Citizenship Exam

While home for the holiday I got into a conversation about citizenship with my stepmom-ish. When I worked at BB, a large portion of my employees were immigrants; English was their third, four language. They were from all over the world, from all sorts of circumstances. Amela left Bosnia when the civil war erupted in the late 80s and lived in Germany for several years before moving to the US. She works two jobs, her husband works three and her son is now a senior at Virginia Tech. Roya's father was high up in the local government in Tehran so when the revolution happened in the 80s, she was smuggled out of Iran on the back of a motorcycle in the middle of the night. She was 22. Hortencia was from an affluent family in Peru when her husband's diabetes forced him from his job. Unable to support her husband and sons there, she moved solo to the US. She works three jobs. Muhamad's family fled Iraq during the Gulf War. He was 7 years old. Nooria's family fled Afghanistan during the war with Russia.
Last year, Amela, Nooria and Muhamad finally had the opportunity to become full-fledged citizens. I had the chance to help all three of them study for their citizenship exam, and while asking them questions I realized how many 'natural-born' Americans would fail the test. Not just fail it, BOMB it. It's embarrassing. I'd like to see it required of all Americans in order to be registered to vote, or hold a drivers license. Wonder what that would do for civic attention spans.
Some sample questions, as found on the San Francisco Public Library's webpage:
(1) What are the colors of the flag?
(2) How many stars are on the flag?
(3) What do the stars represent?
(4) When is Independence Day?
(5) Independence from whom?
(6) Who becomes President if the President and Vice President die?
(7) How long is a Senator's term?
(8) Can the Constitution be changed?
(9) If so, what is a change in the Constitution called?
(10) How many amendments are there in the Constitution?
(11) What are the three branches of the US government called?
(12) Who makes laws in the United States?
(13) What is Congress?
(14) What is the purpose of the judicial branch?
(15) What is the Bill of Rights?
(16) Name three rights guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.
(17) In what year was the Constitution written?
(18) Can you name the thirteen original colonies?
(19) Who has the power to declare war?
(20) Which President was the first Commander-in-Chief of the US Military?

There are 100 sample questions (many are repetitive) and most are not difficult; but knowing that most American high school seniors who, while taking Government as a class, would find a way to fail such a test irks me.

(As for the questions above, I got them all right except I could only list 12 colonies. I forgot Jersey.)

Best and Worst of 2k6

Yes indeed, it's that time of the year when we do our retrospective here at Present Company (and by we I mean me) in an often futile attempt to remember the year that was. This year some photos have been included, for you people who don't like so many words. Brevity: not my strong suite.

Merry Christmas and here's to 2007!

Best Public Speaking: Brandt's best man speech, Paul/Krista wedding August 5, Steven's Point, WI.
Key: incorporating lumberjack, barracuda, nimble, delicious, yeti, pella roja (red head in spanish, according to Jack) and encyclopedia into a speech, without laughing. I believe the sentence “Paul's golf swing looks like a lumberjack trying to fish for barracuda with a toothpick,” was used.

Best Conversion: realizing that I actually like the beach. Converted in May/June at Myrtle Beach, SC with six other ladies in the Maskey's timeshare.
Key: daiquiris and pina coladas from hotel bar while standing in the surf at 11am. And Beth's “I'm in my happy place.”

Best Shopping: Caroline M. Romano buying something like 20 ringtones after drinking most of a magnum of cab sav and claiming it was “retail therapy.” July at the DDH.
Key: I do believe she bought Jessica Simpson. Voluntarily.

Worst Start to Something: New Years on my couch, watching “The Graduate” with Neil and Nathan.
Key: Whooping Cough. That damn whooping cough. As Hatch said, “And Jesus whooped.”

Best Road Trip: Doug, Laurie, Erin, Johnny K and I in a roomy Avalon, from Leesburg to Dayton, OH in a day, Kristina/Joe wedding, June.
Key: Mad Libs (“a juicy breasted nuthatch”?) the nicest rest area EVER, Johnny talking about hating sun roofs, back seat dancing. Trip minutes.

Worst Road Trip: Amy, Erin and I in a Ford Contour with no AC, driving from KY back to Leesburg after the KK/Joe wedding, June.
Key: Did you read the part about the no AC in the humidity of late June? And then that damn gas station didn't sell slurpees.

Best Borrowed Item: driving to Myrtle Beach with Erin and Jenny in the wee hours and stopping at “Pedro's Pleasure Dome” at South of the Border, seeing a sombrero ashtray and stealing it.
Key: that mini pleasure dome sat on the dashboard and didn't move, even around some crazy turns. That thing was solid. It was awesome. It was snuck back in and returned on the way home, as mandated by Erin, a pillar of righteousness. Jenny: “Log truck.”

(Paul, Krista, Brandt, Jack, Seth and I stroll through Madison, WI before the night of the bachelor party)

Best Wedding: I think Paul and Krista edges out the competition, but just barely. Strong showing by KK and Joe and Rachel and Chris too.
Key: (1) it was in Wisconsin. (2) Seth and I eat deep dish in Chicago with a pathological liar we just met (3) Seth and Brandt bury the hatchet. (4) Paul deciding to cuddle with Seth his last night as a bachelor. (5) Setting up the rehearsal dinner tent with Beth and Amelia while the boys were recovering from the bachelor party. (6) Seth being so bad at golf he hit a tree and it bounced back at his face and he caught it (7) The rabid fox wandering around the country club at the reception. (8) Beating 8 guys at carbombs...twice. (9) Brandt's best man speech (see above). (10) dancing in a circle around Paul while he marched in place to “Ring of Fire”.

Best Fest: ODBfest in a monsoon, Old Dominion Brewery, Ashburn, VA in June with Brandt, Rinehart and Caroline. This wins every year.
Key: Well...Rinehart for one. The place was empty. A pocketful of free pogs. Mudfights. Paul and Krista picking us up. Typical ODBfest. Every year since 2003.

Best Reunion: Seeing Liz and Paul after 7 months, Heathrow Airport, London, UK, April.
Key: Nothing was different. Sign of true friends.

Worst Place to Navigate: Bristol, UK.
Key: “Liz, I may kill you if you don't stop driving.”

Best Karaoke Night: Brandt's two-day birthday celebration at Paynes on Friday and the Royal Lee on Saturday, May. I believe that was the last trip to the famed Royal Lee.

Key: Not “getting” to sing “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” with Mark, Paul's version of Cream's “White Room.”(Lewis, Me, Liz, Katie(?) and Paul outside of the hostel where we dropped them)

Best “How Did I Get Here?” Moment: Driving around Bristol, UK after the Iron and Wine show with two random exchange students and a traveling Canadian packed into Liz's two-door Fiesta.
Key: We'd just met them, the drive took as long as the walk would have and the Canadian was singing "The Great Adeventure" by Steven Curtis Chapman

Worst Reality Check: Phone call from my dad at work, February 28.
Key: having to tell my mom and sisters.

Most Productive Week: The week of February 28th.
Key: I apparently like to do a lot when stressed. Finished bed, moved bed, rearranged room three times, dismantled a futon and set it up in another room, regrouted my shower, reorganized book shelves, missed one day of work.

Best Random Place to Stay: Staying with Hatcher's family friends Lily and Kevin, Heburon, KY, June, for the Durrough wedding.
Key: Pool. Billiards. Giant couch. Giant TV. Whole floor to ourselves. Newborn twins. Air hockey. The DC boys. Steve and Joe's “swim trunks”, kababs and brewskies, mowing the lawn and the biggest breakfast ever. Pringles forever.

Worst Roadside Decoration: Right on the highway its Touchdown Jesus, outside of Cincinnati, OH.
Key: We almost drove off the road laughing.

Best Kings Category: “Dance Crazes” with Seth and Caroline before the drive to Chicago/Wisconsin, August at the DDH.
Key: Watching Seth try to do the macarena

Best Gift: Liz's “Gilmore Girls” DVD boxed set that Paul bought on ebay. With Chinese subtitles. Recorded off the TV.
Key: did you catch the part about the subtitles?

Best After the Wedding Moment: The “little get together” at Hatcher's after the Chris/Rachel wedding, Lincoln, VA, August.
Key: “Jeter did you kiss that girl?” Falling asleep on the couch at about 3am, and that was early.

Worst Holiday: St. Patrick's Day.
Key: somehow this is true every year. It's clear God knows I'm not Irish and is punishing me for it. “Dear St. Patrick's Day: On behalf of my friend Sarah Spooner I just wanted to say, She hates you. Love, Erin.”

Best Upgrade: Stewart, the 1999 Toshiba laptop, to Lappy 9000, the sleek new shiny model. With a mouse that works too.
Key: The N, B and Space Bar worked inconsistently. CDs stopped being readable. Windows 98 still sounded futuristic.

Best Freebies: Free Wine for Women on Wednesdays, Tappatinis, Eastern Market, SE DC, all summer.
Key: revolving cast of characters, the Tom Spaul phone call, Abby B. Free wine. Duh.

