Yesterday, to celebrate my esteemed husband's birthday, we went to a Lord of the Rings marathon at the local cinema drafthouse. Sure, the lines were long, the prices elevated, and the beers smaller, but if we hadn't gone we would have never been able to see a grown man dressed as an elf carrying a picketing sign protesting the exclusion of Tom Bombadil from the movie. We valiantly made it through the first two movies by subsisting on buffalo chicken wings, pizza and beer. (I even got to knit the entire increase of the right front side of my mystery sweater!) But faced with the prospect of yet another 4 hour movie that we had both seen innumerable times before, we had to admit defeat. Damn you Peter Jackson!
Now, I'm sure you are thinking, Gary Gygax . . . zombie lectures . . . Lord of the Rings marathon . . . (and quite possibly, who the hell is Tom Bombadil), and are coming away with the conclusion that I'm an enormous nerd. And you're probably right. But look around at the popularity of video games, scifi, fantasy, and horror in the current cultural zeitgeist, and you'll understand what I've known for years. Nerd is the new black!
4.28.2008
4.21.2008
Attack by the force of cuteness on the evilness of Monday afternoon
One of my fav sites, http://www.jezebel.com, compiled a gallery of their commenters and their first pets. here's my pic: http://jezebel.com/photogallery/pastfashionspets08/1001211444. Check out the other photos. One chick had a monkey!!!
4.20.2008
Color Quandry
I'm knitting another circular shrug, which I dicussed here: http://publicknitter.blogspot.com/2008/03/yesterday-i-knit-in-public-while.html
I stopped working on it, because I can't decide if I love or hate the color combo. The reddish pink and purple yarns initially seemed to go, but lately I've been wondering if I'll end up in Rainbow Brite territory. Any knitters out there? What do you think?
4.17.2008
Tales of Oxford
So, if any of the readers know me, or my friends Avè or Ana, you will no doubt have at least heard of (and are probably sick of) our stories of our short summer at Oxford. But if you can still stand to hear more, here's another.
I've been dragging my feet about posting this story, because I don't think it is entirely quite there yet. I'm toying with the last few sentences of the ending, and my description of Ana, which I think comes off a little wooden. But I'm hoping that by posting it, I will suddenly be fired up with a desire to get to work. Yeah.
Also, hell yeah I used a footnote in a short story. Occupational hazard.
The Portly Porter
When I arrived at the heavy wooden doors of University College, my appearance could only be described as a “hot mess.” I arrived after staying up all night on my first transatlantic flight, experiencing for the first time the joy that is going through customs, catching a bus to Oxford, and finally trying to negotiate my 60+-pound wheeled luggage over 1,000-year-old cobblestones. Sweaty and out of breath, I approached the porter’s window to receive instructions on what to do next. A portly man with graying hair and an amused expression asked, “You all right then?” After assuring him that I would be great once I got to my dorm room, he pointed me in the right direction and offered me the keys. I took them and looked blackly at my suitcase. “Remember to lift with the legs,” he suggested helpfully, and then laughed.
I had come to University College on a summer study abroad program. The University had emptied of its own students, and rented its space to my college, Emory, along with the University of Virginia and Southern Methodist University’s law school. After settling in my room and making myself presentable, I ventured out to the program’s introductory garden party, being held in a precisely manicured courtyard. At the party, I picked up a tall glass containing dark and spicy liquor served ice cold and garnished with cucumbers. It tasted strange and bitter, but I continually sipped it so that I would have something to do with my hands and an excuse for being silent. I surveyed the scene, first coolly, and then with increased desperation, looking for a conversation to join. I hit pay dirt when I overheard a few women discussing Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Fantastic! I thought. I can discuss the shit out of that book.
As I approached, a black girl with long braids and muscular arms was applauding Morrison’s use of imagery in the novel. I was about to mention that I particularly liked the passage about Baby Suggs’s fascination with color, when a man in a gardener’s uniform appeared at the girl’s elbow. “Anyone seen the gatekeeper?” he asked.
