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."
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
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.
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