Best Lists: Unromantic Dictionary/Words to never say on a first date, Awkward places to find oneself half-naked and Songs to not play at a wedding, Myrtle Beach, June.
Key: Reggie and Caroline's PENECILLIN!, “Half-naked? CONGRESS!”, and, of course, any songs about strippers.

Best Job Switch: getting the internship at Windy Gap, late May, finally leaving the Brothers.
Key: I WORK AT WINDY GAP! How crazy is that?

Best/Worst Meal Choice: Eating ham and potato salad at least once a day for an entire week, May at the DDH.
Key: We had food for 30 people at our house and 7 people came. I didn't want the ham to go to waste. Or the 5lb bucket of potato salad. Best text from it: “Spooner? Ham?”

Worst Oversight: No Taps Week Reunion in 2K6.

Key: We have no excuse, but I'm sure there's a way to blame Dylan.(Hatcher and Maskey in the throwes of fistpumping)

Best Fistpumping Moment: Dueling Piano Bar with Sean and the girls, Myrtle Beach, June.
Key: Rinehart's doppelganger, texting Flynny, Pulling request out of halter top (“with $5 cuz boobs is small”), being the loudest girls in the place, getting the whole crowd to waive their arms along with us during “Brown Eyed Girl” as if we were leading club and the guys saying “Do whatever those girls do!”, Sean being overwhelmed.

Best Race: makejoefamous and I trying to beat the incoming freshman at his alma mater in a scavenger hunt...and winning. Lynchburg, VA, August.
Key: the freshman didn't know we were doing the scavenger hunt until we were racing them around the track, trying to find a clue on a goal post.

Best Random Moment When a Whole Room Breaks Into Song Like They Do in Musicals But Never in Real Life: Ellen Troyer's rendition of Peter Cetera's “Glory of Love” on piano when, you guessed, it, everyone (20+ people) starts to sing along as loud as possible. Moldy Family Dinner, Weaverville, NC, October.
Key: She's 8 months pregnant and the song previously played was “Hot Crossed Buns”.

Best Intern Moment: Julie Brandenberger bursting through the door at 11:45pm, yelling, “COME QUICK!”. Weaverville, NC. September.
Key: She accidentally drove a golf cart off a small cliff, and sort of wedged it into a small tree.

Biggest Rip-off: Stonehenge, outside of Sailsbury, UK, April.
Key: Paying something like £6 to stand around an go, “Yup. They are big stones.” Not getting the audio guide was probably a reason the trip was a bust. I mean it's cool and all, but hard to spend more than 10 minutes there.

Worst Setup: Homeowner Steve to Erin, December 2006.
Key: He's a veteran girls fastpitch softball umpire. Minichopper. Mustache. Hockey. 6'3”, 190lbs, age: 33. Dreamy.

No Honor

I read the newspaper online. I know, how very modern of me, but every morning I can drink my coffee and look over the headlines that the Post has for me that day (by Post I mean the one in Washington, not the one in NY. I find it funny that in NY, the Times is the credible paper and the Post is the sketchy one and in DC it's just the opposite. The best thing the Washington Times has ever done was line a litter box). Yesterday had an article about what women's rights looked like in Communist Russia and what is has looked like since the emergence of a more capitalistic society. It was written by a Russian journalist for the Post and I found it insightful.
As with most of the more intriguing articles published online, there are quite a few comments and additions made by readers, one being a link to a 2002 National Geographic article on 'honor killings' which is, essentially, the murder of women to "protect" their family's perceived honor (I highly recommend reading that article. It isn't very long). And that the practice is widely accepted and very rarely sees any sort of consequence for the killers. If a woman is caught in adultery, or in premarital sex, or speaks out against anyone in her family, or flirts, or if her dowry is too low, or any sort of slight, real or imagined then her life may be in jeopardy. And the idea that no one would stand for her is so sad. I cannot help but be angry that anyone in this day and age can and does treat another as a piece of property.
I am so thankful for the options that I have. I have options, and what my family thinks goes no farther than their verbalization of that opinion. In schooling, in occupation, in dating and marriage, in birth control, in divorce, the list goes on. Sometimes I forget how much had to happen to have those options, how novel some of them are globally.
My cousin Dan worked with women's rights in India for several years, writing a book about helping them to start on the road to economic independence. I've only read parts of it, but talking to him about it this summer gave me confidence that there are good things happening in that area, that slowly, things are changing.

I Can Be Your Hero, Baby

So that death cough is still here.
Worst in the morning, when I'm first up and my lungs haven't had time to do their best Lazarus impression. It probably doesn't help that I live in a dark, dank basement. This morning it was so bad my roommate came out of her room and asked if I was dying. I saw the camp doctor today (pays to have a MD on call any time campers are present) and it's not the whooping cough again. Whoop for joy about that one (that was for you, Hatch.) He gave me a bunch of pills, a cough suppressant and more albuterol for my inhaler. That basically translates into speed, speed and inhaled speed. In between coughing fits and sneezing, I'm spazzy.
So much for gettin' that pack of camels for the long drive back to VA...(jk)

Since "Lost" has been on hiatus most of the year, and the show is frankly starting to piss me off, I've taken to a new show that is similar but less smoke-killing-people-off-ish. I started watching "Heroes" simply because NBC has all the episodes online and I don't have TV. I'm really getting into it. Not in an obsessive way, but I do love me a show that causes my brain to occasionally jump above the comatose state caused by most of primetime.

I think lately I've been trying to actively not think. There's too much to prepare for, too much to consider, too much to weigh. So much I have to verbally process and I haven't had the means or the energy to do it lately. I'm heading back to LoCo on the 21st and I'll be at my dad's on the 22nd, though with my stepmom there I never know if I'll be welcome or not. One day she is lukewarm, the next she is frosty, still the next she is hugs and smiles. Consistency would be nice, no matter which form it may take. Steeling myself for anything takes more energy than I'd like to dictate to such a task.

Lastly, best Christmas present received so far:

This photo on a coffee mug, courtesy of K O'B Murphy

Yes, that is Seany and Romano, sitting on a cannon out on the coast of NC. Why this photo makes me giggle so hard I haven't yet deciphered. But come on, it's funny. Now every time I have my coffee in it, I smile. Good present you drunken Irish!

They Should be Teams on the Amazing Race

Tonight Liz called to tell me that she and Paul are...

ENGAGED!!!

I've never screamed so loud for an engagement!
I jumped on my couch out of joy, scaring roommates!

CONGRATS FRIENDS!!

Speaking of Engaged...

JENNY AND JOHNNY K got engaged this weekend!!
Johnny K: luckiest man EVER.
CONGRATS TO TWO OF FFX's BEST!

*Liz: the photo of ya'll was carefully chosen and is the third most awkward photo I own of the two of you. I would have posted the most awkward (I believe you are talking into a shoe in the photo) but I was feeling generous. It's only cuz you told me I get to give a speech. Don't make me regret my decision.

You Smell. You Should.

Humans are messy, dirty creatures who spend a vast amount of time trying to hide that fact. Covering our smells is a billion dollar industry of soaps, perfumes, colognes, lotions and sprays; we've created a complex system that lets us believe our bodily waste can disappear. We scrub ourselves with stones and seacreatures, we remove hair, grow hair, color hair, cut hair, add hair.
I wonder if we ever consciously realize how frustrating it is to be under the impression that we are the be-all, end-all of creation, the pinnacle of all that is detailed perfection when we are just as gross as every other mammal. I think it'd be rather freeing to understand that almost all of what decorum tells us to hide is the very stuff that we simply are.

Shameless Plug

This is a plug for an old old friend:
Please go here to listen and vote for my friend Stephanie (Schlosser) Chapman in the BMI podcast! Steph is my high school friend who's making a name for herself out there in Nashville!

Some Days

All the thoughts of the week have been flashes of lightening, an effort like discerning songs and discussions while the radio is still scanning. As soon as it is identified it is gone.
I blame the new black myan onyx organic coffee beans, which are akin to shooting up disesl fuel. Thoughts on peak oil, gender roles, paint, etc. And then...static.
Instead of thoughts, I'll post some happenings. Monday was la dia de flu. I was up all Sunday night getting sick, so I slept most of Monday, before going to the camp Christmas party and ordering prime rib. I took most of it home with me to eat later. Tuesday I had my stint as the weekly town runner, in which I am sent to 8-10 places to pick up anything from toilets and hoses to enough candy to cause a dentist seizures (of delight or mortification depends on the dentist). Did you know there is a store that just sells hoses? I didn't know there was enough of a business to afford a whole store dedicated to just hoses, but apparently, I was mistaken. As I wrote about a while ago, we have massive construction happening here at the 'Gap and with OSHA regs, hard hats are required in and around the dirt moving. Well we have the pretty pink ones in the office that were ordered a while ago, and which the maintenance men still refuse to wear. No regard to safety I say. So Tuesday I was sent to pick up some very manly (and boring) white ones. I tried to trade them in for purple ones, or even neutral green or yellow, but the hard hat guy was pretty firm that I stick with the white. No creativity.
Wednesday morning it was discovered that one of the horses was dead out in the field. When I was driving in on Tuesday night I saw him standing over by himself and I said hello to him. But in the morning Hank was just lying on his side, eyes open and very dead. I guess the normal protocol is to dig a big hole right by him and roll him in, but an autopsy was ordered so Hank was loaded onto a big flatbed truck, covered with a tarp, and taken to the equine CSI.