“No, but I am the Keymaster,” the girl said with a mischievous grin, referencing an exchange from the film Ghostbusters. The gardener looked confused and walked away as I began to laugh.
“Keymaster, huh?” I said, “you sure don’t look like Rick Moranis.” A tall Latina girl to my right began cracking up. The three of us immediately ditched Toni Morrison to discus the hilarity of Bill Murray and other 80s pop culture references. Slowly, all of the other women who had been standing near, trying to participate in the Beloved conversation, drifted away.
The Keymaster, Avè, had an eclectic personality. She had been the homecoming queen at her San Antonio high school despite the fact that she was also a self-described “band geek.” She also was the most-desired guest at a host of Emory parties, but still got every single reference I made to the B-movies I spent my Saturday nights watching. The tall girl, Ana, was like a more laid-back version of the Fonz—cool, yet imminently approachable. She was also a chameleon. Although she appeared—and for the most part was—all sweetness and light, there were moments where she would quietly unleash a torrent of wicked humor that would have us rolling with laughter, while nearby people not in on the joke looked at us with confused expressions. In short, both of these girls were much, much cooler than me, and I desperately hoped that neither of them would notice until at least the end of the summer.
I particularly admired Avè for the adroit way in which she interacted with others. Just about everyone I met, from professors, to librarians, to bartenders felt comfortable speaking with her as if she were their best friend. So naturally, I was not at all surprised when I learned she had befriended the man I had come to think of as the “portly porter,” and whose real name was apparently, “Dusty.” I speculated that a person named “Dusty” was more likely to be a 1930s Oklahoma ranch hand than a 1990s British security guard. “No joke,” Avè said with her most serious face, “this man is awesome.”
We went to speak with Dusty at the porter’s window, and he rewarded us with his repertoire of slightly blue jokes about Texas and Winnie the Pooh. He gave us the inside scoop on the college and the strange and sometimes perverse actions of students which he had been called to deal with over the years. Hanging out with Dusty was certainly more interesting than another night of sitting in the pub watching SMU girls totter on the flagstone floor in 4 inch heels or listening to Emory boys discuss philosophy as only drunk and self-important college students can. We often returned to the window for chats. On one occasion, Dusty felt comfortable enough to show us his anchor tattoo from his British Navy days. Luckily, he did not feel comfortable enough to actually show us the tattoos on his chest, but he did inform us that those above his nipples alternately read “sweet” and “sour.”
During one of our chats, Ana, a hopeless guidebook addict, was complaining that she wanted to see more attractions in the area--especially Blenheim Palace, in nearby Woodstock—but that it was difficult to get there by bus. Dusty immediately offered to drive us there on his upcoming day off. Without really thinking about it, we happily agreed.
Two days later on a Sunday afternoon, we all piled into Dusty’s tiny car. He pulled out of the college’s gates, cleared the pedestrian and bicycle clogged streets of downtown Oxford, and turned onto a curvy country road. The drive was a little nervewracking. I’m not sure if it was simply my disorientation at being on the “wrong” side of the road, or whether Dusty drove faster than was strictly necessary, perhaps trying to give us a quick thrill. Regardless, as promised, he delivered us to the Palace. It seemed large, and—at least to Avè and Ana—impressive. I was pretty much just along for the ride. After a childhood rife with “historic” vacations, and a mother obsessed with estate tours, I would go blank at the mere mention of antique wallpaper preservation. While they marveled over the Palace, I spent most of my time wandering along the lawn and pondering why the site’s operators allowed sheep to roam it willy-nilly. Dusty neither sheep-watched with me, nor looked over the rest of the Palace with Avè and Ana, preferring to sit on the hood of his car.
After Ana and Avè sated their sight-seeing desire, we told Dusty we were ready to go. He asked if we’d like to come back to his house for dinner. We agreed and stopped at a take out curry house to order some dinner. Dusty bought it and also treated us to some neon-pink wine coolers of indeterminate flavor from the liquor store next door. He told us that we could go wait in the car while he paid.
