I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like I'm jumping out of my skin, and this has been going on for a week or two. Maybe this is because I went through 3+ years of turmoil, and now that things have calmed down, I don't know what to do with myself. A lot of things in my life, things that I wanted, have worked out. I have a job, and I love it. We finally have caught up on our bills. We have pets we love. I've lost weight, and am only a few pounds from my goal weight.
But there's something else, something wrong, and I don't know what it is. I'm on medication. I was in therapy for years. Maybe I can't be happy. Maybe nothing makes me happy. Maybe I'll never be happy.
I feel like I need something to do, but I don't know what it is. I lack the ability to stick with anything or to bring anything to fruition. People tell me to exercise, but I lack the desire or dedication to do it. People tell me to find religion. I found a church in Columbia I loved, but the congregations up here either sing too much or have stupid hippie-dippie sermons or are just too far away. People tell me to do something musical; I lack musical talent, I can't sing, and although I love to dance, I've had people tell me I'm too clumsy to do it. I don't have the "crafty" gene; I see other people making jewelry, and sewing their own clothes, and making pottery, and all these other nifty things . . . and I don't do anything. I can't even clean the house correctly.
Of the things I like, I can't do them as much as I want, and there's a hole inside that may never be filled. I like shopping, but I have a serious problem with it and have to be careful. I like eating, but (and I hate to admit this) I have an eating disorder that is barely kept in check. I like drinking, but I don't want another episode of "Sally's an alcoholic; let's have an intervention."
Of the things I've thought I was good at: I used to think that I had a talent for art. I don't, and that's okay.
I used to think I was a talented writer, but my time at USC wrung that right out of me, made me doubt myself, made me want to stop, made me believe that I wasn't good at the one thing I thought I could do (which is probably why I hate USC so much).
I see people having children, and think "Maybe that's what I should do," and then I realize that isn't it at all. I want pets, and then we get pets and Curtis takes care of them.
I try to reach out and meet new people, but I'm failing at that. I haven't made friends at work. I don't know how to make friends anymore.
I feel like I need to do something, change something, but I don't know what that something is.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Finally, I get to use my degree
When I first told my friends and associates and family that I was going to go back to school to get my Master's degree in Library & Information Science, I was met with, at best, confused support.
Most of the time, people seemed gently baffled by my choice of a career. Many people think of those with my degree (MLIS, in my case; others have an MLS or MIS) in the classical sense: a birdlike old woman wearing a cardigan, a bun, and a pair of glasses, sitting behind a large desk, angrily shushing children and stamping books.
With this stereotype in mind, many people also think of my degree as a waste of money. For example, when I was looking for a job after graduation (during the recession that is actually a depression), I was having trouble not only finding something in my field, but also finding something PERIOD. Desperate for money, I went to an employment agency to try to find something to tide me over until I found something permanent (and preferably in my field). When I went to Spherion Staffing Services in Columbia, SC, the moron "helping me find a job" (she neither helped me nor found me a job, so I have to use quotation marks) said, in my initial interview with them, "Wow, I can't believe you have to get a degree to stamp books." She made this statement while laughing like a hyena.
So, yes, to a large swath of people, this is All We Do, and they can't imagine why we'd possibly need a degree to do this. While I knew people who had this degree, I'll admit: until about 2003 - 2005, I had no idea what they did with it, either.
My first introduction to this new way of thinking about library services was through my talented and nifty friend Laura. Laura had a job with the State of South Carolina, doing something with computers (as I understood it at the time). I assumed she had a degree in Computer Science and didn't think much about it. However, at some point, I learned that, no, she had a Master's degree in Library Science, and my mind was blown. What? Shouldn't she be off stamping books somewhere? Did she just not put her hair in a bun the times I saw her?
I learned a lot from Laura, and I started to look into the field myself, later. And I found out that it's much more varied than I had ever suspected.
And, to be sure, there are people with my degree, or one similar to it, who shush children and stamp books and sit behind a desk. Because this is a varied and changing field, though, not everyone does the same thing. Not even close. I have friends from school who work in Special Libraries (law libraries, medical libraries), who are Library Media Specialists (the new version of everyone's favorite, the school librarian), who work in reference in various libraries (public, academic), who are catalogers, who are archivists . . . the list goes on and on.
My job, for example, is hard to classify. I straddle the fence between the library and the graduate school, and I do a bit of both. I'm simultaneously in public services ("Hi, how can I help?") and technical services (we make sure you find the book you're looking for) and digital libraries (metadata!), but I rarely handle books, and I do no stamping whatsoever. I don't catalog, and I don't shelve. I don't answer reference questions.
Therefore, to many, it must seem like I've wasted my degree.
But, never fear: I was able to use my degree the other day.
Because of the placement of my office (right next to the elevators, at a dead end in a hallway), I have become the de facto Information Desk. I'm asked everything from "Can you help me find the Reference Desk?" to "Where are the bathrooms?" And, every time, I help.
A few days ago, three baffled-looking students past my office, conferred quietly out of sight next to the elevators, and, as I expected, finally peered around my door. "Excuse me . . . can you help us find a book?"
They were each looking for something different, and they had no clue where to look. The Library of Congress classification system was baffling for them, and they'd been wandering around, fruitlessly, for half an hour.
I helped them find their books, and also taught them how to use the classification system.
So, see, I DID need this degree.
And, actually, both of my Master's degrees came in handy. I asked what class their books were for, and they said English. I mentioned that I'd been an English major, and, for whatever reason, this absolutely DELIGHTED them.
Back to non-librarian work (i.e., no stamping).
Most of the time, people seemed gently baffled by my choice of a career. Many people think of those with my degree (MLIS, in my case; others have an MLS or MIS) in the classical sense: a birdlike old woman wearing a cardigan, a bun, and a pair of glasses, sitting behind a large desk, angrily shushing children and stamping books.
With this stereotype in mind, many people also think of my degree as a waste of money. For example, when I was looking for a job after graduation (during the recession that is actually a depression), I was having trouble not only finding something in my field, but also finding something PERIOD. Desperate for money, I went to an employment agency to try to find something to tide me over until I found something permanent (and preferably in my field). When I went to Spherion Staffing Services in Columbia, SC, the moron "helping me find a job" (she neither helped me nor found me a job, so I have to use quotation marks) said, in my initial interview with them, "Wow, I can't believe you have to get a degree to stamp books." She made this statement while laughing like a hyena.
So, yes, to a large swath of people, this is All We Do, and they can't imagine why we'd possibly need a degree to do this. While I knew people who had this degree, I'll admit: until about 2003 - 2005, I had no idea what they did with it, either.
My first introduction to this new way of thinking about library services was through my talented and nifty friend Laura. Laura had a job with the State of South Carolina, doing something with computers (as I understood it at the time). I assumed she had a degree in Computer Science and didn't think much about it. However, at some point, I learned that, no, she had a Master's degree in Library Science, and my mind was blown. What? Shouldn't she be off stamping books somewhere? Did she just not put her hair in a bun the times I saw her?
I learned a lot from Laura, and I started to look into the field myself, later. And I found out that it's much more varied than I had ever suspected.
