a spot to stand away from the major currents of traffic – next to a stinking sewer grate. Dave and I are both big people watchers – German oom-pahs, German beer, and a stinking sewer grate that has a bit of a slope and some water settled around it made for super people watching. We enjoyed watching young people and old people alike. People in costume and people in great t-shirts (All American, Made From German Parts). There is a German-American police office organization -- they all have shirts and jackets with their logo on them. The logo borders on, hmmmm, not tasteful? We saw one old guy who had a metal helmet on with a big eagle on the front and the spike on the top. Excellent. A vendor was selling wreaths of silk flowers with ribbons to trail down your back so that even the trixies could be Deutsch for a day.
Dave and I were able to settle in between some tables and swing along in time to the music. Our favorite band was playing – we have no idea who they are, but they are at all of these events. One of the band members plays cowbells?! You have not enjoyed Edelweis until you hear it played by an old guy in Lederhosen grabbing differently-sized cowbells from a huge table and shaking out the melody.
There was a group of young men in front of us who were enjoying the entertainment of an old guy wearing a captain's hat dancing with any woman he could get close to. I thought it was funny that this group of young guys were dogging the old guy. The old guy got a lot closer to a lot more females than they did. Oh, and he ended up polka-ing with a folding chair when the female population waned. I have finally witnessed first-hand the power and benefit of cell phones that have cameras on them.
But the kids were alright – they had purchased more beers than their college-trained stomachs could handle and therefore spread the wealth. Somehow, people started introducing themselves to us. I think different groups at the tables thought that we were with them, a friend of a friend kind of thing. One of the young college men started our interaction by leaning over and screaming in my general direction, "So are you from the homeland?"
The college kids seemed to enjoy singing (every traditional and stereotype German song there is) and drinking with Dave. I realized that although they all had some connection to the "homeland," and all recently been there, they did not have much German beyond "ein Prosit," "oy oy oy," and "who the hell is Alice?" All of them were quite beschwipst and bordering on blau by the time the band played the last song. Walking (briskly) home, I was thankful that we live in a neighborhood that holds great Fests that allow us to safely enjoy ourselves. Gemütlichkeit was experienced by all.
I could tell you about our experience at the Fest on Saturday and how good we were to drink a reasonable amount of beer and leave at a reasonable hour because we had to get up early today because today was the first Sunday for choir. And how after mass we went to Vanessa's for a bagel and coffee (for me) and a whole shebang (for Dave). And then how we went across the street to watch the Cubs game but left at the end of the game because the Bears game had started – but it is late and the music is lulling me to sleep.
Our neighborhood – Lincoln Square – has been German for a very long time. The Chamber of Commerce here holds a May Fest every May, and a German American Fest every September. Dave and I often traveled up to this neighborhood from the old place on the el in order to attend these Fests. Now we are lucky enough to live just a block away – which means no PortoPotties for us!
The weather has been beautiful this weekend. We headed out to the Fest Friday night after Dave got home from work. The crowd was tremendous, the lines were enormous. We waited in line for about 20 minutes to get our tickets to buy Wurst und Bier. Then we tried to get to the Wurst und Bier. Wow was it crowded.
We successfully traded our tickets emblazoned with German and US flags for two Thüringer sausages – veal, my favorite. We quickly pumped some excellent mustard on the sausages and downed them pretty much where we stood. Then the hunt for beer began.
Those of you who know the love of my life know that his size is advantageous when trying to maneuver through crowds. He is great at clearing a path and is easy to spot above the masses. Before we enter crowded places I always check to see which baseball hat Dave is wearing so I can spot him. Perhaps due to our purported "equal relationship" (I throw that one around a lot), I ended up walking point as we began to reconnoiter the beer.
Does that make sense? Send the 5'5" person out in front to divide the Red Sea and have the 6' guy (on the button, by the way – I made him take off his shoes and flatten down his hair once to prove it) follow in the human wake. Right.
So that didn't work. I stopped at one point when I was trapped by lines of people to buy tickets that had converged with lines of people trying to get into a tent that had been pitched over a parking lot that served beer. I questioned our plan of attack.
When we finally got inside it was chaos. German-music-fueled chaos. Dave got us each a 32-ounce plastic mug of Beck's Oktoberfest. The mugs are classic – they have pictures of Generals Washington and von Steuben over German and American flags on them. Not only is the von Steuben picture horrible, but I'm not even sure von Steuben ever saw the black, red, gold of today's German flag. I love them.