Last night we had our first serious dusting of snow. About damn time.
Too late in the night I pulled out my backpacker guitar and strummed things quiet and loving. Current song I'm playing: "Book of Love" by Magnetic Fields. But more like this version.

I head to work at 1 this afternoon, for another busy stint in the bakery for the weekend, looking like I know what I'm doing and trying to not add salt instead of sugar or burn the shit out of my forearms. I don't like the pressure of the kitchen.
My bosses' yellow lab/golden mix, Flossy, is staying with us this weekend and she's snuggled happily against my leg. Although it was discovered that she is terrified of Kyle, our foot tall great horned owl piggy bank that we found in a closet. I guess I could see how Kyle could be scary...if you were a mouse.

Time to take a shower, pound the last of the coffee and face a weekend.

VA peoples: I'll be back in LoCo on the 21st, but that night is reserved for Hatch. I'll be around til the morning of the 26th, so call me if you wanna hang out. I know the night of the 25th is the annual trek to either Balls Bluff Tavern or to Champions for the crazy reunions. I think last year I gave Marissa a hug in the parking lot after last call. Whoops.

It's a Sabotage

So, I have a weakness.
(One and only one)
It happens to be...ready?...driving after watching action movies.
(I mentioned this back in November, but haven't yet had an intervention)
It's a serious problem of mine, and my poor little subaru (that's "u r a bus" backward) feels the brunt of my speed deamonish tendencies post watching stuff blow up. Doesn't matter if the movie was good or not, just if there were car chases and loud noises and literally shit blowing up. Then I get behind the wheel, put on the "Drive Fast, Yell Stuff" mix and suddenly I'm going 85. Or faster.
The mix is a lot of Rage, Beastie Boys, Zeppelin, Violent Femmes, DMX, et al and then I get home and can't simmer down. I need some sort of decompression chamber to go from adrenaline shot to le heart down to, say, herbal tea level. Like the stepdown from "Bulls on Parade" by Rage down to, oh I don't know, let's say Patty Griffin.
Tonight I watched MI:III which was a typical action movie, very by the book, etc (and I don't really care for Tom Cruise; he's got that creepy smile that looks like it could eat puppies. I prefer Matt Damon as Jason Borne. Oh do I prefer Matt...) but I watched it in HD and surround sound and, well, I got invested.
I told you it was a weakness. Don't judge me, I was being vunerable.
But now you see why Seth never lets me drive after watching movies like that. He knows better.

Hyper-Hypochondria

It's that time of year when I get consistently ill and want to die.
Not because I'm overly dramatic or anything, I just want to petition God for a new body.
Maybe even just a new nasal passage/sinus cavity.
I don't ask for much really.
Just death or a new head.

Also: strange, violent stomach pains. Not cramps per se, just a general malaise. Hate all food at the moment. Am currently working as a baker. Not a good combo.
I will get back to my feverish blogging sprint when I finally kick all this.

(sidebar: I find it very funny that blogger's spell check does not recognize the word "blogging")

That Time of Year

So I'm working on my best and worst of 2k6 list, as it is that time of year. But I can't remember this year, so please, if you can think of anything that should be on it, let me know. There should be a title, a description of it and when/where it was, and a key as to why it won that category. For example:

Best Kings Category: Dance Crazes with Seth and Caroline before the drive to Chicago/Wisconsin, August at the DDH.

Key: Watching Seth try to do the macarena

It's not too complicated. Helps capture the year. Categories can be whatever you want them to be (keep it PG-13).

--ALSO--

I think I may be the only person in the contiguous US that doesn't think U2 is all that good.

Three Creeks

There were three creeks behind my house growing up. The smallest ran just through the woods from the house, with a trail we would sprint down at terrifying speeds. My dad made us little one inch foam boats in different shapes and sizes and we'd race them and then complain that the winner cheated. One summer we decided that we could make a swimming hole if only we built a dam; after five hours of work we'd managed to create a five inch deep spot. Futile. After one bad winter storm a great oak fell across the creek and in the process crushed part of the barbed wire fence to our field . It was so big the cows couldn't get around the hole, so the tree was left where it fell. It was about 6-8 feet in diameter, and in the summer I liked to walk out on it and dangle my feet over the creek below.
The medium creek was down our gravel road a little ways; we'd go hide under the one-lane bridge and once convinced my mom to let us take our inflatable raft on it. It gets maybe ten inches deep and its flow is so still it doesn't appear to even move; the rafting adventure was a bust. Oftentimes we'd come home with buckets of crawdads or minnows as pets, with mud up past our ankles and a serious case of poison ivy brewing. The dog would walk in behind us, just as wet, just as muddy, and smiling just as widely. The middle creek was as much a part of our summer adventures as any of the kids.
The largest creek was saved only for the most special of occasions. It was the farthest away, through the woods and two fields, following the middle creek. The big creek had a swimming hole in it that was well over six feet deep. There was a rock one could jump off of into the deep part, a secret parents were never to hear. My neighbor was a fisherman, and he'd take his son Kevin and I down to the big creek to help him catch live bait for his trips. Mr. C would stand downstream and give us a signal, at which point Kevin and I would run at full speed toward him, scaring all the minnows into his net. Then we got to pull them off the net, which was kinda cool to a ten year old.

As I write this I'm struck with how idyllic it sounds. It has the air of 1950s Americana (or a John Mellencamp song), not 1980s Virginia. I guess I tell all this because today I'm thinking about how we aren't just a product of our experiences and our environment, we are a product of our memories; our stories.
We live our stories and then, sometimes, they live us.

(the above photo is actually of Goose Creek, located about 5 miles from my three creeks. The largest of my creeks is the North Fork of Goose)

Post holiday

Two things:
(1) I really quite enjoy being alone for a while. This weekend I had the place to myself, and I lavished it. Not because I dislike my roommates (hardly! It's quite the opposite) its just that the solo time was so refreshing. I think wherever I move next, I want my own place.

(2) Having had the place alone for several days, I find that I'm disinclined to be with people. They overwhelm me.

I Almost Won A Porsche from Y94 FM

This post is an homage to my dear (dare I say best) friend Lizzie K, who's currently on the wrong side of the pond. As it is a day in which to be thankful, I thought I'd say I'm thankful for her. And I keep missing her when she calls me, and I feel like a big dumb jerk (only sometimes) so I thought I'd post a lil' montage from the years:
Well first, we didn't like each other. Not good first impressions. She didn't like my BUSTY shirt and I just thought she was another yappy kid. And then...

We went mattress sliding down the steps in Loon while on Summer Staff at Saranac.
"Umm...my hand is stuck under your boob."
"Well, I guess we're friends."
"HOW OLD ARE YOU GUYS!?"

And so it began. Shortly thereafter I moved to the Roch, and Liz was only 30 minutes away, down at Geneseo. We liked to get together and play kings and drink beer and order pizza and not do whatever we were supposed to be doing. Or we'd be at Suzy and my apt, drinking G&Ts, eating Yancy's Fancy with green apples (or the giant tub of port wine cheese) and watching "Gilmore Girls".There was the unfortunate incident of one-on-one beer pong right before Christmas, the fun of BOOYAH BOWLING 2 with Dylan in fabulous Onieda, NY. "Hey...it's like we're the Mamas and the Papas! Except you're not Mama Cass...and that's not acid." Liz, wearing a poncho in the back of Dylan's old Bronco (no heat), with the souvenir pint glass and token American flag sticker from BOOYAH. Then there was a crazy new years, walking laps around the traffic circle in the snow, midnight Wendy's runs, spring break in VA ("Did you just reference 'Hatchet'"?), legwarmers, hiking with my sister and my mom, a night out with the neighbors, scary Fanny and Joel, and more. I moved back to VA and she went back to Syr for the summer. There was the 10th Annual Lake Ontario Party (here's to our glow in the dark "FIRST TIMER" visors) and a photo I know she hates:
And then...she was gone.
Off to London.
Too far for my tastes. I couldn't call her. I could write but it was always ancient as soon as the ink dried. We both had rough years, times of transition and trials. I didn't see her again until April, when I got to go to the UK to visit said Watkus. I stepped off the plane and we were wearing the same shoes. She handed me a coffee and said, "Welcome." Then she took me to eat and get some pints. We let Paul guide us so we could talk. And talk we did. For the next week we drove all over, rode all over, spent $$ all over, doing serious tourist things, like this:We almost ended up on a ferry to France, didn't even stop at all the cathedrals Paul told us to, drank pints in some fine establishments, almost got into a fight trying to navigate Bristol, looked like couple while at Stonehenge ("One of the largest henges in the world! Before Stonehenge there was Strawhenge and Woodhenge..."), just wanted to buy a $#!@ car stereo, smoked a pack of camels and half a pack of cloves, made friends at an Iron and Wine show, and, of course, giggled hysterically at Henry VIII's softball-sized codpiece:
One of my favorite photos with Liz is one we took back in the fall of 2004. We decided to go for a hike at Chimney Bluff's State Park, out on the shore of Lake Ontario. It was a great trip, just laughing and climbing hills and trails. We sat down on the beach there and snapped this photo:
We joked that it was our feet looking at Canada, somewhere out there. But I like to believe that it was us looking at the future too, in some cheesy way. It's vast, it's unclear what will come. But we're in it together. Miss you friend.