And, to be sure, there are people with my degree, or one similar to it, who shush children and stamp books and sit behind a desk. Because this is a varied and changing field, though, not everyone does the same thing. Not even close. I have friends from school who work in Special Libraries (law libraries, medical libraries), who are Library Media Specialists (the new version of everyone's favorite, the school librarian), who work in reference in various libraries (public, academic), who are catalogers, who are archivists . . . the list goes on and on.
My job, for example, is hard to classify. I straddle the fence between the library and the graduate school, and I do a bit of both. I'm simultaneously in public services ("Hi, how can I help?") and technical services (we make sure you find the book you're looking for) and digital libraries (metadata!), but I rarely handle books, and I do no stamping whatsoever. I don't catalog, and I don't shelve. I don't answer reference questions.
Therefore, to many, it must seem like I've wasted my degree.
But, never fear: I was able to use my degree the other day.
Because of the placement of my office (right next to the elevators, at a dead end in a hallway), I have become the de facto Information Desk. I'm asked everything from "Can you help me find the Reference Desk?" to "Where are the bathrooms?" And, every time, I help.
A few days ago, three baffled-looking students past my office, conferred quietly out of sight next to the elevators, and, as I expected, finally peered around my door. "Excuse me . . . can you help us find a book?"
They were each looking for something different, and they had no clue where to look. The Library of Congress classification system was baffling for them, and they'd been wandering around, fruitlessly, for half an hour.
I helped them find their books, and also taught them how to use the classification system.
So, see, I DID need this degree.
And, actually, both of my Master's degrees came in handy. I asked what class their books were for, and they said English. I mentioned that I'd been an English major, and, for whatever reason, this absolutely DELIGHTED them.
Back to non-librarian work (i.e., no stamping).
Friday, February 17, 2012
And while I'm on the subject . . .
I'm really disturbed by the sudden backlash against women's reproductive rights, both on the macro and micro levels. I'm concerned for our society, and I'm concerned for women's rights overall.
I'm also concerned for myself.
Let's say abortion is completely outlawed. No one can perform it anywhere. At all. Back-alley abortions may still exist, but who wants to endanger her life?
So, with this in mind, I am on birth control, as my husband and I have made a conscious choice to remain child-free. We love our friends' and family's children dearly, but we simply do not want to be parents ourselves. We've given this a lot of thought, and have come to this decision.
But let's say something goes wrong, as things do, from time to time. The birth control we're using fails in some way. And I find myself pregnant. And cannot have an abortion. But do not want children.
Yes, there's adoption. And adoption is great. There's my answer.
First though, let's think about who I am. I am 37 years old, in good health overall. I am married to my husband, and we have no other children. We are both gainfully employed, and we are both educated, successful adults. We're not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we are comfortable enough. We pay our bills and we do fun things from time to time--we have some disposable income, in other words. While I enjoy my adult beverages, that's the end of it. I am not 16 years old. I am not homeless. I am not a drug addict. I am not unemployed. I am not a single mother, which means that I would not be struggling with the issues that may come from raising a child alone. I'm not below the poverty line.
So, in other words, I'm a responsible adult who really has no reason NOT to have children. The only thing that keeps me from having them is that I don't want to be a mother.
With that in mind, let's say you, and society as a whole, hears that a person just like me has decided to give up her child for adoption. How does that sound? It makes me sound like a selfish monster, doesn't it? Sure, I didn't have an abortion, which some people would applaud, but I am a mother WHO GAVE UP HER OWN CHILD. The women who want to have children but can't will be horrified by my decision. They'd do ANYTHING to have a baby, after all, and here I am, pregnant . . . but I DON'T WANT IT? What is wrong with me? I'm just another mindless, soulless, pretentious, liberal yuppie who likes her toys and wine and vacations and car and clothes more than a precious gift from God.
And that doesn't even get into the issue that it would create with our families. Because we live 4 - 8 hours from every family member, I suppose it's conceivable that we could keep my pregnancy a secret before we gave the baby up for adoption. But if we didn't . . . I cannot imagine that our families would react to my decision very well. "You're giving up your own child? My grandchild/niece or nephew/cousin? How COULD you?" Before you think that you'd just do it and not care about what your family thought, if you were in my position, think about it. Really think about how your family would feel if one of their flesh-and-blood members was out there SOMEWHERE being raised by strangers. Do you seriously think they'd just shrug it off and say, "Your decision. Do what you want." Maybe they would. I don't know your family. But you don't know ours. And I can guarantee you that they would not like this.
So, realizing that I would become a pariah, a villain, I decide that I'll keep it.
And yes, I completely understand that there's a chance that I will receive the rush of maternal instinct and endorphins, and I will fall in love upon first sight and regret any thought I ever had about not having a baby. That is certainly a possibility, and I do not discount that. I know that many women who decide to give their children up for adoption are absolutely heartbroken when they actually have to go through with it, even when they are 100% sure that that is what they want to do, and that that is the best decision for everyone involved. Many women who give their children up for adoption spend some time, if not their entire lives, regretting their decision and wondering if they did the right thing, if they shouldn't have just TRIED . . .
With that in mind, I know that there's a chance, in this hypothetical situation, that I would not choose adoption, and that I would keep my child, and be thrilled that I did.
But maybe I won't. I know that I am not in love with every baby I see, and I know that I do not long for one. Furthermore, I know that I have trouble imagining being okay with having a child with serious disabilities or a substantial deformity. Again, yes, I'm a monster--but I'm a monster who knows herself. I know that I would have real trouble reconciling myself to the fact that I have a child that might not ever be able to tie his or her own shoes. That is one major reason I chose not to have children--because it takes a special person to have a child with disabilities, and I fear that I could not handle it. And I don't know that I'm that special. I don't think I am. They say "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Well, I think that's complete bullshit. Because I see people struggling daily with what is dumped on them.
Lest we forget, there's another person in this scenario: my husband. He also knows that he does not want children. While there is a chance that he could fall instantly in love with our child, there's a chance that he might not. In that case, he very well could leave me, and the baby. Should that happen, I will suddenly find myself with half the income I had before, no husband to assist me with raising our child, and a child I may or may not want, that I was forced to have, and chose to keep due to societal pressure.
Yes, that is a great environment for a child. Definitely better than terminating a pregnancy at 6 weeks.
We are doing everything within our power to keep from getting pregnant, and we are considering maybe a permanent fix. For now, though, I like knowing that, if there is a true, real emergency, a huge mistake, I have an option that I can undertake, that no one ever has to know about. Society never has to see a perfectly healthy, capable women give up her child. My family never has to know what happened. I never have to worry about the "what if"s: what if I don't love it? What if my husband doesn't love it? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't do this?
I hope that my option never goes away. If it does, I suppose we'll both just get fixed. If the government still allows us to.
I'm also concerned for myself.
Let's say abortion is completely outlawed. No one can perform it anywhere. At all. Back-alley abortions may still exist, but who wants to endanger her life?