We found a spot to stand away from the major currents of traffic – next to a stinking sewer grate. Dave and I are both big people watchers – German oom-pahs, German beer, and a stinking sewer grate that has a bit of a slope and some water settled around it made for super people watching. We enjoyed watching young people and old people alike. People in costume and people in great t-shirts (All American, Made From German Parts). There is a German-American police office organization -- they all have shirts and jackets with their logo on them. The logo borders on, hmmmm, not tasteful? We saw one old guy who had a metal helmet on with a big eagle on the front and the spike on the top. Excellent. A vendor was selling wreaths of silk flowers with ribbons to trail down your back so that even the trixies could be Deutsch for a day.
Dave and I were able to settle in between some tables and swing along in time to the music. Our favorite band was playing – we have no idea who they are, but they are at all of these events. One of the band members plays cowbells?! You have not enjoyed Edelweis until you hear it played by an old guy in Lederhosen grabbing differently-sized cowbells from a huge table and shaking out the melody.
There was a group of young men in front of us who were enjoying the entertainment of an old guy wearing a captain's hat dancing with any woman he could get close to. I thought it was funny that this group of young guys were dogging the old guy. The old guy got a lot closer to a lot more females than they did. Oh, and he ended up polka-ing with a folding chair when the female population waned. I have finally witnessed first-hand the power and benefit of cell phones that have cameras on them.
But the kids were alright – they had purchased more beers than their college-trained stomachs could handle and therefore spread the wealth. Somehow, people started introducing themselves to us. I think different groups at the tables thought that we were with them, a friend of a friend kind of thing. One of the young college men started our interaction by leaning over and screaming in my general direction, "So are you from the homeland?"
The college kids seemed to enjoy singing (every traditional and stereotype German song there is) and drinking with Dave. I realized that although they all had some connection to the "homeland," and all recently been there, they did not have much German beyond "ein Prosit," "oy oy oy," and "who the hell is Alice?" All of them were quite beschwipst and bordering on blau by the time the band played the last song. Walking (briskly) home, I was thankful that we live in a neighborhood that holds great Fests that allow us to safely enjoy ourselves. Gemütlichkeit was experienced by all.
I could tell you about our experience at the Fest on Saturday and how good we were to drink a reasonable amount of beer and leave at a reasonable hour because we had to get up early today because today was the first Sunday for choir. And how after mass we went to Vanessa's for a bagel and coffee (for me) and a whole shebang (for Dave). And then how we went across the street to watch the Cubs game but left at the end of the game because the Bears game had started – but it is late and the music is lulling me to sleep.
Friday, September 05, 2003
A Mixed Marriage
I have been avoiding comments on the recent Cards-Cubs series here in Chicago. They played 5 games in 4 days in fall-like weather. Monday was supposed to be a double-header, but the first game was rain delayed for several hours. So, the double-header was on Tuesday. The first game went 15 innings.
I love these series. However, this time my team took only one game. One. Chicago, St. Louis, and Houston are in a love/hate triangle at the top of the Central Divison. Last I saw, all three were within a game and a half of each other.
I am excited that my super husband gets to enjoy baseball in September. But his team cannot win the division. For years, we have made bets on the season series between our teams. The bets were usually cash and the results were often meaningless in the grand baseball scope of things -- neither team has been that great lately.
I've always told David that I would be thrilled for him to see his team in the World Series -- on the sole condition that they did not beat my team to get there. Now we're both fighting for the division title. [Note: As exciting as the division battle is, I am not so naive as to believe that any team coming out of the NL Central will play for very long into the post-season.]
Since the race to the division title is more interesting this year, and since I am not making my own money yet, we changed the bet this year. Our bet is on either of our teams taking the division. I will not go into the particulars of the actual bet -- I will say only that if the Cards or the Cubs win the Central, our friends and family will find out what the bet was.
I have to say that David has been a tremendous sport about his team taking 4 of 5 from mine. There were no victory dances, no giggles, no taunting me when we saw parts of games in public. He did not make fun of Cardinal players (he often makes fun of their names -- Bo Hart is a new favorite). David is usually good about such things -- especially with so much of the season left.
However. I went to the craft store the other day. Dave stayed at home (not surprisingly). He was a sweetheart and agreed to go through some boxes of his stuff. I came home to find he had done that and more. The office/guestroom in our apartment (that I often unconsciously call "my office", that I spend most hours of the day in) had been transformed.