(Liz has an old, old t-shirt that says "I almost won a porsche from Y94FM" that she wore all the time. Hence the post's title.)

Cheer!

Monday night a big ol' group of friends went to the Grove Park Inn to see the National Gingerbread House Competetion (as seen on the Food Network). We were the motley crew that kept giggling about stuff totally unrelated to the houses. Anyway, some photos from the adventure as stolen from Shauna Wild.

The boys show holiday spirit on the Grove Park Sleigh. Hampton, Kyle (biting Hampton), Dave and Jed (flexing in a Ruldolph sweatshirt)

'Sanne and I check out the competetion. We were very serious judges, in that we looked at each house for about 3 seconds or so, unless it spun, was shiny, or had something mildly scandalous on it. What Dave is doing in the background I can only guess.

Ahh yes...Burt. He's the meaning in my life, he's my inspiration. Apparently he's also visited the Grove Park Inn before...maybe with Dinah Shore. She is next to him on the wall. That would be a scandal.

Anyway, HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Hope you all are well, wherever you are.

Carrharts and Slingbacks

Today marked the official rotation switch for the trifecta of funterns, which basically means we switched to our new job. I am now in kitchen and maintainance (cuz they are totally connected) and so this morning I sat down in a meeting with 6 of the 8 maintainance guys to learn what I was to do for the day. First off: glorified errand-running, also known as the "Town Runner." I since we basically are only open one more day this week, there was little for me to get. I was back at camp by 11ish, and on to maintain camp! Basically I took dirty air filters off the ceiling, cleaned the filter covers, cut new filter material, and then put it all back together. Most of the day on a ladder, with a power drill, in Carrharts. And a favorite JCrew sweater to top it all off, and the looooove mix on the iPod. Holla. My dad would be so proud.

Thanksgiving is coming like a summer storm with the deluge only moments away. I was going to go up to stay with my sister, et al for the holiday, but there wasn't really a place to sleep and just a bit too much stress putting it all together on my end that I have decided to simply stay here with the family up the hill. Judging by the families that will be there and the # of kids (it's close to the double digits) it won't be quiet, but it will be relaxing, restful. After dinner Thursday I've been told I am required to hang with the little boys and watch "Cars" at least once. Friday we're going on a trail ride with the horses. That's my kind of holiday.

On a whim, a few of us went to see "Happy Feet" on Sunday. Thank God I didn't pay for my ticket, because that movie sucked. Like crash and burn, almost "Gili" with cartoon penguins sucked. Also, slightly offensive with a very general ethnic portrayal of Hispanics.

Conditional Compassion

Ever have those conversations where, while in the midst of expressing an opinion, you end up realizing that you believe two contradictory points? No? Well you should. I call it an "Oh crap" moment.

I was convicted today about the rules and obligations I seem to doll out with my compassion, as if I was so arrogant to think that by giving grace I am entitled to power over the situation. The best example I've found this year has been in the case of my brother and his shitstorm (that is a technical, theological term). I came to believe that any help I gave him, whether it be monetary or otherwise, gave me the right to say what he should be doing with his life; that he was indebted to me. If he didn't do what I thought he should do, I would withhold my offering. And while I believe that there are times when people need to hit rock bottom before they will ever heal, and I believe that boundaries are difficult to define and retain, I think I was horribly wrong in thinking that my 'generosity' granted me say. If I gave I gave for the wrong reasons.

I realized this as I talked about one of the biggest problems of Christianity today, the idea of conditional compassion. That wicked and destructive notion that compassion and grace were things to be bought or bartered; things to grant power and subjugate the debtors. Conditional on lifestyle, sin, decisions, beliefs, cultures. Be more like me and then I'll help you.

If we give, we should give freely; that is, without expectation and without the thought of payback. Does that mean even though I know he's going to blow whatever I send his way on self-destructive habits, I should send it anyway? That's hard for me to say yes, because I don't know. Jesus said, “And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn from the one who wants to borrow from you.” (Matthew 5:40-42). I feel like that means give even though they abuse you, dismiss you, defame you (which, in my head, is contradictory to everything I'd like to do) and keep giving of time and love and compassion and grace and mercy and kindness, without the expectation that such giving will ever be acknowledged, recognized, or repaid.

I don't like learning that.

Rainman: I Get You. Call Me.

It's that time of year when the sinuses start to get plugged, the nose begins to run, causing the embarrassing snort, the throat gets scratchy and dry like you've been gargling with, say, pop rocks. Or maybe kitty litter. I have never been quite so attractive as I am right now. Good times.

New Observations Time (nuevo tiempo de las observaciones):

(1) I'm not allowed to drive after watching any sort of action movie. Learned this with Seth. Because after watching action movies, I want to drive recklessly and fast, and try to pull doughnuts with the e-brake. Seriously.

(2) I am very inconsistent in my organizational skills. Like CD book is alphabetized by artist and by album within that artist, yet I can't seem to manage to ever put sweaters away. Or remember to make my bed. But all the shirts in my closet must be hung the same way, and in a specific color order. Definitely, definitely Judge Wapner.

(3) Have had very serious insomnia for the past month or so, to the point where I've had to drug myself to try to sleep. Last night I tried that and so my body was subcomatose but my mind was going, "heyheyheyheyheyheyhey....hey! you need some CORN POPS!! you should learn how to play...banjo! badumdadumdadum dodododeeeedoooo!" For about two hours.

(4) One of my favorite ways to waste time: McSweeney's Lists. I mean seriously. Who comes up with these? For example: Things I Might be Convinced to Give My Left Arm For. Or how about Five Things Rick Astley is Never Gonna Do. I lose days on that website. Also love the letters to people or entities unlikely to respond.

That's it, sinuses are...well...gross. No new thoughts.

Happy birthday to my nephew Luke, who's 1 today! Because clearly, he can read. And will notice if I say nothing. I live in fear. Hold me.

Bundle

"When I get honest, I admit I am a bundle of paradoxes. I believe and I doubt, I hope and get discouraged, I love and I hate, I feel bad about not feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. I am trusting and I am suspicious. I am honest and I still play games. Aristotle said I am a rational animal; I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer."
-Brennan Manning
Ragamuffin Gospel

I am learning those bundles.

Foppishly Fried

Friday night was girls night for about 45 minutes (enough time for dinner) then off to catch one of the features in the Asheville Film Festival (special thanks to Caroline for the free ticket). The movie, called "The Clinton 12" details the desegregation of the first high school in the south after Brown v. Board of Education. The director took questions afterward, and the most compelling portion of the story was actually left out of the movie in the later suicides of two of the more prominent white characters. Been chewing on that whole story for a few days.

Saturday drove out to Durham to spend some time with Mr. (soon to be ordained) Dave Hunsicker, whom I haven't seen in over two years and who is even more delightful than memory served, and that's a compliment. He told me we'd be attending an "uber-pretentious party" (his words, not mine) so shortly after I arrived we went tottering through the shops of Chapel Hill to find pretentious accessories. He wanted a monocle (couldn't be found) but I succeeded in some ostentatious gold and pearl clip-on earrings, a very long string of fake pearls, and some elbow-length white gloves to go with my black polka dot wrap dress. Add ridiculous makeup and actual effort on the hair and I was the picture of snobbery. Dave had a bright paisley bowtie, BB blazer and oxford and pulled it off rather foppishly. Party was very fun, but those Divinity students are way too intellectual for me; I was waiting for some sort of boob joke just so I could know what was going on. I mean, I went to Syracuse, that's what we laughed at. After the party, Dave and I went back to his apartment, changed into our PJs and watched "Sportscenter". All in all it was close to perfect. Durham/Chap Hill: first impression was good!

Sunday was the Moldrup's going away dinner/cryfest, which was also an excuse to apparently fry anything within reach and serve it for dinner to 90-some people. Don't get me wrong; I don't think it's a coincidence that "fried" and "friend" are only one letter apart, but I've just never seen or tried a fried pickle, or imagined such a thing. Or even thought about having it on the same plate with fried okra, fried chicken, fried corndogs and some green bean casserole.