So, with this in mind, I am on birth control, as my husband and I have made a conscious choice to remain child-free. We love our friends' and family's children dearly, but we simply do not want to be parents ourselves. We've given this a lot of thought, and have come to this decision.
But let's say something goes wrong, as things do, from time to time. The birth control we're using fails in some way. And I find myself pregnant. And cannot have an abortion. But do not want children.
Yes, there's adoption. And adoption is great. There's my answer.
First though, let's think about who I am. I am 37 years old, in good health overall. I am married to my husband, and we have no other children. We are both gainfully employed, and we are both educated, successful adults. We're not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we are comfortable enough. We pay our bills and we do fun things from time to time--we have some disposable income, in other words. While I enjoy my adult beverages, that's the end of it. I am not 16 years old. I am not homeless. I am not a drug addict. I am not unemployed. I am not a single mother, which means that I would not be struggling with the issues that may come from raising a child alone. I'm not below the poverty line.
So, in other words, I'm a responsible adult who really has no reason NOT to have children. The only thing that keeps me from having them is that I don't want to be a mother.
With that in mind, let's say you, and society as a whole, hears that a person just like me has decided to give up her child for adoption. How does that sound? It makes me sound like a selfish monster, doesn't it? Sure, I didn't have an abortion, which some people would applaud, but I am a mother WHO GAVE UP HER OWN CHILD. The women who want to have children but can't will be horrified by my decision. They'd do ANYTHING to have a baby, after all, and here I am, pregnant . . . but I DON'T WANT IT? What is wrong with me? I'm just another mindless, soulless, pretentious, liberal yuppie who likes her toys and wine and vacations and car and clothes more than a precious gift from God.
And that doesn't even get into the issue that it would create with our families. Because we live 4 - 8 hours from every family member, I suppose it's conceivable that we could keep my pregnancy a secret before we gave the baby up for adoption. But if we didn't . . . I cannot imagine that our families would react to my decision very well. "You're giving up your own child? My grandchild/niece or nephew/cousin? How COULD you?" Before you think that you'd just do it and not care about what your family thought, if you were in my position, think about it. Really think about how your family would feel if one of their flesh-and-blood members was out there SOMEWHERE being raised by strangers. Do you seriously think they'd just shrug it off and say, "Your decision. Do what you want." Maybe they would. I don't know your family. But you don't know ours. And I can guarantee you that they would not like this.
So, realizing that I would become a pariah, a villain, I decide that I'll keep it.
And yes, I completely understand that there's a chance that I will receive the rush of maternal instinct and endorphins, and I will fall in love upon first sight and regret any thought I ever had about not having a baby. That is certainly a possibility, and I do not discount that. I know that many women who decide to give their children up for adoption are absolutely heartbroken when they actually have to go through with it, even when they are 100% sure that that is what they want to do, and that that is the best decision for everyone involved. Many women who give their children up for adoption spend some time, if not their entire lives, regretting their decision and wondering if they did the right thing, if they shouldn't have just TRIED . . .
With that in mind, I know that there's a chance, in this hypothetical situation, that I would not choose adoption, and that I would keep my child, and be thrilled that I did.
But maybe I won't. I know that I am not in love with every baby I see, and I know that I do not long for one. Furthermore, I know that I have trouble imagining being okay with having a child with serious disabilities or a substantial deformity. Again, yes, I'm a monster--but I'm a monster who knows herself. I know that I would have real trouble reconciling myself to the fact that I have a child that might not ever be able to tie his or her own shoes. That is one major reason I chose not to have children--because it takes a special person to have a child with disabilities, and I fear that I could not handle it. And I don't know that I'm that special. I don't think I am. They say "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Well, I think that's complete bullshit. Because I see people struggling daily with what is dumped on them.
Lest we forget, there's another person in this scenario: my husband. He also knows that he does not want children. While there is a chance that he could fall instantly in love with our child, there's a chance that he might not. In that case, he very well could leave me, and the baby. Should that happen, I will suddenly find myself with half the income I had before, no husband to assist me with raising our child, and a child I may or may not want, that I was forced to have, and chose to keep due to societal pressure.
Yes, that is a great environment for a child. Definitely better than terminating a pregnancy at 6 weeks.
We are doing everything within our power to keep from getting pregnant, and we are considering maybe a permanent fix. For now, though, I like knowing that, if there is a true, real emergency, a huge mistake, I have an option that I can undertake, that no one ever has to know about. Society never has to see a perfectly healthy, capable women give up her child. My family never has to know what happened. I never have to worry about the "what if"s: what if I don't love it? What if my husband doesn't love it? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't do this?
I hope that my option never goes away. If it does, I suppose we'll both just get fixed. If the government still allows us to.
Oh, Virginia, I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
Growing up in rural West Virginia, I was convinced that 85 - 90% of the population was absolutely insane. Living there, I ran into daily occurrences of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and blind fundamentalism that would curdle milk. The state voted solidly Democrat (WV was one of only five states that voted for Michael Dukakis), but most of its residents were extremely socially conservative. Christianity was the only religion, the Second Amendment was held up as a standard for living, women were second-class citizens, African Americans were never called that and were barely tolerated (much less anyone of any other race), members of the military were uniformly worshiped as heroes (NO MATTER WHAT), and there was simply no such thing as gay.
After spending my childhood as "the weird smart girl," in high school, I further alienated myself. Not only did I not play (or like) sports, not only did I read books, not only did I do well in school, not only did I enjoy writing and art, I then made the terrible choice, as a Caucasian female, to date African American males. That didn't go over well.
I was harassed on an almost daily basis, by both enemies and friends. One fellow student told me that she thought interracial dating just wasn't right. When I said, "Your boyfriend is Vietnamese," she said, "That's different." A "friend" sent me a letter telling me that she didn't agree with what I was doing, it was awful, but she'd pray for my everlasting soul because she was a good Christian and she didn't want me to burn in hell. And this treatment was not only by people my age--teachers made snide comments to me and ignored verbal abuse that happened right in front of them. Another friend invited me out for dinner for her birthday; her mother spent the entire dinner haranguing me about being a bad daughter and a bad person. I was brought in by the pastor of the church I belonged to for "conferences," in which I was told that interracial dating was just wrong, wrong, wrong. The best answer I received was that God commanded that we not be "unequally yoked." Which only said to me that God didn't think everyone was equal, and that was not a god I wanted to believed in.
And it wasn't as if I had a haven to run home to after all of this. My father was oblivious to everything--everything--I did, so he wasn't the issue. No, my mother was. My mother and I had always been extremely close, as close to best friends as possible, and I'd always been a "good" kid. (Even with all of this, I was my class's valedictorian, the president of the National Honor Society, and on the state level of a charitable organization.) But my dating habits drove a deep spike in our relationship, because my mother, who had graduated from high school before Integration, thought it was Just Wrong. She couldn't ever give me a good reason why it was Just Wrong. It was Just . . . Wrong. And the abuse I received at school translated at home to alternating periods of cold, stony silence and violent outbursts and cruel insults.
All of this led to me hating my high school, hating 98% of the people in my town, and wanting to get the hell out of this shithole and never look back. I still loved my mother . . . but for the last year I was at home and the first year after I left, it was hard to like her. I forgave her in later years, but with the knowledge that we would never, ever agree with one another.