On the wall that one sees upon entering the office are now affixed a large plaque and a framed photograph. The plaque holds a photograph of the 1984 NL Eastern Division Champions -- the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs logo is outshown only by the two Old Style logos. The plaque includes their record (96-65), and the words "The Chicago Cubs Do It With Style." The framed photograph is an 11x14 image (yes, I measured) of a young Ryne Sandburg. Which my own loyal Cardinal fan mother gave to Dave.
I'm wondering if minitures of the the Stan Musial statue are for sale. It would look super on our mantel. Or maybe a plaque bearing a picture of the 1982 World Champions -- the St. Louis Cardinals -- over our bed?
I love these series. However, this time my team took only one game. One. Chicago, St. Louis, and Houston are in a love/hate triangle at the top of the Central Divison. Last I saw, all three were within a game and a half of each other.
I am excited that my super husband gets to enjoy baseball in September. But his team cannot win the division. For years, we have made bets on the season series between our teams. The bets were usually cash and the results were often meaningless in the grand baseball scope of things -- neither team has been that great lately.
I've always told David that I would be thrilled for him to see his team in the World Series -- on the sole condition that they did not beat my team to get there. Now we're both fighting for the division title. [Note: As exciting as the division battle is, I am not so naive as to believe that any team coming out of the NL Central will play for very long into the post-season.]
Since the race to the division title is more interesting this year, and since I am not making my own money yet, we changed the bet this year. Our bet is on either of our teams taking the division. I will not go into the particulars of the actual bet -- I will say only that if the Cards or the Cubs win the Central, our friends and family will find out what the bet was.
I have to say that David has been a tremendous sport about his team taking 4 of 5 from mine. There were no victory dances, no giggles, no taunting me when we saw parts of games in public. He did not make fun of Cardinal players (he often makes fun of their names -- Bo Hart is a new favorite). David is usually good about such things -- especially with so much of the season left.
However. I went to the craft store the other day. Dave stayed at home (not surprisingly). He was a sweetheart and agreed to go through some boxes of his stuff. I came home to find he had done that and more. The office/guestroom in our apartment (that I often unconsciously call "my office", that I spend most hours of the day in) had been transformed.
On the wall that one sees upon entering the office are now affixed a large plaque and a framed photograph. The plaque holds a photograph of the 1984 NL Eastern Division Champions -- the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs logo is outshown only by the two Old Style logos. The plaque includes their record (96-65), and the words "The Chicago Cubs Do It With Style." The framed photograph is an 11x14 image (yes, I measured) of a young Ryne Sandburg. Which my own loyal Cardinal fan mother gave to Dave.
I'm wondering if minitures of the the Stan Musial statue are for sale. It would look super on our mantel. Or maybe a plaque bearing a picture of the 1982 World Champions -- the St. Louis Cardinals -- over our bed?
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Today's date is special for two reasons:
(1) It is my marvelous Mom's birthday,
(2) I met my wonderful husband David 12 years ago today.
How cool is that?
The weather is cool and beautiful, my mosquito net curtain project for the porch door is finally finished (I'll explain later), and I will soon go pick Dave up from work so that we can go to our favorite bar for dinner.
That's pretty cool.
(1) It is my marvelous Mom's birthday,
(2) I met my wonderful husband David 12 years ago today.
How cool is that?
The weather is cool and beautiful, my mosquito net curtain project for the porch door is finally finished (I'll explain later), and I will soon go pick Dave up from work so that we can go to our favorite bar for dinner.
That's pretty cool.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
From My Friend Eric
The following post was written by our good friend Eric. Eric was present when Dave and I met each other 12 short years ago in Germany. For those of you at the wedding, he was the tall guy who did a reading. Eric sent out the following story via email on July 28, 2003. I received his permission to post it -- and was not surprised to learn that I am the second friend/blogger to ask permission to rebroadcast this masterpiece. Enjoy.
I will try to get back to my regular blogging when I dig out from under some Oktoberfest work.
So here's Eric's story:
Stealing shamelessly from the Sportsguy, a running diary of last night's
concert-going affair at Wolf Trap.
5:15pm I bolted the office early after changing into shorts and a shirt my
wife will find distasteful. "A closet full of nice clothes, and you wear
that?" Victory. The simple fact of leaving the office early is enough to
put a bounce in my step. But tonight's even better - headed out to Wolf
Trap for a real throwback to college - Big Head Todd & the Monsters opening
for Hootie and the Blowfish. Walking through my old neighborhood in the
Foggy Bottom section of DC, where I lived during grad school, brought back
more warm memories.