In one week I smelled real moonshine (out of a mason jar no less) for the first time and had my very first fried pickle. Oh Western NC, you fascinate me.

What You Own

Went out for some questionable Chinese food with my boss today (the thing about being an intern is that basically everyone is your boss), as we were the only two in our department who were working today, and she has a slight obsession with Chinese. On the way home we started to talk about the things we had or didn't have as kids. How creative we had to be for entertainment, how easy imagination is with minimal props.
Got me thinking once again about stuff, and how I accumulate it.
My great aunt Sweetpea has a large, stately (albeit slightly run-down) plantation in central VA and over 80 years worth of stuff in its walls and barns. Seems every time I go for a visit, she sends me home with something. She has too much stuff, and is trying her damnedest be freed from what she owns. Every piece of furniture or artifact in the house has a small piece of masking tape hidden on it, with the name of the relative claiming it scrawled in bumpy Bic. I bet for the first part of her life, Sweetpea accumulated stuff, then has spent the latter half trying to get rid of most of it. Are well all destined for that?
Why?
What's the point?

K-Fed and Rummy

Today was a good day.
Not just because the Dems have taken back both houses of Congress (though that in itself is a good enough reason!).
Not just because Charles Taylor and Heath Shuler ads will no longer be insipidly and ceaselessly playing on every available media outlet in W-NC.
And not just because my car insurance rate went down b/c I live outside the DC area.
And not just because I got to wear my silly little boy striped sweater today, which makes me feel like I should be singing songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat".
And not just because today I wasn't bogged down by this recent cold.
Or because I actually took the effort to really shave my legs.
Or because RUMMY RESIGNED!!! CAN I GET AN A-FLIPPIN'-MEN? MIRACLE!!
And not cuz we finally might get to stop hearing about K-Fed.
Or because "Shoop" was the first song played while we worked (thanks for that, McGlade).
Or because its Moldy Family Dinner night.
Or because "Lost" is on tonight and it'll redeem itself for that stupid episode from last week.
Or that I got fun Wknd plans.

Ok, maybe it was some combo of all of those.
But it sure was a good day.
The Rummy resignation really did cap it all off though.

Retrospective

Today is the 4th birthday of my blog.
Yup, four years ago, in a small corner of a house called the Mopalopshop, on a street called Lancaster, in a drearyly grey town called Syracuse, in too proximal a space with the incomparable Jen Cash, this blog was started with absolutely no aspirations, which is good, because if I had expected anything I'd be sorely disappointed. Back when Jen and I were presidents; back when I drove a scary Ford Tempo and Jen drove a truck, back when anyone in the world knew where Kat V. was, and Romano still let me sleep on her futon or cook my frozen pizzas there because my house was "just too far,". Really a retrospective should be reserved for the 5th birthday, or the 10th or something monumental and divisible by 5, but my attention span says do it now, ergo, I do.
My opinion of the breakdown:

Best photo post: A Day at the Beach

Best post from a far-away town: I just realized I never seem to post while I'm away. Nothing from Cali, UK, FL, WI, OH, nothing. Just from some weird town called Canastota. Stupid. Must resolve.

Funniest story retold: A Real Mousekateer. (But I really don't tell funny stories. And I have a lot of them. Also must resolve.)

Funniest post in general: Democratic Individualism (I don't know why ya'll think this is the funniest one...I mean it's funny, but really?)

Best guest post: Morning Poo

# Times I have referenced Edna St. Vincent Millay or her poetry: 8

# Times I reference writing a singles ad: 3

# Times I've ever actually written a singles ad: 0
(Even though Liz and Carey once tried to sign me up for eharmony...jerks)

Favorite Post (tie): Crying of Frogs and Ser

Post even I have never reread: Tradition of Sedition

Most Political Post: By Grace My Sight Grows Stronger

Best list: Desk Job

Post I still think I'm learning: 50 Degrees of Losing It

Most honest post: Never Come Back (the hard part about this post was that doctor's appt I mention is the one where they told me they thought I had cancer, and that hope just blew up)

And now my attention span has waned, my roommate is snoring on the couch and "Survivor" by Destiny's Child just came on the iTunes shuffle, making me want to strut. Thanks for reading for part of these past four years, thank you for listening to me try to sort out the knotted yarn of thoughts, my ups and downs, my pensive and protrusive. If ya'll have a favorite (not like I expect you to) I'd be curious to know.
This post is dedicated to Jen Cash, who may be the only person who has been reading from the beginning. Miss ya, Casher.

Heights of Greatness & Nights Asunder

The other night I was listening to old episodes of "This American Life" online. I came across one from '98 by Sarah Vowell (a favorite) in which she and sister Amy travel a portion of the Trail of Tears (episode link here) . Vowell is something like 1/7 Cherokee and was born in Oklahoma, where the trail finally ended. I had read the story before in her collection of essays, Take the Cannoli, but listening to the piece brought new emotion. In an event where 1/4 of those traveling died, some 4,000 people, I was appalled about how little I really knew. Like, for example, what a bastard Andrew Jackson was. I mean I always had a hunch he was a bastard, but this really gave me something to get behind. Take him off the $20, I say! It was strange listening to it in a place that was once Cherokee land; this whole region of WNC, ETN, NGA and SC was where the tribe lived.

We get so angered and appalled and shocked at events of genocide globally (as well we should) yet we disregard those instances of it in our own past. Calculated, governmentally supported instances. We are a young country with more dark than we acknowledge. By not acknowledging we stand to repeat it. Learning more about such an event makes hating aspects of this country so easy; it does not diminish my love for this place, it just forces me to be real about it.
Saturday night I stopped into Malaprops to do some book shopping on my way home from delectable desserts at Old Europe and I finally picked up Devil in the White City by Erik Larson (yes, I know, "I only read like one book a year and even I read that one" but I told you I'd get to it). So far it does much to encompass the contradiction that exists in me about the good and progress of America yet the devilish qualities that lurk as well.

All this to say, election day is only 48 hours away. My faith is not rattled by elections, as it is not based on elections, however the opinions I always seem to have are just waiting to burst forth.
Murphy sent me a text message on Friday, excitedly telling me that she'd organized a rally in DC and that Barack Obama was the keynote speaker and that she'd gotten to spend time with him. I was so excited that I too squealed for more details. I've never been excited about a politician like I am about Obama. He just brings hope that no one else carries.

*title taken from the lyrics of "White City" by Erin McKeown, song based on Larson's book.

Like Chedda

So I really like to make mixes. This is the most recent, and possibly the pre-emminent mix ever to exist, outside the realm of Crabfest. Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you, the Ultimate Mix o' Cheese (you might wanna wear goggles, cuz tha chez is flyin):
(1) I Just Called to Say I Love You--Stevie Wonder
(2) Glory of Love--Peter Cetera
(3) I'm All Out of Love--Air Supply
(4) Islands in the Stream--Kenny Rodgers and Dolly Parton
(5) Time After Time--Cyndi Lauper
(6) Don't Go Breakin' My Heart--Elton John and Kiki Dee
(7) Greatest Love of All--Whitney Houston
(8) Coming to America--Neil Diamond
(9) We Belong--Pat Benetar
(10) Up Where We Belong--Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes
(11) Every Rose Has Its Thorn--Poison
(12) Copacabana--Barry Manilow
(13) We've Only Just Begun--The Carpenters
(14) Karma Chameleon--Culture Club
(15) Lady--Styx
(16) You're the Inspiration--Chicago
(17) Never Gonna Give You Up--Rick Astley
(18) Knock Three Times--Tony Orlando and Dawn
(19) Lets Hear it for the Boy--Deniece Williams
(20) Open Arms--Journey

Well, that's at least the beta version. If you and your cheesy self have edits, additions or subtractions, comment or email them my way. "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" is on deck.
Remember kids: choose cheese.
I do.

Halloween: like whoa!

Once a year Halloween decends on poor ol' Weavervegas like the zombies from "Shaun of the Dead" with more tricker treaters than the entire population of the town. We figured Church St. was a safe place to hide from it all, and the partay was not to be missed! All photos blatantly stolen from Shauna's Facebook album.

Elena (the cat burgular) tries to sneak away with Margarita's (crazy cat lady) poor kitten



The funterns! Julie was a stop sign, 'Sanne was a gumdrop, I was a cinnamon roll (NOT Hurricane Katrina...thanks, SMARTASS). Combined we were Stop, Drop, and Roll!
Come on, made it for the price of the spraypaint. We thought it was funny.


Shauna (the green loofa) and Jed (the Energizer Bunny) show off their creativity. It pays to work at a place that owns its own prop closets (multiple)


Hampton (the cowboy), Chris (Jack from "Lost") and Paula (a candy corn, you just can't see her sweet yellow skirt that completed the ensamble). Ladies and gentlemen: my coworkers.

Two Minute Titanic

A new Guest Services Coordinator (GSC) has been hired here at the 'Gap, and today was her time to meet the housekeeping ladies. As I was in there with them, it was also my opportunity to hang out with her. The outgoing GSC brought in muffins and over the whir of dryers, said, "Ok, give us the three-minute version of your story."