I went to Virginia Tech, and I was ready to start over. I left a tiny school (400 people total, 85 in my graduating class) and a tiny town (2,000 at the most), where everyone, for better or worse, knew me, and went to a large school (28,000 students), where no one knew me. And I loved that. I loved the anonymity. I wanted to remake myself. No one knew me. I could be anyone I wanted to be.
Best of all, I thought, I am in a new place, where everyone is open-minded and tolerant. No one here could possibly be racist or homophobic or misogynistic. Everyone was equal, and everyone believed in and supported that equality. Only in my hometown, only in West Virginia, did those things exist. Everywhere else in the whole world was progressive.
Wow, was I wrong.
I learned pretty quickly that that was not the case. It didn't make me love my hometown any more than I had; I didn't have any "Aw, we're just like everyone else, only with a small-town sensibility!" revelation. No, I just became convinced that Virginia Tech was in a beautiful, pastoral place, that was still filled with morons. I loved Virginia Tech, loved my four years there. I made wonderful, amazing friends, and still think of that time, 15 years after graduation, as the best time of my life.
Even though I found out that idiots were there, too.
But then I moved to an even BIGGER place. I went to the University of South Carolina for graduate school, and I thought that, finally, now that I was in an even larger place, there was more of a chance that people would be tolerant, open-minded, blah blah blah.
I know, you're laughing at me. I laugh now, thinking about how naive I was. I've always thought of myself as a pessimist, but I suppose I really am a hopeless dreamer.
I moved to Columbia, South Carolina with only the very best of intentions and hopes and dreams. I believed that I was going to go there and have a great life, meet interesting, worldly people, and find myself. Maybe I'd even meet the man I'd marry.
Well, part of it was true. I met interesting, worldly people. I met the man I later married. And I found myself.
But I consider it a minor miracle.
I happened to find, through the Art Bar, a collection of people who were Just Like Me. It was a miracle. Especially because I'm pretty sure we were the only people in the entire state who didn't have to look left to see Hitler. Well, that's not true. I know of a few other people who lived in other parts of the state who weren't unbelievably racist, utterly misogynistic, completely homophobic, and blindly fundamentalist. But not many.
I lived in Columbia for 13 years, and I met some of the best friends I've ever had, or ever will have. I met my beloved husband there. I had some good times. I found wonderful places to go, and fun things to do.
But I did not leave South Carolina with the best overall impression. In fact, by the time we left, I just wanted everyone I knew there to move with us, to save them.
We moved to Fairfax, Virginia because I got a job in the area. (I seemed incapable of buying a job in Columbia.) And, because I'm stupid, I believed that Virginia would be different. This part of it, anyway, as it's 10 miles from the liberal bastion of Washington, DC.
Well, for a while, it was like that, and then this happened.
Oh, Virginia.
I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
After spending my childhood as "the weird smart girl," in high school, I further alienated myself. Not only did I not play (or like) sports, not only did I read books, not only did I do well in school, not only did I enjoy writing and art, I then made the terrible choice, as a Caucasian female, to date African American males. That didn't go over well.
I was harassed on an almost daily basis, by both enemies and friends. One fellow student told me that she thought interracial dating just wasn't right. When I said, "Your boyfriend is Vietnamese," she said, "That's different." A "friend" sent me a letter telling me that she didn't agree with what I was doing, it was awful, but she'd pray for my everlasting soul because she was a good Christian and she didn't want me to burn in hell. And this treatment was not only by people my age--teachers made snide comments to me and ignored verbal abuse that happened right in front of them. Another friend invited me out for dinner for her birthday; her mother spent the entire dinner haranguing me about being a bad daughter and a bad person. I was brought in by the pastor of the church I belonged to for "conferences," in which I was told that interracial dating was just wrong, wrong, wrong. The best answer I received was that God commanded that we not be "unequally yoked." Which only said to me that God didn't think everyone was equal, and that was not a god I wanted to believed in.
And it wasn't as if I had a haven to run home to after all of this. My father was oblivious to everything--everything--I did, so he wasn't the issue. No, my mother was. My mother and I had always been extremely close, as close to best friends as possible, and I'd always been a "good" kid. (Even with all of this, I was my class's valedictorian, the president of the National Honor Society, and on the state level of a charitable organization.) But my dating habits drove a deep spike in our relationship, because my mother, who had graduated from high school before Integration, thought it was Just Wrong. She couldn't ever give me a good reason why it was Just Wrong. It was Just . . . Wrong. And the abuse I received at school translated at home to alternating periods of cold, stony silence and violent outbursts and cruel insults.
All of this led to me hating my high school, hating 98% of the people in my town, and wanting to get the hell out of this shithole and never look back. I still loved my mother . . . but for the last year I was at home and the first year after I left, it was hard to like her. I forgave her in later years, but with the knowledge that we would never, ever agree with one another.
I went to Virginia Tech, and I was ready to start over. I left a tiny school (400 people total, 85 in my graduating class) and a tiny town (2,000 at the most), where everyone, for better or worse, knew me, and went to a large school (28,000 students), where no one knew me. And I loved that. I loved the anonymity. I wanted to remake myself. No one knew me. I could be anyone I wanted to be.
Best of all, I thought, I am in a new place, where everyone is open-minded and tolerant. No one here could possibly be racist or homophobic or misogynistic. Everyone was equal, and everyone believed in and supported that equality. Only in my hometown, only in West Virginia, did those things exist. Everywhere else in the whole world was progressive.
Wow, was I wrong.
I learned pretty quickly that that was not the case. It didn't make me love my hometown any more than I had; I didn't have any "Aw, we're just like everyone else, only with a small-town sensibility!" revelation. No, I just became convinced that Virginia Tech was in a beautiful, pastoral place, that was still filled with morons. I loved Virginia Tech, loved my four years there. I made wonderful, amazing friends, and still think of that time, 15 years after graduation, as the best time of my life.
Even though I found out that idiots were there, too.
But then I moved to an even BIGGER place. I went to the University of South Carolina for graduate school, and I thought that, finally, now that I was in an even larger place, there was more of a chance that people would be tolerant, open-minded, blah blah blah.
I know, you're laughing at me. I laugh now, thinking about how naive I was. I've always thought of myself as a pessimist, but I suppose I really am a hopeless dreamer.
I moved to Columbia, South Carolina with only the very best of intentions and hopes and dreams. I believed that I was going to go there and have a great life, meet interesting, worldly people, and find myself. Maybe I'd even meet the man I'd marry.
Well, part of it was true. I met interesting, worldly people. I met the man I later married. And I found myself.
But I consider it a minor miracle.
I happened to find, through the Art Bar, a collection of people who were Just Like Me. It was a miracle. Especially because I'm pretty sure we were the only people in the entire state who didn't have to look left to see Hitler. Well, that's not true. I know of a few other people who lived in other parts of the state who weren't unbelievably racist, utterly misogynistic, completely homophobic, and blindly fundamentalist. But not many.