5:30 Meet Tara at the Watergate, transfer the kiddies to her sister, who
works there, and we're off, over the Memorial Bridge, up the GW Parkway,
full of good cheer and that blind hope that builds expectations entirely out
of sync with reality. But hey, this qualifies a a real live date for us.
5:45-6:30 *%@! Washington traffic. Apparently, the entire city has decided
to get to Wolf Trap via Leesburg Pike today. No worries, Tara and I are
enjoying a conversation in the car free of interjections every 8 seconds
from the toddlers who usually ride in the backseat. It's life's little
pleasures that keep you going.
6:32 Arrive Wolf Trap. For those of you not familiar with the DC area,
Wolf Trap is a gem of a national park, tucked away in the Virginia woods
west of the city. The Filene Center, tonight's venue, is a fantastic
ampitheater built into a bowl in the woods. You can visit it here:
www.wolftrap.org All the seats inside are great, but the real pleasure lies
outdoors on The Lawn, a sloping hillside running up from the open back end
of the auditorium. The outdoor seating gets the highest ratings because, of
course, you're allowed to bring food and beverages of any kind. We haul our
gear & booze out of the car and join the throngs for the half-mile trek from
the parking lot to the theater. Brilliant people all around me are pulling
coolers on wheels - must upgrade cooler technology. And, to make matters
worse, I'm carrying a full-fledged picnic basket because Tara wanted us to
look "cute". Bless this woman, only for her.
6:45 By the time we get to the Lawn, it's already jammed with people in
full blown picnic mode. Blankets spread, beers out, a happy crowd. Tara
navigates to a great spot with a clean view straight down to center stage.
We spread out and save room for friends who will join. We lose no time
breaking out the first bottle.
7:00-8:00 this is good. not too sunny, not the usual beastly heat of a DC
summer night. A slight breeze even keeps the mosquitos at bay. Our friends
arrive and we split a shared feast of middle eastern mezzes and pan-Asian
spice. My stomach posts notice that this, combined with beer & wine, will
be an issue, but I'm in no mood to listen. [insert first red flag here]
8:00 Showtime, BHT is opening act. They're on their game. Great blues
fusion, they play several signature pieces from Midnight Radio and Sister
Sweetly - probably the two albums I listend to most (excessively) in
college. The entire crowd consists of thirty-somethings like us, and no one
is drunk or rowdy - drinking yes, but polite, chatty, conscious of not
intruding on someone else's blanket. Yep, we're all definitely old now.
8:30 This is great, (for the Drake folks raised on BHT) like sitting in
Peggy's, but outdoors (no $1 draws of Old Style, however - we'll survive).
We're far enough outside from the stage that you can hear the music cleanly,
but it's not overpowering. Low buzz of picnic banter and laughing blends
nicely with the music - did I mention that we're old? I lay back to look at
the sky (foreshadowing) thunderheads approach from the west.
8:45 BHT is winding down with Broken Hearted Savior when the first
dinner-plate size rain drops start slowly to fall. Our neighbor perks up -
"Oh, big drops mean it'll pass fast." Since I lack a degree in meterology I
demur, but yank out the rain gear.
8:50 The rain is getting into gear. The sallies in the crowd are making a
break for the parking lot. We are secure in our rain togs and umbrellas,
comfortable in our superior preparation. We mock the departing wussies. We
rule. [insert second red flag here]
9:00 The stage crew is changing sets for Hootie. This rain is quite
serious. Pelting, torrential, DC-style thunderstorm. The remaining crowd
outside roars in approval at every cracking boom of thunder. The spectators
inside the ampitheater are now having fun watching the few hundred remaining
hardy souls outside. I've stood up, and make my way to the 'facilities'.
Shoes are taking on water, shorts damp. But rain coat, cap and hood keep me
dry. The upper reaches of the lawn and entry area have turned into a wet
t-shirt contest as people continue to dash for the parking lots. But
everyone is still having fun.
9:10 So much for that. The crowd is turning. Still no Hootie, a restless,
wet crowd. Ragged cheers for sound men tuning up the occasional guitar.
I've returned to our encampment, standing in the rain, which is now pounding
the earth into submission. Tara has the umbrella, a rain coat and a garbage
bag wrapped aorund her legs. She is well prepared, imperturbable. She
implores me to sit back down. I ignore her. I am invincible. I quote
Abbey quoting Charlemagne. "Rain, je t'appelle de ta rigueur"
9:15 HOOTIE. Cheers all around. The storm identifies the band as
competition, and ratchets up the intensity.
9:20 It is raining so hard, you cannot hear the music. It's their new
stuff, so the rain nosie is not such a bad thing.