Once back inside, Ana looked uneasy. She paused, looked as if she were about to say something, and then paused again. Finally, she asked, “did anyone else see Felicia’s Journey[1]?” I solemnly nodded. I had become increasingly uncomfortable with the situation, imagining what my mother would say if she knew what I was up to.
I posited how stupid we would look in the newspaper if he killed us, and half in jest, but half seriously read an imaginary article out loud, “Three young tourists dead. Before being bludgeoned to death, the young women were last seen allowing a middle-aged man that they barely knew buy them wine coolers. They then left with him to go to an undisclosed location.”
“Come on,” Avè said with an expression that one usually sees directed at errant children. “Quit acting like that. You know Dusty is not a serial killer. He’s probably just a little lonely. He’s been really great to us, so knock it off.” Her statement rang true. It hadn’t occurred to me that the usually gregarious Dusty might be lonely, or that he had offered to take us out, not simply because he wanted to do us a favor, but because he didn’t want to spend his day off alone.
Instead of putting me at ease about Dusty, Avè’s words made me feel even more uncomfortable. Thinking of his loneliness reminded me of how lonely I had been in the months before my time with Avè and Ana. In the preceding semester, my best friend had moved out of our apartment to study in Washington State, my two other good friends at Emory had dropped out and moved across the country, and I had been hopelessly in love with a boy—not even my boyfriend—who was hundreds of miles away. But in Oxford, the tables had turned. My life had regained inside jokes, adventure, and a sense of belonging. I didn’t recognize Dusty’s loneliness because I didn’t want to. My gut reaction was to recoil from him as if he were contagious.
As I sat on Dusty’s worn sofa in his small, but well-kept flat that night, I fought against my overpowering desire to distance myself from him. I tried, but couldn’t exactly recall how I had participated in a free and easy flow of conversation with him mere hours earlier. Luckily, my participation was not required. In true form, Avè asked a few well-chosen questions and soon had Dusty telling us all about the people in his photos, his little dog, and his Navy days. As she and Dusty, and eventually, Ana, chatted and laughed, I slowly began to relax, and fell into the rhythm of their conversation. Once again, my social awkwardness was hidden by the efforts of my more adept friends, and I was grateful.
As I thought about my intense reaction to the situation the next day, I found myself having trouble reconciling Dusty, the lonely divorced man, with the outgoing Dusty I knew. What had caused him to get there? How could someone so charming be alone? More importantly (to my young and self-absorbed mind), can I prevent that from happening to me? But, I soon had classes to attend, and sightseeing to do, and beer after beer to throw back. It turns out that there is only so much self-analysis that a 20 year-old can manage while in the midst of an extended holiday. And in the end, I found wisdom in an unlikely place when I remembered Dusty telling us about his nipple tattoos. Life is sometimes sweet, and sometimes sour.
[1] Felicia’s Journey is a movie, based off a book of the same name. In it, an Irish teenager heads to England to find the boy that got her pregnant. She is befriended by an older and seemingly friendly British man who eventually tries to rape and kill her.
I've been dragging my feet about posting this story, because I don't think it is entirely quite there yet. I'm toying with the last few sentences of the ending, and my description of Ana, which I think comes off a little wooden. But I'm hoping that by posting it, I will suddenly be fired up with a desire to get to work. Yeah.
Also, hell yeah I used a footnote in a short story. Occupational hazard.
The Portly Porter
When I arrived at the heavy wooden doors of University College, my appearance could only be described as a “hot mess.” I arrived after staying up all night on my first transatlantic flight, experiencing for the first time the joy that is going through customs, catching a bus to Oxford, and finally trying to negotiate my 60+-pound wheeled luggage over 1,000-year-old cobblestones. Sweaty and out of breath, I approached the porter’s window to receive instructions on what to do next. A portly man with graying hair and an amused expression asked, “You all right then?” After assuring him that I would be great once I got to my dorm room, he pointed me in the right direction and offered me the keys. I took them and looked blackly at my suitcase. “Remember to lift with the legs,” he suggested helpfully, and then laughed.