I lived in Columbia for 13 years, and I met some of the best friends I've ever had, or ever will have. I met my beloved husband there. I had some good times. I found wonderful places to go, and fun things to do.
But I did not leave South Carolina with the best overall impression. In fact, by the time we left, I just wanted everyone I knew there to move with us, to save them.
We moved to Fairfax, Virginia because I got a job in the area. (I seemed incapable of buying a job in Columbia.) And, because I'm stupid, I believed that Virginia would be different. This part of it, anyway, as it's 10 miles from the liberal bastion of Washington, DC.
Well, for a while, it was like that, and then this happened.
Oh, Virginia.
I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Crazy people are everywhere.
A few months ago, I met someone in my neighborhood.
We were having a nice, pleasant conversation, and then she asked me what religion I practiced. I said I was a Unitarian.
Her face literally dropped at that point, and she fixed me with a cold stare.
"You must stop this," she informed me gravely. "This is not good. You must stop your adherence to this false religion and you must find the true God."
I said I appreciated her concern, but I was happy with what I practiced.
She continued to stare at me. "I will pray for you. I will pray for your eternal soul, that you do not burn in hell."
Honestly, if heaven is full of delightful people like her, I can't wait to get to hell.
We were having a nice, pleasant conversation, and then she asked me what religion I practiced. I said I was a Unitarian.
Her face literally dropped at that point, and she fixed me with a cold stare.
"You must stop this," she informed me gravely. "This is not good. You must stop your adherence to this false religion and you must find the true God."
I said I appreciated her concern, but I was happy with what I practiced.
She continued to stare at me. "I will pray for you. I will pray for your eternal soul, that you do not burn in hell."
Honestly, if heaven is full of delightful people like her, I can't wait to get to hell.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Proof That I Am Not Evil Incarnate (I know, I was totally shocked too)
I have four modes of lunch:
Today was option #4. This is an easy option, as I have to walk across the quad and downstairs, and the nice lady at the counter knows exactly what I want.
After lunch, I made my way out of the bowels of SUB I, and as I gained the front sliding door, I heard an insistent BEEP BEEP BEEP.
I turned and looked at the ATM, which was flashing something. "Do you need more time?" the screen asked. I pressed "no."
A card ejected.
Oh dear.
I called the credit union and reported the card missing. The customer service rep thanked me, said she'd tell the customer his card was safe and unmolested.
I felt really good about me.
Now I'll have to kick THREE kittens tonight, instead of just one.
- No lunch at all
- Lunch off-campus
- Lunch on-campus, in which I eat a slice of startling delicious pizza and a salad
- Lunch on-campus, when I go to the on-campus bar (AN ON-CAMPUS BAR, PEOPLE)
Today was option #4. This is an easy option, as I have to walk across the quad and downstairs, and the nice lady at the counter knows exactly what I want.
After lunch, I made my way out of the bowels of SUB I, and as I gained the front sliding door, I heard an insistent BEEP BEEP BEEP.
I turned and looked at the ATM, which was flashing something. "Do you need more time?" the screen asked. I pressed "no."
A card ejected.
Oh dear.
I called the credit union and reported the card missing. The customer service rep thanked me, said she'd tell the customer his card was safe and unmolested.
I felt really good about me.
Now I'll have to kick THREE kittens tonight, instead of just one.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
The accident of aught-one
In February 2001, I was sitting, not moving, at a red light at the intersection of Elmwood and Main, in Columbia, when a car plowed into the back of Priscilla.
The car was driven by a guy who was drunk and unlicensed, and there were 6 witnesses who stuck around to talk to the police. The driver was actually taken away in handcuffs, as were the other passengers. I figured this was a slam-dunk.
But one should never assume anything with insurance companies.
The driver that night was not the owner of the car. The owner was IN the car at the time of the accident, was even one of the guys arrested . . . but the owner's insurance company refused to take responsibility for the accident, because, and I quote:
"The owner of the car says he never gave the driver permission to drive the car. Therefore, the owner's insurance agency cannot take responsibility for the accident."
So, let me get this straight: Six witnesses all saw what happened. The driver was drunk and had no license. The owner was IN THE CAR AT THE TIME OF THE ACCIDENT. But my insurance had to pay for it because the owner said the driver did not have his permission to drive the car WHILE HE WAS IN THE CAR WITH HIM.
It ended up being quite expensive, because my insurance company required me to leave my car at the body shop while the two insurance companies negotiated for a month over who would pay for what. I had to drive a rental car the whole time, to get back and forth from work. Then, my insurance company had to pay for both my rental car and the accident.
So my rental company dropped me. For an accident that was not my fault.
Oh, how I love insurance companies.
I just hope this doesn't turn into that. It makes me nervous that there's "uncertainty" (I'm being kind) about the owner of the car, and that they didn't give me insurance info.
The car was driven by a guy who was drunk and unlicensed, and there were 6 witnesses who stuck around to talk to the police. The driver was actually taken away in handcuffs, as were the other passengers. I figured this was a slam-dunk.
But one should never assume anything with insurance companies.
The driver that night was not the owner of the car. The owner was IN the car at the time of the accident, was even one of the guys arrested . . . but the owner's insurance company refused to take responsibility for the accident, because, and I quote:
"The owner of the car says he never gave the driver permission to drive the car. Therefore, the owner's insurance agency cannot take responsibility for the accident."
So, let me get this straight: Six witnesses all saw what happened. The driver was drunk and had no license. The owner was IN THE CAR AT THE TIME OF THE ACCIDENT. But my insurance had to pay for it because the owner said the driver did not have his permission to drive the car WHILE HE WAS IN THE CAR WITH HIM.
It ended up being quite expensive, because my insurance company required me to leave my car at the body shop while the two insurance companies negotiated for a month over who would pay for what. I had to drive a rental car the whole time, to get back and forth from work. Then, my insurance company had to pay for both my rental car and the accident.
So my rental company dropped me. For an accident that was not my fault.
Oh, how I love insurance companies.
I just hope this doesn't turn into that. It makes me nervous that there's "uncertainty" (I'm being kind) about the owner of the car, and that they didn't give me insurance info.
Fun with traffic
Today I was running a brief errand, very near our house. I was on Ellenwood, a two-lane road that connects two major streets; this road runs through our neighborhood.
I drove down Ellenwood toward Arlington. When I neared the point where Ellenwood ends at Arlington, there was a car some few car-lengths in front of me, nearing the stop sign where Ellenwood and Arlington meet. The car, let's say a Hyundai, stopped at the stop sign. I stopped to wait for a few pedestrians to cross the street; they crossed between the back of the Hyundai (which was still at the stop sign) and the front of my car. They were not in a crosswalk, by the way; this is basically a residential neighborhood, with a lot of foot traffic, and no one pays attention to where the crosswalks are.
Once the pedestrians had reached the other side of the street, I pulled up behind the Hyundai, which was still there. I wasn't a car-length away from it, but I wasn't right behind it, either. I was a good distance from the Hyundai.