9:30 The group of six in front of us has been cut to four. They are
hunched under a tarp and negotiate a swift maneuver; spinning in unison they
retrieve a cooler while all managing to stay under the tarp. I am
impressed.
9:31 The tarps cannot locate their bottle opener. Shouts of horror, anger,
accusation from under the tarp. I procure our opener and offer it around.
I am a hero. I am offered beer. I toast the rain.
9:34 Columbia rain jacket has been breached. This is unbelievable. 8
years, countless south China downpours, three Force 10 hurricanes in Hong
Kong, numerous wet treks in the swamps of DC, and this jacket chooses this
moment to fail. Memo to Columbia: you suck. At this point, I realize too
that my shoes have actually become portable aquaria. My feet are afloat.
9:45 I finally acquiese to Tara's request I sit back down. How much more
wet can I get, anyway? Apparently, very wet. Sitting on a hill in a
downpour has but one consequence - immediate rainwater enema. I
am...displeased. I stand again, trying in vain to separate my shorts from
my colon, where they have been relentlessly forced by surging rainwater. I
note that even the tarp folk have abandoned the battlefield.
10:00 Our neighbors leave, they have had enough. They are wise. "Let's
go!" I shout to Tara. No way. She has paid her money. She is now standing
inside a trash bag, with it cinched around her waist - waterproof head to
toe. And her raincoat is better than mine. We agree to "one more song".
Hootie implores the crowd to "stay dry", and then says that their CD's are
on sale at the gift shop, or are also available online. At this moment I
hate Hootie with a passion normally reserved for war criminals, guys who
kick their dogs, and Howard Dean.
10:20 Predictably, "one more song" has rabbited into 4. My shorts have
taken on as much water as cotton allows, and are dumping the excess runoff
straight down my legs. I am cold. I am wet. There is no beer. The rain
of course, sensing its advantage, takes it up one MORE notch.
10:25 My stomach announces it has formed an axis of evil with the rain.
10:32 Tara gives in, deciding correctly that she has married a wimp. I am
fixed with a look of considerable disdain. She is tougher than me. But I
prevail. We gather our sodden gear and make for the car. I am now carrying
a blanket that weighs approximately 75 lbs. in addition to my "cute" picnic
basket. My shorts have been stretched to such an extent by the water that
it appears I am now wearing knickers. Fore!
10:40-11:20 I of course choose the long way home. "Brilliant! Just
brilliant!" shouts my stomach.
11:21 Arrive home, hurriedly thank sister-in-law babysitter, dash for
bathroom, lock door, pray.
11:30 Pray harder.
11:40 Epiphany.
12:00 recover, let out dog, let in dog, find bed
0530 alarmshowerdressbusssluglinemetroofficecoffee
Argh.
I will try to get back to my regular blogging when I dig out from under some Oktoberfest work.
So here's Eric's story:
Stealing shamelessly from the Sportsguy, a running diary of last night's
concert-going affair at Wolf Trap.
5:15pm I bolted the office early after changing into shorts and a shirt my
wife will find distasteful. "A closet full of nice clothes, and you wear
that?" Victory. The simple fact of leaving the office early is enough to
put a bounce in my step. But tonight's even better - headed out to Wolf
Trap for a real throwback to college - Big Head Todd & the Monsters opening
for Hootie and the Blowfish. Walking through my old neighborhood in the
Foggy Bottom section of DC, where I lived during grad school, brought back
more warm memories.
5:30 Meet Tara at the Watergate, transfer the kiddies to her sister, who
works there, and we're off, over the Memorial Bridge, up the GW Parkway,
full of good cheer and that blind hope that builds expectations entirely out
of sync with reality. But hey, this qualifies a a real live date for us.
5:45-6:30 *%@! Washington traffic. Apparently, the entire city has decided
to get to Wolf Trap via Leesburg Pike today. No worries, Tara and I are
enjoying a conversation in the car free of interjections every 8 seconds
from the toddlers who usually ride in the backseat. It's life's little
pleasures that keep you going.
6:32 Arrive Wolf Trap. For those of you not familiar with the DC area,
Wolf Trap is a gem of a national park, tucked away in the Virginia woods
west of the city. The Filene Center, tonight's venue, is a fantastic
ampitheater built into a bowl in the woods. You can visit it here:
www.wolftrap.org All the seats inside are great, but the real pleasure lies
outdoors on The Lawn, a sloping hillside running up from the open back end
of the auditorium. The outdoor seating gets the highest ratings because, of
course, you're allowed to bring food and beverages of any kind. We haul our
gear & booze out of the car and join the throngs for the half-mile trek from
the parking lot to the theater. Brilliant people all around me are pulling
coolers on wheels - must upgrade cooler technology. And, to make matters
worse, I'm carrying a full-fledged picnic basket because Tara wanted us to
look "cute". Bless this woman, only for her.