I had come to University College on a summer study abroad program. The University had emptied of its own students, and rented its space to my college, Emory, along with the University of Virginia and Southern Methodist University’s law school. After settling in my room and making myself presentable, I ventured out to the program’s introductory garden party, being held in a precisely manicured courtyard. At the party, I picked up a tall glass containing dark and spicy liquor served ice cold and garnished with cucumbers. It tasted strange and bitter, but I continually sipped it so that I would have something to do with my hands and an excuse for being silent. I surveyed the scene, first coolly, and then with increased desperation, looking for a conversation to join. I hit pay dirt when I overheard a few women discussing Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Fantastic! I thought. I can discuss the shit out of that book.
As I approached, a black girl with long braids and muscular arms was applauding Morrison’s use of imagery in the novel. I was about to mention that I particularly liked the passage about Baby Suggs’s fascination with color, when a man in a gardener’s uniform appeared at the girl’s elbow. “Anyone seen the gatekeeper?” he asked.
“No, but I am the Keymaster,” the girl said with a mischievous grin, referencing an exchange from the film Ghostbusters. The gardener looked confused and walked away as I began to laugh.
“Keymaster, huh?” I said, “you sure don’t look like Rick Moranis.” A tall Latina girl to my right began cracking up. The three of us immediately ditched Toni Morrison to discus the hilarity of Bill Murray and other 80s pop culture references. Slowly, all of the other women who had been standing near, trying to participate in the Beloved conversation, drifted away.
The Keymaster, Avè, had an eclectic personality. She had been the homecoming queen at her San Antonio high school despite the fact that she was also a self-described “band geek.” She also was the most-desired guest at a host of Emory parties, but still got every single reference I made to the B-movies I spent my Saturday nights watching. The tall girl, Ana, was like a more laid-back version of the Fonz—cool, yet imminently approachable. She was also a chameleon. Although she appeared—and for the most part was—all sweetness and light, there were moments where she would quietly unleash a torrent of wicked humor that would have us rolling with laughter, while nearby people not in on the joke looked at us with confused expressions. In short, both of these girls were much, much cooler than me, and I desperately hoped that neither of them would notice until at least the end of the summer.
I particularly admired Avè for the adroit way in which she interacted with others. Just about everyone I met, from professors, to librarians, to bartenders felt comfortable speaking with her as if she were their best friend. So naturally, I was not at all surprised when I learned she had befriended the man I had come to think of as the “portly porter,” and whose real name was apparently, “Dusty.” I speculated that a person named “Dusty” was more likely to be a 1930s Oklahoma ranch hand than a 1990s British security guard. “No joke,” Avè said with her most serious face, “this man is awesome.”
We went to speak with Dusty at the porter’s window, and he rewarded us with his repertoire of slightly blue jokes about Texas and Winnie the Pooh. He gave us the inside scoop on the college and the strange and sometimes perverse actions of students which he had been called to deal with over the years. Hanging out with Dusty was certainly more interesting than another night of sitting in the pub watching SMU girls totter on the flagstone floor in 4 inch heels or listening to Emory boys discuss philosophy as only drunk and self-important college students can. We often returned to the window for chats. On one occasion, Dusty felt comfortable enough to show us his anchor tattoo from his British Navy days. Luckily, he did not feel comfortable enough to actually show us the tattoos on his chest, but he did inform us that those above his nipples alternately read “sweet” and “sour.”
During one of our chats, Ana, a hopeless guidebook addict, was complaining that she wanted to see more attractions in the area--especially Blenheim Palace, in nearby Woodstock—but that it was difficult to get there by bus. Dusty immediately offered to drive us there on his upcoming day off. Without really thinking about it, we happily agreed.