[this is the part where I tell another story that doesn't seem to be connected, until I brilliantly bring it all back around to a dramatic A-ha! moment, and by A-ha I don't mean like the band of "Take On Me" fame, I mean epiphany-esque]

Lori Connor was on YL staff in VA, and made one particular skit so famous no other can even compare to her. The skit was called "Two-Minute Titanic" and in it she (dressed as Mary Katherine Gallegher) reenacted the entirety of James Cameron's epic movie in two minutes, hence the title of the skit. Well, it was hilarious. Like snorting, stuff flying out the nose, table pounding hilarious. As 99.9% of you know, Kate and Leo did not act in a comedy. It was far from a comedy, besides lines like "I'm king of the world!" and "I'll never let go..." I mean it ends in a Celine Dion song. No comedy should end with Celine. The reason the skit was funny was because only the highlights of the movie were mentioned, and by adding over-acting to the mix, the weight of the material was lost. Something tragic became something breezy and laughable.

[Now we cut back to the scene in the laundry, where I sit, Ingles blueberry muffin in hand]

I sat in the room with two women in their mid-60s, one in her late-40s, and two of us in our mid to late-20s. Our lives told in three minutes? How do you even begin? That breaks down to about 3 seconds a year for the older ladies; what do you say? What could come out in three minutes that isn't breezy and out of context or factual but implacable on a timeline?
Life is not that easy or neat; life is messy. It is not a three minute story, I don't care how boring you are. I understand the intended purpose of the activity; I just feel its a convenient way to feel like there is background on a person when what you know is what they told you in three minutes. We use it a lot in YL and all too often it breeds a false sense of intimacy. I'd much rather hear the 45 minute version, the hour version, the one told over days and weeks. I don't know why it ruffled me like it did; apropos I guess.

Water Works

First I must worn all readers: I am currently heavily medicated, so if my sentences stray or grammar slips, blame the pills. Only the second or third time since I've been at the 'Gap (place, not store) that I've had to drug up the nervous system on account of my back and today has been especially painful, laying into my hips and shoulders in addition to the normal back pain. I'm propped up on the pills. Just call me Garland.

---Wallowing is through, continue on---

So part of work today had me sitting by the creek for ten minutes, thinking. I do wish this was a job requirement for any and all gainful employment; much good could come from it.
Years ago I dated a fellow kayaker who made me a little boater out of leftover outfitting foam. He carved the little man into an exact replica of one of the hottest boats at the time, and gave him weight to help him paddle better. I instantly loved the new toy. Weeks later we took what was to be a great expedition to run Passage Creek, a steep class III-IV technical run. We loaded the boats, our camping gear, our paddling gear and headed out to Elizabeth Furnace, only to discover that Passage had already peaked and the flow was once again down to a steady crawl. There was no paddling to be had.
So what we did was pull out our little kayaking buddies and played in the creek with them the rest of the weekend. Standing shin deep, cheering and laughing at the toys as they ran what we couldn't. It was such simple fun. Vicarious paddling at 3 inches tall. Now whenever I see a little creek I think about that trip and that toy and how he'd run it and I smile.
Too many days make me wish I could do more than vicarious paddling, but sitting by that creek today I was thankful that I simply am. God has granted me a deep love for water and I must be restful in the fact that there is a purpose for that love; that it wasn't for a fleeting moment.

That little boater is wrapped gently in a small box next to my bed. He's moved with me everywhere I've gone. Sometimes I'll pull him out and play with him. I don't know if I'll ever be able to see him go.

And All But Cry With Colour!

It's nearly 1AM and I am done with work for the day. Whew. Once again the stars are clear and bright here in the cove, and my headlamp did little to even whisper in the ear of the great spectrum. The more I think on it, the more I realize that fall really is my favorite season. I like the feeling of settling in for the long winter, the snuggling of sweaters and wool hats, the ability of mittens to turn the stern into children. Crispness of air and breath, leaf and twig. Pumpkins. Football. Bonfires. The first frost. How the horses get gruff and wintered and feel like comfort.
As I am prone to quote trusty Edna as often as possible, I present my favorite autumnal (not 'autumnly', or 'autumn-ish', JULIE) poem:

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, world I cannot hold thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart--Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

-Edna St.V.Millay 1917

iPod playing an inordinate amount of Elliott Smith tonight.
Earlier it was Ella Fitzgerald--stuck on the E's apparently.
(Liz: I totally stole the idea from you.)

Pretty in Pink

Ok, I have a confession:
I haven't had much to say lately. This fact is probably evident in that yesterday I posted a video montage about the Pink and Green Power Rangers to the tune of Bjork's "Oh So Quiet."
Clearly, not a whole lot going on up in cha.
Or something.
But with the new lappy I made a commitment to write more (or at least look like I'm writing more), ergo another post. Buck up, kiddies. I write for meself.
This week they started the ground-breaking for the new assigned staff housing, which is going to be located RIGHT outside my bedroom window. Like if my window could open, I could punch the backhoe.
With this construction comes a lack of flowing water during the day, disconnection of regular phone service, no more parking spots, loud equipment, loud construction men, etc.
But it's been a hoot to watch.
Groundbreaking was on Monday; we had spray-painted gold shovels to pose with. It was a cold, grey, windy day, but we had our shovels, so pose we did. I'm sure we look really happy in the photos. With all the construction, the conversations over the camp radio system have been lively, like, "Umm...Pete? I think we hit the sewer line." etc. At one point I looked out the window and saw the guys driving the big shovel (technical term: an "excavator") around the horse pasture, in what I can only assume was an exorcise in shits and giggles. It's like boys and Tonka trucks, only these are a little bigger. And then one of the women in the office was in charge of buying the hard helmets for the project, and in the mail on Tuesday, four pretty pink hard hats were delivered. The white YL stickers were added to the front of them later. The women in the office were just wearing them around, giggling. I don't think the construction guys will go for the pink hard hats, but we'll see. They do have a turquoise mini-shovel, so maybe they'll be open.
This post is officially dedicated to Caroline McGlade, who is now a loyal reader. She's totally seen the pretty pink helmets, if you have any questions you should just ask her.

Pink + Green 4 Eva

Ok anyone who can combine The original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers and Bjork (or Ani DiFranco) into a video montage deserves credit.
Or heavy medication.

Temporal Lobe

The word secular comes from the Late Latin word saecularis, meaning temporal, or now.
I find it confounding, then, how in our use the word secular is so often seen only as the opposite of sacred and has little or nothing to do with time. We, as a culture, use the word secular as an almost derogatory term, as if it implies Satan worship, or at the very least, voting Democrat (sorry, necessary jab at the GOP's "Us vs. Them" rhetoric). Secular music vs. Christian Music (picture Ice T's "Cop Killa" vs. Michael W. Smith's "Friends are Friends Forever"), Secular Reading vs. Christian Reading (picture Das Kapital vs. any Max Lucado). Really?
Secular is essentially the same idea that Jonathan Larson presented in "Rent": No Day But Today. But the word usually doesn't sing quite so many songs.
I'd like to believe that the distinction isn't between secular and Christian, but rather between the temporary and the long-lasting. That what happens today is so important, because it is fed on yesterday and feeds tomorrow. So the secular is not "unGodly", it is simply a narrower focus. Taken alone, either way of thinking is damaging. Giving no thought for today, or giving no thought for tomorrow, regardless of spiritual belief. It is in the balance of the sacred and the secular, the temporal and the eternal where living must lie.

(Another thought: How much more powerful that definition of secular makes the thought of sacred!)

Sidebar: I'm currently reading Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis (blah), Jared Diamond's Why is Sex Fun? and doing Beth Moore's "Jesus: the One and Only" bible study, and listening to a seminar on marriage by Dr. Tim Keller from Redeemer Presbyterian in NYC. Let me tell you, its been quite the mix. So in a day I'll learn about pop culture and religion, why women have evolved to have concealed ovulation (instead of getting bright red asses like baboons), John the Baptists' mom and how its easy to fall out of like with someone you are in love with. Whew.

Taking the Plunge

Had to work this morning, came home and read for a bit. I looked outside at about 3 and said, "What the heck am I doing inside!?" so I changed and headed out to see the elusive Pioneer Plunge, a primitive camp owned by Windy Gap and located up the valley by about a mile and a half. As requested, I'm posting more photos. Enough with all this "words" crap.
.
A slide on Flat Creek, along the trail to Pioneer Plunge. This is at the site for trail breakfast; in the summer, select cabins take an early morning horseback ride to the site, where summer staff makes them breakfast.



The Plunge lodge, looking at the camper cabins. It was my first trip to up to Plunge and definately won't be my last. Wow.


Playing with the camera on the trail back down. What a perfect day for a hike.