6:45 By the time we get to the Lawn, it's already jammed with people in
full blown picnic mode. Blankets spread, beers out, a happy crowd. Tara
navigates to a great spot with a clean view straight down to center stage.
We spread out and save room for friends who will join. We lose no time
breaking out the first bottle.
7:00-8:00 this is good. not too sunny, not the usual beastly heat of a DC
summer night. A slight breeze even keeps the mosquitos at bay. Our friends
arrive and we split a shared feast of middle eastern mezzes and pan-Asian
spice. My stomach posts notice that this, combined with beer & wine, will
be an issue, but I'm in no mood to listen. [insert first red flag here]
8:00 Showtime, BHT is opening act. They're on their game. Great blues
fusion, they play several signature pieces from Midnight Radio and Sister
Sweetly - probably the two albums I listend to most (excessively) in
college. The entire crowd consists of thirty-somethings like us, and no one
is drunk or rowdy - drinking yes, but polite, chatty, conscious of not
intruding on someone else's blanket. Yep, we're all definitely old now.
8:30 This is great, (for the Drake folks raised on BHT) like sitting in
Peggy's, but outdoors (no $1 draws of Old Style, however - we'll survive).
We're far enough outside from the stage that you can hear the music cleanly,
but it's not overpowering. Low buzz of picnic banter and laughing blends
nicely with the music - did I mention that we're old? I lay back to look at
the sky (foreshadowing) thunderheads approach from the west.
8:45 BHT is winding down with Broken Hearted Savior when the first
dinner-plate size rain drops start slowly to fall. Our neighbor perks up -
"Oh, big drops mean it'll pass fast." Since I lack a degree in meterology I
demur, but yank out the rain gear.
8:50 The rain is getting into gear. The sallies in the crowd are making a
break for the parking lot. We are secure in our rain togs and umbrellas,
comfortable in our superior preparation. We mock the departing wussies. We
rule. [insert second red flag here]
9:00 The stage crew is changing sets for Hootie. This rain is quite
serious. Pelting, torrential, DC-style thunderstorm. The remaining crowd
outside roars in approval at every cracking boom of thunder. The spectators
inside the ampitheater are now having fun watching the few hundred remaining
hardy souls outside. I've stood up, and make my way to the 'facilities'.
Shoes are taking on water, shorts damp. But rain coat, cap and hood keep me
dry. The upper reaches of the lawn and entry area have turned into a wet
t-shirt contest as people continue to dash for the parking lots. But
everyone is still having fun.
9:10 So much for that. The crowd is turning. Still no Hootie, a restless,
wet crowd. Ragged cheers for sound men tuning up the occasional guitar.
I've returned to our encampment, standing in the rain, which is now pounding
the earth into submission. Tara has the umbrella, a rain coat and a garbage
bag wrapped aorund her legs. She is well prepared, imperturbable. She
implores me to sit back down. I ignore her. I am invincible. I quote
Abbey quoting Charlemagne. "Rain, je t'appelle de ta rigueur"
9:15 HOOTIE. Cheers all around. The storm identifies the band as
competition, and ratchets up the intensity.
9:20 It is raining so hard, you cannot hear the music. It's their new
stuff, so the rain nosie is not such a bad thing.
9:30 The group of six in front of us has been cut to four. They are
hunched under a tarp and negotiate a swift maneuver; spinning in unison they
retrieve a cooler while all managing to stay under the tarp. I am
impressed.
9:31 The tarps cannot locate their bottle opener. Shouts of horror, anger,
accusation from under the tarp. I procure our opener and offer it around.
I am a hero. I am offered beer. I toast the rain.
9:34 Columbia rain jacket has been breached. This is unbelievable. 8
years, countless south China downpours, three Force 10 hurricanes in Hong
Kong, numerous wet treks in the swamps of DC, and this jacket chooses this
moment to fail. Memo to Columbia: you suck. At this point, I realize too
that my shoes have actually become portable aquaria. My feet are afloat.