Two days later on a Sunday afternoon, we all piled into Dusty’s tiny car. He pulled out of the college’s gates, cleared the pedestrian and bicycle clogged streets of downtown Oxford, and turned onto a curvy country road. The drive was a little nervewracking. I’m not sure if it was simply my disorientation at being on the “wrong” side of the road, or whether Dusty drove faster than was strictly necessary, perhaps trying to give us a quick thrill. Regardless, as promised, he delivered us to the Palace. It seemed large, and—at least to Avè and Ana—impressive. I was pretty much just along for the ride. After a childhood rife with “historic” vacations, and a mother obsessed with estate tours, I would go blank at the mere mention of antique wallpaper preservation. While they marveled over the Palace, I spent most of my time wandering along the lawn and pondering why the site’s operators allowed sheep to roam it willy-nilly. Dusty neither sheep-watched with me, nor looked over the rest of the Palace with Avè and Ana, preferring to sit on the hood of his car.
After Ana and Avè sated their sight-seeing desire, we told Dusty we were ready to go. He asked if we’d like to come back to his house for dinner. We agreed and stopped at a take out curry house to order some dinner. Dusty bought it and also treated us to some neon-pink wine coolers of indeterminate flavor from the liquor store next door. He told us that we could go wait in the car while he paid.
Once back inside, Ana looked uneasy. She paused, looked as if she were about to say something, and then paused again. Finally, she asked, “did anyone else see Felicia’s Journey[1]?” I solemnly nodded. I had become increasingly uncomfortable with the situation, imagining what my mother would say if she knew what I was up to.
I posited how stupid we would look in the newspaper if he killed us, and half in jest, but half seriously read an imaginary article out loud, “Three young tourists dead. Before being bludgeoned to death, the young women were last seen allowing a middle-aged man that they barely knew buy them wine coolers. They then left with him to go to an undisclosed location.”
“Come on,” Avè said with an expression that one usually sees directed at errant children. “Quit acting like that. You know Dusty is not a serial killer. He’s probably just a little lonely. He’s been really great to us, so knock it off.” Her statement rang true. It hadn’t occurred to me that the usually gregarious Dusty might be lonely, or that he had offered to take us out, not simply because he wanted to do us a favor, but because he didn’t want to spend his day off alone.
Instead of putting me at ease about Dusty, Avè’s words made me feel even more uncomfortable. Thinking of his loneliness reminded me of how lonely I had been in the months before my time with Avè and Ana. In the preceding semester, my best friend had moved out of our apartment to study in Washington State, my two other good friends at Emory had dropped out and moved across the country, and I had been hopelessly in love with a boy—not even my boyfriend—who was hundreds of miles away. But in Oxford, the tables had turned. My life had regained inside jokes, adventure, and a sense of belonging. I didn’t recognize Dusty’s loneliness because I didn’t want to. My gut reaction was to recoil from him as if he were contagious.
As I sat on Dusty’s worn sofa in his small, but well-kept flat that night, I fought against my overpowering desire to distance myself from him. I tried, but couldn’t exactly recall how I had participated in a free and easy flow of conversation with him mere hours earlier. Luckily, my participation was not required. In true form, Avè asked a few well-chosen questions and soon had Dusty telling us all about the people in his photos, his little dog, and his Navy days. As she and Dusty, and eventually, Ana, chatted and laughed, I slowly began to relax, and fell into the rhythm of their conversation. Once again, my social awkwardness was hidden by the efforts of my more adept friends, and I was grateful.
As I thought about my intense reaction to the situation the next day, I found myself having trouble reconciling Dusty, the lonely divorced man, with the outgoing Dusty I knew. What had caused him to get there? How could someone so charming be alone? More importantly (to my young and self-absorbed mind), can I prevent that from happening to me? But, I soon had classes to attend, and sightseeing to do, and beer after beer to throw back. It turns out that there is only so much self-analysis that a 20 year-old can manage while in the midst of an extended holiday. And in the end, I found wisdom in an unlikely place when I remembered Dusty telling us about his nipple tattoos. Life is sometimes sweet, and sometimes sour.