There was traffic on Arlington, so I waited for the Hyundai to turn right. Suddenly, the Hyundai just . . . backed into me. And I don't mean a little "tap." They didn't accelerate or anything, but they hit my car pretty hard.
And then drove off down Arlington.
Their flight was not the fastest one, though, so I was able to memorize their license plate as they pulled out onto Arlington. I couldn't pull out right behind them, because another group of cars came, but as soon as I could, I turned right onto Arlington as well. I called 911 as I drove down to the next light and turned onto another residential street so that I could gather my wits and wait for the police to arrive.
Well, imagine my surprise when I saw the Hyundai there; they were sitting on the street I'd just turned onto, and they were preparing to get back out onto Arlington. But they couldn't go anywhere, because the traffic was so backed up at the light. So I jumped out of the car and started writing down their plate information.
The passenger, a young man probably in his early 20s, got out then, and came over to me. I doubt he would have gotten out of the car had I not gotten out and started writing things down.
He asked if I had any damage to my car; I did, and I showed it to him. The passenger gave me a piece of paper with a name and a phone number; the name on the paper ("Joe Brown") was his brother, he said; the phone number was Joe's, and Joe owned the car.
By this time, the driver, an older man, was out of the car. I got the older man's name ("Bob Smith") off of his driver's license. I wrote down "driver" next to it. I asked them for their insurance; they said they didn't have it with them, and reiterated that the car was Joe's. They asked if I'd called my insurance company; I said no. Before I could tell them that I'd called the police, they said that they had to go, they were going to a wedding . . . but that had to be the most casual wedding I've seen in a long, long time. They rushed off, reiterating that this was Joe's car, and that was Joe's phone number, I should get ahold of him. Fine, whatever. I had Bob's (the driver's) name, I had the owner's name and telephone number, I had the license plate info. I was not happy, but I couldn't imagine physically subduing these guys.
I'd called Curtis, and he came to be with me, as our house is about 2 minutes away.
Then the police got there. And things got interesting.
They got the information I'd been given, they got my info, and after filling out some paperwork, they asked me, "Now, who exactly was the driver?"
"Bob Smith."
"And did the passenger give you his name?"
"No."
"And who did they tell you the owner of the car was?"
"Joe Brown."
"Actually, no. Bob Smith is the owner."
"Wait, what?"
"The driver is the owner. When we did a search, we learned that Bob Smith is the owner. We're going to look further into who this Joe Brown is supposed to be."
Well, that's a hell of a thing.
Further bulletins as events warrant. I have to call my insurance agent now. Mostly I just don't want this to turn into another version of an accident that happened in 2001. Which will be in another installation . . .
I drove down Ellenwood toward Arlington. When I neared the point where Ellenwood ends at Arlington, there was a car some few car-lengths in front of me, nearing the stop sign where Ellenwood and Arlington meet. The car, let's say a Hyundai, stopped at the stop sign. I stopped to wait for a few pedestrians to cross the street; they crossed between the back of the Hyundai (which was still at the stop sign) and the front of my car. They were not in a crosswalk, by the way; this is basically a residential neighborhood, with a lot of foot traffic, and no one pays attention to where the crosswalks are.
Once the pedestrians had reached the other side of the street, I pulled up behind the Hyundai, which was still there. I wasn't a car-length away from it, but I wasn't right behind it, either. I was a good distance from the Hyundai.
There was traffic on Arlington, so I waited for the Hyundai to turn right. Suddenly, the Hyundai just . . . backed into me. And I don't mean a little "tap." They didn't accelerate or anything, but they hit my car pretty hard.
And then drove off down Arlington.
Their flight was not the fastest one, though, so I was able to memorize their license plate as they pulled out onto Arlington. I couldn't pull out right behind them, because another group of cars came, but as soon as I could, I turned right onto Arlington as well. I called 911 as I drove down to the next light and turned onto another residential street so that I could gather my wits and wait for the police to arrive.
Well, imagine my surprise when I saw the Hyundai there; they were sitting on the street I'd just turned onto, and they were preparing to get back out onto Arlington. But they couldn't go anywhere, because the traffic was so backed up at the light. So I jumped out of the car and started writing down their plate information.
The passenger, a young man probably in his early 20s, got out then, and came over to me. I doubt he would have gotten out of the car had I not gotten out and started writing things down.
He asked if I had any damage to my car; I did, and I showed it to him. The passenger gave me a piece of paper with a name and a phone number; the name on the paper ("Joe Brown") was his brother, he said; the phone number was Joe's, and Joe owned the car.
By this time, the driver, an older man, was out of the car. I got the older man's name ("Bob Smith") off of his driver's license. I wrote down "driver" next to it. I asked them for their insurance; they said they didn't have it with them, and reiterated that the car was Joe's. They asked if I'd called my insurance company; I said no. Before I could tell them that I'd called the police, they said that they had to go, they were going to a wedding . . . but that had to be the most casual wedding I've seen in a long, long time. They rushed off, reiterating that this was Joe's car, and that was Joe's phone number, I should get ahold of him. Fine, whatever. I had Bob's (the driver's) name, I had the owner's name and telephone number, I had the license plate info. I was not happy, but I couldn't imagine physically subduing these guys.
I'd called Curtis, and he came to be with me, as our house is about 2 minutes away.
Then the police got there. And things got interesting.
They got the information I'd been given, they got my info, and after filling out some paperwork, they asked me, "Now, who exactly was the driver?"
"Bob Smith."
"And did the passenger give you his name?"
"No."
"And who did they tell you the owner of the car was?"
"Joe Brown."
"Actually, no. Bob Smith is the owner."
"Wait, what?"
"The driver is the owner. When we did a search, we learned that Bob Smith is the owner. We're going to look further into who this Joe Brown is supposed to be."
Well, that's a hell of a thing.
Further bulletins as events warrant. I have to call my insurance agent now. Mostly I just don't want this to turn into another version of an accident that happened in 2001. Which will be in another installation . . .
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Happy . . . mostly.
I love my new job. I love what I do. I love that I work at a university library. I feel valued, and valuable, and trusted. I'm treated like an adult, and a professional, which is a welcome change from my last 2 employers. My coworkers are nice.
I love our new city. We have so much to do, and so many places to go. We've just barely scratched the surface. I love how diverse it is, and I love seeing the White House on CNN and thinking "That's 30 minutes away."
I love that we live near old friends up here. It's nice to move to a place with built-in friends, people you love dearly and haven't seen in years. When I told Julie I was moving up here, she screamed. When I told Sherri, she cried.
I love that there are Columbia transplants up here with us.
And I love that I have my husband up here with me, experiencing this new phase of our lives right along with me. In my life, I've barely been able to get a guy to go to a wedding with me, and Curtis uprooted his whole world, left a city and a state where's he's lived for the greater part of his life, to move up here with me. I know that that seems like a given: he's my partner, we're a team, we should do things together. Well, it doesn't always work that way. He could have said "I'm not leaving. I'm staying." But he didn't. Because I, and my happiness and well-being, are important to him. I've been the one who left (because the guy adamantly refused to untie the apron strings), I've been the one who gave up a dream (because the guy adamantly refused to move with me, no matter how many different options I offered), and I've been the one who was left (because the guy wasn't serious enough about me to take me with him, although I was willing to go). And then I found a wonderful man, who loves me, values me, wants to spend his life with me, and wants me to succeed and be happy.