9:45 I finally acquiese to Tara's request I sit back down. How much more
wet can I get, anyway? Apparently, very wet. Sitting on a hill in a
downpour has but one consequence - immediate rainwater enema. I
am...displeased. I stand again, trying in vain to separate my shorts from
my colon, where they have been relentlessly forced by surging rainwater. I
note that even the tarp folk have abandoned the battlefield.
10:00 Our neighbors leave, they have had enough. They are wise. "Let's
go!" I shout to Tara. No way. She has paid her money. She is now standing
inside a trash bag, with it cinched around her waist - waterproof head to
toe. And her raincoat is better than mine. We agree to "one more song".
Hootie implores the crowd to "stay dry", and then says that their CD's are
on sale at the gift shop, or are also available online. At this moment I
hate Hootie with a passion normally reserved for war criminals, guys who
kick their dogs, and Howard Dean.
10:20 Predictably, "one more song" has rabbited into 4. My shorts have
taken on as much water as cotton allows, and are dumping the excess runoff
straight down my legs. I am cold. I am wet. There is no beer. The rain
of course, sensing its advantage, takes it up one MORE notch.
10:25 My stomach announces it has formed an axis of evil with the rain.
10:32 Tara gives in, deciding correctly that she has married a wimp. I am
fixed with a look of considerable disdain. She is tougher than me. But I
prevail. We gather our sodden gear and make for the car. I am now carrying
a blanket that weighs approximately 75 lbs. in addition to my "cute" picnic
basket. My shorts have been stretched to such an extent by the water that
it appears I am now wearing knickers. Fore!
10:40-11:20 I of course choose the long way home. "Brilliant! Just
brilliant!" shouts my stomach.
11:21 Arrive home, hurriedly thank sister-in-law babysitter, dash for
bathroom, lock door, pray.
11:30 Pray harder.
11:40 Epiphany.
12:00 recover, let out dog, let in dog, find bed
0530 alarmshowerdressbusssluglinemetroofficecoffee
Argh.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Autumn and More Little Car
The weather this morning is so autumn! I love fall -- it is my favorite time of the year. I woke up under the comforter this morning. Dave gave me a kiss as he got up and asked me if I wanted some coffee. Do I want some coffee. Please. I snoozed for a little while and was awakened by my marvelous husband who had returned with coffee cup in hand (and saying "Ow, ow, ow. Take it. Take it, it's hot!"). I sat up in bed and fluffed the pillows so that I could sip my French vanilla coffee and flip through my latest Real Simple magazine which is, of course, full of autumn-oriented stuff.
Fall has introduced itself and I love it. I just started making a head wreath of autumn flowers to wear to Oktoberfest. The colors are a lot like my wedding bouquet. I wasn't really feeling it when I started making it a couple of days ago while sitting in front of the open porch door to stay cool – maybe today is the day to finish it off in the right weather setting.
And just now it has started to drizzle outside. Time to put another pot (this one decaf) on.
I wanted to add a couple of things about my little car, my Wagenschen, today. I remembered another story about my car. We once traveled together from Champaign to Ypsilanti, Michigan to go to a conference on English for Business Purposes. It was the only time the car and I were paid for our miles. I don't really remember the conference or what my paper was about, but I vividly remember the drive home. It was spring. It had rained the whole two days I was there. The weather was changing as a front moved in. The front brought tremendous wind with it – and I was driving into it to get home. My Wagenschen's mileage was not as good as usual that day.
At one point I stopped at a rest area to give my car and my bladder a break. As I pulled in, I was still driving into the wind, and then pulled into a diagonal spot according to the construction of most rest areas. Which means that now the wind was blowing against the driver-side door. I pulled into the spot, turned off the car, unlocked the door, pulled the handle, and pushed. I nearly broke my foot on the car door that I had expected would effortlessly swing open as usual. I could not get out of my car! I felt embarrassment before panic. Maybe I had neglected to unlock the door. Clearly, it was not an electrical failure as everything on my little car (save the transmission) is manual. I checked the lock – it was open. I was disappointed in my little car door. I contemplated a Dukes of Hazzard move through the window – I contemplated climbing to the passenger side.
And then I looked around and noticed that the rest area was experiencing an epidemic of driver-side doors refusing to open. I looked around and saw that a few cars had actually pulled out and then backed in so that they would be able to exit the car from the driver's side. One lady parked behind a van – but then had to crawl through the passenger side of her car when she returned to her car because the protective van had left.
I knew now that the wind was the culprit. I briefly thought that I might be able to out muscle the wind, but then pictured myself being crushed in the gap by so many pounds of metal and fiberglass as the door closed on me. As Dave will willingly tell you, I hate breaking the painted rules of parking lots – I could not bring myself to back into a pull into spot. So, I locked the driver-side door, gingerly climbed over the gear shift, and casually exited my little car on the passenger side.