[1] Felicia’s Journey is a movie, based off a book of the same name. In it, an Irish teenager heads to England to find the boy that got her pregnant. She is befriended by an older and seemingly friendly British man who eventually tries to rape and kill her.
4.14.2008
Tell me why I don't like Mondays...
Status 8:58 a.m. Monday morning. Arrived here only 10 minutes early this morning despite leaving the flat earlier than usual. Admittedly, only left 10 minutes earlier than usual but somehow expected this to place me at work half an hour early. Must get clarification on the intricacies of the space time continuum.
Got my standard coffee at the Korean deli. Pay first, then fill up my cup. This reverse order of mine tends to confuse the other customers. But anyone who knows the landfill that is my purse/knitting bag would understand that it is best not to excavate for a handful of change while holding piping hot coffee. What if I spilled? I’d probably burn myself. Even worse, then there’d be no coffee. The old man behind the counter understands.
I begin the halting dance of filling up my cup at the economically laid out counter, diving in for the creamer, dodging another patron's arm as I grab a lid. Not everyone is comfortable with sharing the coffee set-up table. The same people who think nothing of shoving me onto the metro and risking my amputation by subway door are suddenly full of false patience as they wait for me to complete my turn at the counter. Every morning, I do my best to just beat this type of person to the counter, cheating if I have to. It’s not that I’m a bad person, it is just a small power which makes the rest of the day livable.
I walk through out the unfortunately hued marble hallway up to the security desk. The woman recognizes me. I come in every day and present my silly badge which I could have just as easily made myself at Kinkos. She lets me through. I have a feeling that if I forgot it, down in the lobby I would stay. No old enmity or rivalry exists between us as although she knows my face, we are strangers. But I suspect that she would keep me out all the same. It’s not that she's a bad person. It’s just small power which makes the rest of her day liveable.
Got my standard coffee at the Korean deli. Pay first, then fill up my cup. This reverse order of mine tends to confuse the other customers. But anyone who knows the landfill that is my purse/knitting bag would understand that it is best not to excavate for a handful of change while holding piping hot coffee. What if I spilled? I’d probably burn myself. Even worse, then there’d be no coffee. The old man behind the counter understands.
I begin the halting dance of filling up my cup at the economically laid out counter, diving in for the creamer, dodging another patron's arm as I grab a lid. Not everyone is comfortable with sharing the coffee set-up table. The same people who think nothing of shoving me onto the metro and risking my amputation by subway door are suddenly full of false patience as they wait for me to complete my turn at the counter. Every morning, I do my best to just beat this type of person to the counter, cheating if I have to. It’s not that I’m a bad person, it is just a small power which makes the rest of the day livable.
I walk through out the unfortunately hued marble hallway up to the security desk. The woman recognizes me. I come in every day and present my silly badge which I could have just as easily made myself at Kinkos. She lets me through. I have a feeling that if I forgot it, down in the lobby I would stay. No old enmity or rivalry exists between us as although she knows my face, we are strangers. But I suspect that she would keep me out all the same. It’s not that she's a bad person. It’s just small power which makes the rest of her day liveable.
4.09.2008
Knitting needles are not weapons!
I'm heading off to sunny Arizona for a week today with a bathing suit, shorts, and 3 balls of yarn. Come on, I have to have something to do on the plane. Although I'm always convinced TSA will try to confiscate my knitting needles at the gate, so far it's not happened. Fingers crossed!
My writing class has ended, but some of the participants have asked me to join an outside group with them. This is awesome, because pretty much the only detraction from the class was my boozy nutjob old teacher and the cost. So now I get criticism from people I respect, for free! Yay!
We are supposed to think up a topic to write on for our first class. I'm fresh out of ideas, so if you have any suggestions, please post them in the comments
My writing class has ended, but some of the participants have asked me to join an outside group with them. This is awesome, because pretty much the only detraction from the class was my boozy nutjob old teacher and the cost. So now I get criticism from people I respect, for free! Yay!