There is so much to love about living here. I am so lucky not only to have found a job, but to have found a job that I sincerely love. I am so lucky to have wonderful friends up here. I am so lucky to have my beloved husband up here.
I am genuinely happy. Most of the time.
But today, for some reason, I'm terribly sad. It's a combination of things.
It's missing our house. I saw a commercial for Lowe's and started crying because we used to go buy plants to make our house look nice.
It's missing the places we went in Columbia. I've gone to some great restaurants up here, but I haven't found "our" places yet. There's no Utopia. There's no Mr. Friendly's. There's no Art Bar. There's no Sheraton. There's no Gourmet Shop. And, of course, at the end of those statements, there is "yet." I didn't find Utopia, Mr. Friendly's, or the Sheraton 4 months after I moved to Columbia. Yes, I found Art Bar and the Gourmet Shop within a month or two, but I have to remind myself that Columbia is a smaller place, a more closed community. I will find the off-beat, casual restaurant where the owners know your name and make you a cake for your graduation party. I will find the upscale restaurant where I eat lunch at the bar and, to quote Cheer's, everyone knows my name. I will find the bar where I feel at home, where I suddenly find the perfect community. I will find the right hotel bar. I will find the perfect chicken salad. But I haven't "yet."
It's missing the things we did in Columbia. Artista Vista, Runaway Runway, and the Rosewood Crawfish Festival all happened this week. There are so many things to do up here, I know, but we haven't found our patterns yet.
It's missing the friends we made in Columbia. We've been extremely fortunate that we've had friends come to visit: Crystal, J, and Carolyn have already been up to see us. Tracy will be up in a few weeks. Jim, Jill, Wade, Kim, and Erika are all making tentative plans about coming up. Erica has mentioned visiting. Carolyn wants to come up again. Shannon is talking about coming up, maybe with the new baby, which would be exciting. We're making plans to get to SC during the summer, and to spend more than a week in December/January; we'll be staying with Curtis's family. But I miss our friends. I missed Jim and Jill's birthdays. I won't be there when Lulu is born.
I'll be okay, but I'm just down today. 95% of my time, I am so thrilled to be living up here. I love my new life. But in that 5%, on days like today, I'm happy . . . mostly.
I love our new city. We have so much to do, and so many places to go. We've just barely scratched the surface. I love how diverse it is, and I love seeing the White House on CNN and thinking "That's 30 minutes away."
I love that we live near old friends up here. It's nice to move to a place with built-in friends, people you love dearly and haven't seen in years. When I told Julie I was moving up here, she screamed. When I told Sherri, she cried.
I love that there are Columbia transplants up here with us.
And I love that I have my husband up here with me, experiencing this new phase of our lives right along with me. In my life, I've barely been able to get a guy to go to a wedding with me, and Curtis uprooted his whole world, left a city and a state where's he's lived for the greater part of his life, to move up here with me. I know that that seems like a given: he's my partner, we're a team, we should do things together. Well, it doesn't always work that way. He could have said "I'm not leaving. I'm staying." But he didn't. Because I, and my happiness and well-being, are important to him. I've been the one who left (because the guy adamantly refused to untie the apron strings), I've been the one who gave up a dream (because the guy adamantly refused to move with me, no matter how many different options I offered), and I've been the one who was left (because the guy wasn't serious enough about me to take me with him, although I was willing to go). And then I found a wonderful man, who loves me, values me, wants to spend his life with me, and wants me to succeed and be happy.
There is so much to love about living here. I am so lucky not only to have found a job, but to have found a job that I sincerely love. I am so lucky to have wonderful friends up here. I am so lucky to have my beloved husband up here.
I am genuinely happy. Most of the time.
But today, for some reason, I'm terribly sad. It's a combination of things.
It's missing our house. I saw a commercial for Lowe's and started crying because we used to go buy plants to make our house look nice.
It's missing the places we went in Columbia. I've gone to some great restaurants up here, but I haven't found "our" places yet. There's no Utopia. There's no Mr. Friendly's. There's no Art Bar. There's no Sheraton. There's no Gourmet Shop. And, of course, at the end of those statements, there is "yet." I didn't find Utopia, Mr. Friendly's, or the Sheraton 4 months after I moved to Columbia. Yes, I found Art Bar and the Gourmet Shop within a month or two, but I have to remind myself that Columbia is a smaller place, a more closed community. I will find the off-beat, casual restaurant where the owners know your name and make you a cake for your graduation party. I will find the upscale restaurant where I eat lunch at the bar and, to quote Cheer's, everyone knows my name. I will find the bar where I feel at home, where I suddenly find the perfect community. I will find the right hotel bar. I will find the perfect chicken salad. But I haven't "yet."
It's missing the things we did in Columbia. Artista Vista, Runaway Runway, and the Rosewood Crawfish Festival all happened this week. There are so many things to do up here, I know, but we haven't found our patterns yet.
It's missing the friends we made in Columbia. We've been extremely fortunate that we've had friends come to visit: Crystal, J, and Carolyn have already been up to see us. Tracy will be up in a few weeks. Jim, Jill, Wade, Kim, and Erika are all making tentative plans about coming up. Erica has mentioned visiting. Carolyn wants to come up again. Shannon is talking about coming up, maybe with the new baby, which would be exciting. We're making plans to get to SC during the summer, and to spend more than a week in December/January; we'll be staying with Curtis's family. But I miss our friends. I missed Jim and Jill's birthdays. I won't be there when Lulu is born.
I'll be okay, but I'm just down today. 95% of my time, I am so thrilled to be living up here. I love my new life. But in that 5%, on days like today, I'm happy . . . mostly.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Slow Saturdays in DC
There's a lot to do in DC, but right now, while Curtis looks for a job, we're generally lying low on the big-night-out thing. Don't get me wrong, we're going out and doing things, particularly searching out restaurants and visiting the free stuff (monuments, museums), but we're being careful with money, and trying to keep our adventures to a minimum.
Besides enjoying nights in, I'm pleased that we have IFC Saturday nights. Last Saturday, the offerings were Affliction
Reservoir Dogs
and Bad Lieutenant
Which, alone, was great. But add in one of my favorite movies of all time, if not my favorite, and it was a great night . . .
Tonight, the greatness continued. First, there was Chapter 27, which I'd never seen, but was glad I had the chance to do so tonight. Later, Bully is on; I saw that, and it's quite disturbing. Thirteen is also on, and while I find that movie terribly entertaining, I don't think it's quite the chilling gaze into the dark soul of American Teens it's supposed to be.
But, now, there is The Usual Suspects.
And I love this movie. It always reminds me of Tracy, although it is not, as Curtis thought, her favorite movie. That would be The Godfather.