That was a weird driving day. My little car did a great job – she may be light-weight, but she sits low enough to the pavement that we did just fine.
Mom and Dad protested that I did not reminisce about trips my little car and I have taken to St. Louis. My Wagenschen and I have traveled together to St. Louis from Champaign and from Chicago. The trip from Champaign is not too bad, but it is about 45 minutes longer than the trip from Champaign to Chicago. Therefore, you start to get that "Are we there yet?" feeling long before you are there yet, and the math required to avoid having to fill the tank must be more accurate than usual. The trip from Chicago to St. Louis starts out nice enough, but becomes a nightmare after the first couple of hours on Interstate 55. My little car and I love to spend time together – but 5 1/2 hours? Hypothetically, it's kind of like loving your sisters who are spread out all over the country. And then you all arrive at home and have such a great time together catching up, playing games, etc. And then you've been together for a week and you all begin to get frustrated and annoyed. It doesn't mean that I don't love spending time in my little car (or with my sisters), but quality over quantity can make a big difference.
Fall has introduced itself and I love it. I just started making a head wreath of autumn flowers to wear to Oktoberfest. The colors are a lot like my wedding bouquet. I wasn't really feeling it when I started making it a couple of days ago while sitting in front of the open porch door to stay cool – maybe today is the day to finish it off in the right weather setting.
And just now it has started to drizzle outside. Time to put another pot (this one decaf) on.
I wanted to add a couple of things about my little car, my Wagenschen, today. I remembered another story about my car. We once traveled together from Champaign to Ypsilanti, Michigan to go to a conference on English for Business Purposes. It was the only time the car and I were paid for our miles. I don't really remember the conference or what my paper was about, but I vividly remember the drive home. It was spring. It had rained the whole two days I was there. The weather was changing as a front moved in. The front brought tremendous wind with it – and I was driving into it to get home. My Wagenschen's mileage was not as good as usual that day.
At one point I stopped at a rest area to give my car and my bladder a break. As I pulled in, I was still driving into the wind, and then pulled into a diagonal spot according to the construction of most rest areas. Which means that now the wind was blowing against the driver-side door. I pulled into the spot, turned off the car, unlocked the door, pulled the handle, and pushed. I nearly broke my foot on the car door that I had expected would effortlessly swing open as usual. I could not get out of my car! I felt embarrassment before panic. Maybe I had neglected to unlock the door. Clearly, it was not an electrical failure as everything on my little car (save the transmission) is manual. I checked the lock – it was open. I was disappointed in my little car door. I contemplated a Dukes of Hazzard move through the window – I contemplated climbing to the passenger side.
And then I looked around and noticed that the rest area was experiencing an epidemic of driver-side doors refusing to open. I looked around and saw that a few cars had actually pulled out and then backed in so that they would be able to exit the car from the driver's side. One lady parked behind a van – but then had to crawl through the passenger side of her car when she returned to her car because the protective van had left.
I knew now that the wind was the culprit. I briefly thought that I might be able to out muscle the wind, but then pictured myself being crushed in the gap by so many pounds of metal and fiberglass as the door closed on me. As Dave will willingly tell you, I hate breaking the painted rules of parking lots – I could not bring myself to back into a pull into spot. So, I locked the driver-side door, gingerly climbed over the gear shift, and casually exited my little car on the passenger side.
That was a weird driving day. My little car did a great job – she may be light-weight, but she sits low enough to the pavement that we did just fine.
Mom and Dad protested that I did not reminisce about trips my little car and I have taken to St. Louis. My Wagenschen and I have traveled together to St. Louis from Champaign and from Chicago. The trip from Champaign is not too bad, but it is about 45 minutes longer than the trip from Champaign to Chicago. Therefore, you start to get that "Are we there yet?" feeling long before you are there yet, and the math required to avoid having to fill the tank must be more accurate than usual. The trip from Chicago to St. Louis starts out nice enough, but becomes a nightmare after the first couple of hours on Interstate 55. My little car and I love to spend time together – but 5 1/2 hours? Hypothetically, it's kind of like loving your sisters who are spread out all over the country. And then you all arrive at home and have such a great time together catching up, playing games, etc. And then you've been together for a week and you all begin to get frustrated and annoyed. It doesn't mean that I don't love spending time in my little car (or with my sisters), but quality over quantity can make a big difference.
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