We are supposed to think up a topic to write on for our first class. I'm fresh out of ideas, so if you have any suggestions, please post them in the comments
4.07.2008
A Portrait of the Blogger as a Little Girl
This was the 2nd writing assignment from my class. We were supposed to pick an item that stood out in a childhood memory.
But one object captured my attention more than the others. I first noticed it when I was 5 years old. Made thirsty by the unairconditioned southern heat, I had awoken in the middle of the night. I carefully made my way downstairs to sneak a Coke. And then it caught my eye. It was sitting on the china hutch, this little circular wooden platform with a center pole topped by a delicate gold loop. Best of all, it had 12 blue and white china bottles around the circle, which looked to me like a group of soldiers making a last stand against an all-around attack. Each bottle had an unusual name imprinted in black letters. “T-h-y-m-e” one said. “Sage” said another. Strangest of all, one was named after my cousin Rosemary.
Forgetting for the first time in my life about the nearby presence of a Coke, I reached out my hand to pinch the gold loop. The base, and the bottles with it, moved slightly. Encouraged, I turned the loop and let go. The bottles quietly clacked as the base made a full rotation. I was interested. I turned it again, this time a little faster. The clacking noise increased. So did my curiosity. I carefully pulled it down from its perch on the hutch and placed in on the kitchen table. I climbed up into a chair and spun it again. Harder. This time, one of the soldier-bottles fell off. I plucked out the two soldiers who had been next to him, and they wept over their friend’s body. But, when all hope was lost, I made him jump up, and ta-da! He was alive! Undeterred by the near fatal carnage, I put them all back for another run. This time I spun it really, really hard. We lost several men that time as they flew off the platform and made pretty good distances across the kitchen. When I retrieved “Bay Leaves,” he was not in top form. A bit of a nick across his top. I remained unfazed.
Normally, breaking something would have made me nervous. All my short life, I had been a fairly obedient kid--the sensible one--as opposed to my hellian older brother, Matt, whom my mother sometimes described as “the best argument for Ritalin” she’d ever come across. While Matt’s rampages could usually be stopped only by actual punishment, the slightest narrowing of my mother’s eyes would deter me from any wrongdoing. I sensed that now I was being very, very naughty, but I couldn’t stop. I had been drawn in by this game of my own making.
I readied the soldiers and sent them on another launch mission. This time one of them made a terrific noise when he crashed into a nearby brass pot. When I had just finished setting them up again, I saw my mother appear in the doorway looking sleepy. As she surveyed the scene, her eyes began to narrow. Against both instinct and reason, I said “Look Mommy!” and sent those bottles flying.
Lazy Susan Brigade, Spice Division
My grandmother’s house in Nashville was a treasure trove. In her bedroom sat a tackle box full of sequins, buttons, and red silk thread. I would wander down the hall to my great-grandmother’s bedroom and spend hours there as she showed me her collection of 1920s costume jewelry, which featured rings with stones as big as my pinkie, sparkly purple and green clip-on earrings fashioned to resemble bunches of grapes, and a bracelet with a row of little gold beetles, each with a different colored shell.
My grandmother’s house in Nashville was a treasure trove. In her bedroom sat a tackle box full of sequins, buttons, and red silk thread. I would wander down the hall to my great-grandmother’s bedroom and spend hours there as she showed me her collection of 1920s costume jewelry, which featured rings with stones as big as my pinkie, sparkly purple and green clip-on earrings fashioned to resemble bunches of grapes, and a bracelet with a row of little gold beetles, each with a different colored shell.
But one object captured my attention more than the others. I first noticed it when I was 5 years old. Made thirsty by the unairconditioned southern heat, I had awoken in the middle of the night. I carefully made my way downstairs to sneak a Coke. And then it caught my eye. It was sitting on the china hutch, this little circular wooden platform with a center pole topped by a delicate gold loop. Best of all, it had 12 blue and white china bottles around the circle, which looked to me like a group of soldiers making a last stand against an all-around attack. Each bottle had an unusual name imprinted in black letters. “T-h-y-m-e” one said. “Sage” said another. Strangest of all, one was named after my cousin Rosemary.