The Profundity of Absurdity

There is a great point to pointlessness, no?
Guilty pleasures, costumes, stupid human tricks, the infamous "unromantic dictionary"--all are totally worthless in the great weight that tends to be living, but without them I am certain that thoughts alone would crush me. I need silliness. I need people to be goofy.
Today my coworker, Hampton, grabbed a York peppermint patty out of one of our numerous candy jars and then leapt up onto the arm of our couch and reenacted an old commercial. It was unplanned. It was unexpected. It was not gentlemanly.
What it was, though, was friggin' hilarious.

In the now-classic Monty Python movie, "And Now For Something Completely Different" there is an Army General who continually interrupts skits to tell them, "Stop that! It's silly!" All too often, his is the voice I hear in my head while I am busy wearing something on my head (as most know I am prone to do. There is something Freudian about this, I can assure you) or singing too loudly, or whatever it is that I'm doing. But I can't help it; I need to be silly.

As a generation, we've had so many more outlets for absurd humor and I think it's helped us. Just take a look at Youtube.com or myspace pages, The Daily Show, Conan O'Brian or Dave Sedaris. We have the means to boldly show the creative ways we entertain, and our methodology has evolved in turn. Pain, disappointment, frustration, doubt, insecurities--all can be expressed safely in humor, in placing them in public and having the audience identify and laugh with you.

I have no neat conclusion, I have nothing but thoughts on this. Well, I have some rather silly hats too.

Buggy

I noticed I go through phases: sometimes all I can say is what is happening, others all I can see is what I'm thinking. I can't seem to balance out the two.
Indian summer visited today--I don't know if that's kosher, like I should call it "Native American Summer" or something like "Faux summer" to be non-ethnic specific--but f it, that's all ridiculous. Anyway, whatever it is called, it came to visit today. It came cloudless, bright, almost 80, with peak weekend only three days away. I couldn't imagine the cove more beautiful.
But for some strange reason the whole camp was INVADED by what I can only assume is the first plague of the Weaverville apocalypse: ladybugs.
And I don't mean just ladybugs, I mean them and their manbugs, and grandmabugs and all of 'em. Thousands upon thousands of ladybugs, flying pell mell into walls, windows, faces, clothing, golf carts. Everywhere I looked the sky was just flowing and flying. I figure if ever there was a bug to stage an invasion, my vote would be on ladybugs. I was standing upstairs in one of the cabins looking out the window, watching the swarms coat the glass with their ruddy shells, wondering what caused the swarm. It then dawned on me that for once I liked not knowing; I liked the mystery and seeming randomness of their actions. For all I know it was magic and just for tonight I'll accept that answer.

Four Acts

(1) I have spent most of my life trying to separate myself from my family; making up ways that I was different from them. Now I catch myself explaining who I am based on my family. I am a nerd, "you should meet my parents." I'm skinny, "you should see my brother," I read a lot. "My parents raised me that way." I use the very people I tried so hard to be distinct from to validate or explain the best and worst qualities of me. Finally realizing the truth: I come from imperfect people. I am one.
(2) I spend most of my day alone and I'm realizing more and more that being by myself is like smoking by the gas pump--something is bound to blow up sooner or later. It is not a good thing. I am dangerous with silence. That's why God invented the iPod. (Stuck on the following songs: "The Crane Wife 3" by Decemberists, "Wrecking Ball" by Gillian Welch, "Jolene" by The Weepies, "Pretty Dress" by Rosie Thomas--lots of slower, thinking songs. Does not bode well.)
(3) Also realized that I like to sing. A lot. First noticed this when I lived with Beth in the DDH, now confirmed here in the 'Grove. I like to just fill the space with song. It's my perpetual battle with silence.
(4) All day I felt the great need to sob. No idea why, or about what, or even when, but the tears were there, simmering in a stew of thoughts, memories, sins and missteps. I never cried. Couldn't do it. I can't tell if the need is still there.

I Could Go Crazy on a Night Like Tonight

Tonight walking from my car to my house I looked up at the moonless night sky.
The milky way was clear and bright, stretching beyond the sides of the cove as if this space were merely a pause.
Over to the east, Orion was rising.
I smiled to see him return.
Fall is here.

Fair Fight

I really love the metaphor of wrestling with a problem.
Problems are not neat, they are not confined by a set start or stop, by boundaries, by rules of fair play. They no no Queensbury Rules. Problems are a bar fight and everything in arms reach can and will be used as a weapon. A struggle is a struggle because it grabs you around the waist and tries to drag you down with it. A struggle will punch you in the gut when you're thinking you have it confined in a head lock.
I like that image of grappling with the less than glamorous sides of life; that the best and worst of us hardly coexist peacefully.
I'm learning to realize that the wrestling matches in my life don't follow my timeline.
Nor do they define me.

Quarter? Hoarse.

For some reason lately I've been thinking about the phrase "acting your age" because I feel like I don't. But then of course, I have no idea what that even means. I'm 25; how should I act?
I want to be eager to laugh, but I don't want to be that annoying giggly girl.
I want to know what I'll take and what I won't tolerate, while still being open and relaxed.
My sense of humor is slightly dirty and full of sarcasm and puns; I know this and I think it's fine. Yes I still giggle at the word "pianist" but come on, it's funny.
Is there something else I'm supposed to be doing besides paying my bills on time and sending cards for family birthdays? My mom and both my sisters were married at my age (we can scratch that off the list of things to do today) and two of them already had kids (plural).
Next summer the three of us year-long interns are supposed to move in with the summer interns and I have to say I'm less than thrilled, since most of them are going to be college sophomores or around there. That's when I feel my age, when I'm around current college students and I can no longer relate to them; I feel like a chaperone rather than a peer. Ever notice that everything is so exciting and AMAZING and THE GREATEST to some of them? Bugs the crap out of me. It's like living with Smiley Smurf.
For today I wish there was a hot/cold gage to tell me if I'm going on the right track--if my idea of what 25 should look like is way off base, or if I'm just expressing myself within the boundaries of growing up.
(also: decided new dog name for a cute puppy with big eyes and long floppy ears and long fur is Jordan Catalano. Or Danny Zuko. Either would be funny. Not Burt Reynolds funny, but still funny.)

Hug it Out, Bitch

I took a class in college called "Speech Communications in Organizations" which had little to do with what we actually talked about. I think. Since we weren't allowed to take any notes in the class, I really can't remember what we learned.
One of the only things ever handed out to us was an article about how human babies will essentially whither and die if they are not touched and held. If I remember correctly, there was actually a king in Europe who tested this around the 15th century with infants taken from slaves. The nurses who cared for the children were not allowed to hold them except to feed them, and every child died within two weeks. What a horrible way to test our innate need for touch.
I read an article recently on the topic of health and human touch. We humans need four hugs (or touches) a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintance and 12 hugs a day for growth.
How much we take touch for granted! Being in a new place with unfamiliar people, I've become acutely aware of this need, and I'm not typically an overly touchy person.
I'm now in a place where I'm not shaking hands with people on a regular basis, getting pats on the back, hugs from friends. I can physically feel the difference.
How strange it is that our personal health is so dependent on the affectionate touches of those around us.

Fires and Fists

First thought:
The most interesting thing I saw from the tragedy at the Amish schoolhouse was the general reaction about their lack of anger. I read an article in the London Times (God love the internet) that was befuddled by their desire to not live in their anger. The article seemed to want wrath, wanted there to be vengeful fire and thunder bursting from the lips and fists of the victims' families. What the Amish offered was forgiveness and grief.
Why is that harder to accept than righteous retribution?

Second thought:
This is a truly beautiful country.

My Little Instruction Book on Food

Hey, if you have to smell the milk before you pour it, just throw it out.

Reheated rice is disgusting, so even though it comes in those cute little cardboard cartons, it's for the best if you just leave it.

Honey, he's not in the fridge so stop looking.

Pre-sert: Every good cookie deserves another. Preferably before the meal begins. It's a freedom of adulthood.

Did you buy potatoes? Go check on them, cause when they rot, you just have to burn your house down to get rid of that smell.

Do you really need that many coffee mugs? Who is coming to visit, the VonTrapp family?

Don't buy another cookbook until you've at least tried a recipe out of the ones you already own. They aren't Clash records, they don't make you look cool or cultured. Well, some do.

Slim Jims? Really?

When it comes to buying cheap freezer bags or brand name freezer bags, always go brand name. Your chicken will thank you.

Half-caff coffee is a joke. It's the El Camino of the coffee world.

How come they don't make a 20-something cereal? Like one that doesn't have kid games on the back, but also one that doesn't sell itself as promoting regular bowel movements? A slightly sugar cereal that is sort of good for you, that promotes “Eases hangovers!” or “Good for three meals a day!” “Can be made with water if the milk smells funny!” It has to be tasty enough to compete with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but look grown up enough to eat dry out of a baggie while riding on the metro. The back can have horoscopes, gossip news, a sudoku puzzle, conversation starters for the person who stayed over last night and you aren't sure why, or serious topics like what exactly is a 401 (k) and what one should look for in a good dental plan.