Forgetting for the first time in my life about the nearby presence of a Coke, I reached out my hand to pinch the gold loop. The base, and the bottles with it, moved slightly. Encouraged, I turned the loop and let go. The bottles quietly clacked as the base made a full rotation. I was interested. I turned it again, this time a little faster. The clacking noise increased. So did my curiosity. I carefully pulled it down from its perch on the hutch and placed in on the kitchen table. I climbed up into a chair and spun it again. Harder. This time, one of the soldier-bottles fell off. I plucked out the two soldiers who had been next to him, and they wept over their friend’s body. But, when all hope was lost, I made him jump up, and ta-da! He was alive! Undeterred by the near fatal carnage, I put them all back for another run. This time I spun it really, really hard. We lost several men that time as they flew off the platform and made pretty good distances across the kitchen. When I retrieved “Bay Leaves,” he was not in top form. A bit of a nick across his top. I remained unfazed.
Normally, breaking something would have made me nervous. All my short life, I had been a fairly obedient kid--the sensible one--as opposed to my hellian older brother, Matt, whom my mother sometimes described as “the best argument for Ritalin” she’d ever come across. While Matt’s rampages could usually be stopped only by actual punishment, the slightest narrowing of my mother’s eyes would deter me from any wrongdoing. I sensed that now I was being very, very naughty, but I couldn’t stop. I had been drawn in by this game of my own making.
I readied the soldiers and sent them on another launch mission. This time one of them made a terrific noise when he crashed into a nearby brass pot. When I had just finished setting them up again, I saw my mother appear in the doorway looking sleepy. As she surveyed the scene, her eyes began to narrow. Against both instinct and reason, I said “Look Mommy!” and sent those bottles flying.
4.03.2008
H Street
So I finally made it over to H St a/k/a the Atlas District last night with Phil, Ave and Will. It was pretty damn awesome. The bar we went to was super chill--it had about 5 people other than my friends in it, the drinks, while still pricey to this Midwesterner, were not ungodly, and they apparently have a Ninja Warrior happy hour. If you don't know the Ninja Warrior my friends, do yourself a favor and check it out. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ninja_Warrior
The place also had a slamming jukebox and we rocked it out to 70s southern rock pretty much all night. The bartender even gave us $5 to spend as he trusted our musical taste. Unfortunately, I had to go and break that trust by playing Journey. I couldn't help myself. I can't stop believing in Steve Perry's talent.
My last writing class is tonight, and I'm hard at work on revising an essay about my short time in Oxford. If I don't get booed out of the class, I'll post it soon.
The place also had a slamming jukebox and we rocked it out to 70s southern rock pretty much all night. The bartender even gave us $5 to spend as he trusted our musical taste. Unfortunately, I had to go and break that trust by playing Journey. I couldn't help myself. I can't stop believing in Steve Perry's talent.
My last writing class is tonight, and I'm hard at work on revising an essay about my short time in Oxford. If I don't get booed out of the class, I'll post it soon.
4.02.2008
More Cherry Blossoms
As promised, for all of you non-Dcists, here are some of my better cherry blossom pics. Okay, so technically that last one isn't a cherry blossom photo. But aren't kids climbing trees awesome?
High Flying Kites
Here is the cavalcade of kites flying near the Washington Monument and the Capitol. They had all different styles--I saw pirate kites, bird kites, shark kites, and even some Barbie kites. The parrot kite on the right flew high for a long time, but eventually crash landed right on its beak. We have a kite down!
I gotta say though, my favorite was this homemade number by the little girl on the left. She made it out of cardboard and police caution type (and it actually flew, albeit not so high). It makes me feel better about the future when I get to see resourcefulness in children.
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