Buy your honey in the little plastic bears. Good karma.

If your country-themed kitchen decorations were purchased at Pottery Barn, they aren't country. They aren't even original. No one should pay $80 for a worn-looking wooden rooster. Not even you.

Your intentions with those leftovers were probably good, but we both know you won't ever eat it.

Don't buy another kitchen utensil until you can identify what all the ones you already own are supposed to do. Can't do it, can you?

Buy a microwave you elitist jerk.

Things to not buy in bulk: Cottage cheese, mayonnaise. That's it.

Cheap garlic power: death.

Do you really eat enough sushi to justify that whole sushi eating set?

If you need a measurement device to tell you how much a pinch is, you're an idiot.

Have you ever had the dire need to julienne something? Do you even know what that means, cause I sure don't.

1% milk: it's God's way of telling you to make up your damn mind.

Not as ________ as Us

Yesterday I came up with three different things I wanted to write about, and now I can't remember a single one of 'em. Fall has descended on the cove with a slow southern drawl; chatting up each tree individually. Yesterday was the coldest day we've had so far, and the staff walked as briskly as the air.
Ah! Remembered something!
In one of my last posts, I talked about how we reduce people to one word caricatures and when we do, we can justify treating them as subhuman. I am realizing how often I do it to some degree.
This was especially prevalent when I had to drive around the NoVA/DC area often; road rage is a form of this reduction in the value of fellow peoples. That person is no longer someone who just wants to get home; he's the asshole in the Toyota.
The ability to reduce the worth of someone else allows us to increase our self-importance; since they are not as ______ as us, then we are better. Ergo, we "deserve" to get what we want, and right then. It's why we're terrible at patience, courtesy, charity, graciousness, peace. All I can see is me.
And nothing in society does a thing to curb this practice! We are increasing our sense of isolation; we do not have to talk to people anymore. Everything is automated, automatic, and numeric. Even at the hospital you aren't called in by a name; you are a number. It's our country's foreign policy in a nutshell: be like us or suffer the consequences.
There's an Anne Lamott quote that says, "You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do."
I want to live a life of grace in being able to see someone as wholly human, warts and all, and be able to respond to them as such.

Sonny Gets Sunnier Day By Day

Sonny and I. He's getting his hindquarters massaged, which is why he has that far away look in his eyes.

Drink the Sand

“People want leadership...and in the absence of genuine leadership, they'll listen to anyone who steps up to the microphone. They want leadership. They're so thirsty for it they'll crawl through the desert toward a mirage, and when they discover there's no water, they'll drink the sand.” (From the motion picture The American President)

For some reason I think about this quote often, because I think that the word leadership can easily be replaced with a myriad of other needs. Hope. Love. Belief.
I don't want to drink the sand. I want to know the difference.

Soft Parts

Part of my job has me running a snack bar, which is quite the flashback to the days of yore working at The Gallery with Mafia Marge and what became the Taps Week Crew, which is not the point of this post, though notable.
Because it's the fall, ol' Windy Gap (where I live and work) is constantly full not of the traditional YL programs, but with private schools, large corporate groups, etc. Each group has its quirks and we try to accommodate them as best as possible, understanding that this facility is for their use and not for our comfort levels. So if they want to freak out about mixed gender swimming, then they can do that. This most recent group has been fabulous, respectful, kind, etc. I loved them until last night.
The Sippie (snack bar) was opened late just their Senior class and chaperones, which means that absolutely no one was coming in, and I was sitting at the register reading a nerdy book and trying to stay awake. For some reason, several teachers/coaches/parents were congregated in close proximity. That is when I began to overhear their conversation. They were talking about a new teacher, who happened to be on the trip. They were talking about his "queer shoes" and how he'd be fired if he kept wearing them pink girl shoes. I then realized that his "queer shoes" were a pair of red crocs. Not pink, red. Crocs. The current trendy a-sexual shoe. They just kept bashing this guy, whom I'd met earlier in the day--recent college grad, very friendly, went to a Christian college, kinda guy one would expect to teach at a Christian school. He'd taken up knitting as a hobby (started as a joke, then discovered he kinda liked it--talked to him about it) and obviously, to these kind folks, that just upped his firing potential. They said if he ever came to school wearing a pink shirt they'd all quit if he didn't get canned.
So there they were, just tearing apart this guy who dared to be even slightly different than them, while the kids they were to be mentoring and guiding in the concepts of grace and compassion and faith were listening to them and agreeing.
WHAT!?
They went on to talk about how they thought all Muslims were violent and ignorant and ready to jihad us all off the planet, etc. I guess I just forget that people actually think and talk this way about others. And have the gall to do it in large groups. There is no room for the benefit of the doubt in a preset notion. We make decisions based off little (or false) information and use that as a blanket policy; Pink is a girl color, ergo guys in pink are girls. 1 Nun is killed in response to the Pope's recent anti-Islamic remarks, ergo all Muslims are bloodthirsty and vengeful.
Does the ease of preset come with age, with a lackadaisical view of relational investment?
I sound credulous when I say that with all that makes us hard, it'd be worthwhile to hold on to the soft parts, but if we don't, we all let ourselves become one-word caricatures.

State of the Union

Here is what I know:

* My job requires me to have keys to three different golf carts and carry a walkie-talkie. This makes me happy. Listening to the conversations happening over the radio makes me feel connected to everyone else. It's white noise that is occasionally personal.

* Potatoes are incredibly versatile, yet differ from tofu in that no matter what, they always taste like potatoes. Science needs to do something about this.

* Asshole the Cricket was viscously massacred by my roommate while he was trying to take a shower. My roommate has been given a metal. Asshole was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. And this is what happens when you wake me at night. Be warned.

* Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" (most famously known from the motion picture "Karate Kid" starring Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita) sticks in your head like cold molasses. Seriously. Get this out of my head.

* I wonder how Jimi Hendrix would have affected the rise of the hip-hop movement if he had lived. I feel like his blues influence would have helped create some amazing songs.

* On that same thinking, Janis Joplin would have been twice married and had three kids. She would not be in music anymore. She'd live in Oregon.

* Jim Morrison would have gone bald and yet still made it look hot. That's all I know about that.

* Spying on people will always creep me out. As will clandestine organizations. Unless I'm in them, then I feel that they are fabulous.

* I have yet to meet a person who doesn't want to belt out the "NA NA NA NA-NA-NA-NA NA NA NA NA HEEEYY JUDE!" climax of the Beatles' "Hey Jude".

*In 2000 my friend Amy and I wrote predictions about where we'd be in the year 2005.
I was completely wrong about myself.
I am very, very happy about this fact.

* Reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close during the 5th anniversary of 9/11 brought back feelings I didn't know I had.

* When (and if) I ever settle down with someone, I will miss feeling giddy and nervous about them. There is a terror and a delight in uncertainty.

* I've been checking books out of a library owned and run by a 10 year-old. That is fabulous.

Open letter

Open letter to the cricket in my closet:
As you know, I live in a basement. My "window" is about four inches high and maybe 8" wide, and has trees and bushes planted outside of it. Very little light ever passes in. It is what you in the cricket world would call a "dream house" but what we humans like to call "very basement-esque". It is dark, it is damp, it is your dream come true.
However, it is my dark, damp room and not yours.
I'm assuming you moved in last night. Maybe you moved in a few days ago and if that's true then you were a very good roommate for those first nights. I felt like we could co-exist. However, I'm writing you about your behavior last night.
First off, 2AM is not a good time to belt out your cricket version of "Endless Love".
It is when I am trying to sleep. And though it was probably a very good version, it was not the time or the place for it. So I gave you subtle hints.
I closed the curtain at 4AM to separate you from what I can only assume is your captive audience, thinking maybe if you can't hear them, you'll stop singing. I was wrong. Your solo version of "Islands in the Stream" was lacking the beauty of the Dolly/Kenny version. I'm sorry I'm being honest.
And maybe you were drunk and didn't know they couldn't hear you. Or maybe you like to sing like no one is listening. Making your joyful noises to your cricket Jesus. I don't care.
So at 4:30 I turned on the AC, which can be fairly loud. I thought it'd be like the music they play to get people off the stage at the Oscars. I mean, the AC unit was winning in the ambient noise contest with you. But no, you moved on to Peter Cetera.
At 5 I was done with subtle hints. I closet the closet door and put a pillow over my ear. I think you got the hint then. Or I just drown you out. I don't know which was true but the fact still remains that we are at a crossroads. We need to come to an agreement, or I fear I may harm you with something large and heavy.
I'm out of my room from about 8am until 6pm. That is a long time, and with no light in there, I feel it is a more than adequate time to get your karaoke on.
If that doesn't work, I have two other roommates who would be more than happy to host you. Maybe do a little tour of Shady Grove.
I'm sorry to be so harsh, I just need to really set some boundaries. It's for your own good, really. When I'm awakened I'm not responsible for my actions, or the things that I may throw.
Regards,
-S