I also just like the shock at the end. There are many critics who find the twist at the end too "cute," and I get that. But I don't care; I still love that movie. The first time I saw it, I'd been talked into watching it by someone whose taste in movies I found questionable at best, so I sulked through the entire thing, unimpressed and somewhat bored. The second Chazz Palmintieri looked at the fax sheet, though, I started to pay attention. I watched it again, I believe immediately after watching it the first time. And every time I've watched it since then, to this day, I start to smile when he looks at that fax. Even though I know what's coming.
I also like thinking about the career arcs of the actors in it.
Benecio Del Toro, for example. I'd never seen him before, and found his mushmouthed slickster Fenster attractive and charming. Then I saw him in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which piqued my interest. His "Viva Las Vegas" montage in Snatch locked me in. Then he was in the heavy-handed Traffic and 21 Grams, and I let out a sigh.
And then there's Kevin Spacey. These were his glory days: this movie, Se7en, LA Confidential. Then American Beauty, which really didn't age all that well . . . and then came K-Pax and Pay It Forward, and, God help me, The Life of David Gale.
Of course, there's Stephen Baldwin. He was in this movie. And then he was in Bio-Dome. And that's all I have to say about Stephen Baldwin.
Next week, it's Another Day in Paradise, a movie I've never seen; Dancing at the Blue Iguana, an entertaining little ensemble piece about strippers, chock-full of stars; and The Notorious Bettie Page, a movie we borrowed from Carolyn. Pulp Fiction is also on, and I believe I'm the only living human being who does not think Quentin Tarantino is a genius. But that's another blog post.
February 26th, I'll be at a wine-and-cheese party at a friend-of-a-friend's house. And either later that night, or perhaps the night before, at a midnight showing, I will be at a theatre in DC, watching one of the best worst movies ever made.
Besides enjoying nights in, I'm pleased that we have IFC Saturday nights. Last Saturday, the offerings were Affliction
Reservoir Dogs
and Bad Lieutenant
Which, alone, was great. But add in one of my favorite movies of all time, if not my favorite, and it was a great night . . .
Tonight, the greatness continued. First, there was Chapter 27, which I'd never seen, but was glad I had the chance to do so tonight. Later, Bully is on; I saw that, and it's quite disturbing. Thirteen is also on, and while I find that movie terribly entertaining, I don't think it's quite the chilling gaze into the dark soul of American Teens it's supposed to be.
But, now, there is The Usual Suspects.
And I love this movie. It always reminds me of Tracy, although it is not, as Curtis thought, her favorite movie. That would be The Godfather.
I also just like the shock at the end. There are many critics who find the twist at the end too "cute," and I get that. But I don't care; I still love that movie. The first time I saw it, I'd been talked into watching it by someone whose taste in movies I found questionable at best, so I sulked through the entire thing, unimpressed and somewhat bored. The second Chazz Palmintieri looked at the fax sheet, though, I started to pay attention. I watched it again, I believe immediately after watching it the first time. And every time I've watched it since then, to this day, I start to smile when he looks at that fax. Even though I know what's coming.
I also like thinking about the career arcs of the actors in it.
Benecio Del Toro, for example. I'd never seen him before, and found his mushmouthed slickster Fenster attractive and charming. Then I saw him in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which piqued my interest. His "Viva Las Vegas" montage in Snatch locked me in. Then he was in the heavy-handed Traffic and 21 Grams, and I let out a sigh.
And then there's Kevin Spacey. These were his glory days: this movie, Se7en, LA Confidential. Then American Beauty, which really didn't age all that well . . . and then came K-Pax and Pay It Forward, and, God help me, The Life of David Gale.
Of course, there's Stephen Baldwin. He was in this movie. And then he was in Bio-Dome. And that's all I have to say about Stephen Baldwin.
Next week, it's Another Day in Paradise, a movie I've never seen; Dancing at the Blue Iguana, an entertaining little ensemble piece about strippers, chock-full of stars; and The Notorious Bettie Page, a movie we borrowed from Carolyn. Pulp Fiction is also on, and I believe I'm the only living human being who does not think Quentin Tarantino is a genius. But that's another blog post.
February 26th, I'll be at a wine-and-cheese party at a friend-of-a-friend's house. And either later that night, or perhaps the night before, at a midnight showing, I will be at a theatre in DC, watching one of the best worst movies ever made.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Finishing up my series of posts about The Big Weekend
A few weeks ago, Curtis and I drove to the Uno pizzeria at Potomac Mills to meet up with Julie and Sherri. That was a good, but surreal, experience. It was, as always, wonderful to see Julie and Sherri; that goes without saying. (I know, I know: So why did I say it? Yeah yeah ha ha shut up.)
No, it was surreal because, for one thing, after being joined at the hip for some time, suddenly we were 6 - 8 hours apart after we graduated from Virginia Tech. The only times I saw them after 1997 occurred because I was in VA or they were in SC for a bridal shower, or a baby shower, or a graduation party, or a wedding, and then I went back to SC or they went back to MD and/or VA, or we all met in NC for a weekend.
Now, suddenly, I'm an hour and a half from Sherri, 40 minutes from Julie.
On one hand, one BIG hand, that's fantastic. I get to see them a few times a month, rather than a few times a year.
On the other, it's so strange. Because I'd become reluctantly used to seeing them a few times a year. IF I was lucky.
The strangeness contributes to my belief that I don't really live here. I feel like I'm on an extended vacation. Every time I've been in DC, well, EVER, it's because I'm here for a weekend, a week at the longest, and then I'll be leaving.
It started in 1983, when I was in the Gifted Program in War, WV. The Gifted Program was one of the few things I liked about my childhood, for a lot of reasons, one being the yearly end-of-year trip. In May that particular year, we went on a trip to Washington, DC, which was the first time I'd ever gone. We went to a variety of monuments . . . we saw a show at the Kennedy Center . . . we went to the Smithsonian. My favorite was the Natural History Museum. Also at the Smithsonian snack bar: I had the best hot dog I've ever eaten. Not kidding. We also went to the zoo, where I was enchanted by this wee teeny antelope called a dik-dik.
That's a baby, but they don't get much bigger than a small dog. Like 2 feet tall. TEENY.
But I digress.
Later, when I was in undergrad at VT, I heard about these mysterious areas in The DC Metro Area, collectively known as NoVa. I imagined these places to be fantastic wonderlands. Reston, you say? No doubt the streets are made of candy.
During undergrad, I went to DC a few times, but always just for a few days, and it was one big party the whole time I was there.
Right before my exciting trip to San Francisco with Julie, I stayed just outside of DC with her. Again: big party.
After that, I found myself in the DC metro area every now and again, mostly for friends' weddings and wedding-related things.
Over this past year, I've been to DC quite a few times. In June, I went to the American Library Association conference, which was in DC. I was unemployed at the time, but I was looking for a job in the library field, and I believed that going to the conference would help me. I'd network, meet people, learn things. I could talk about it in job interviews. This would be great. Also, I could see some friends and look at a city I really liked.
Then, months later, I was flown up to the area to go to an interview for George Mason University.
I got the job, and flew back up to look for a place to live.
So for my entire life, and definitely for the past year, I found myself in DC many times, in vacation-y ways. I was there for weddings and all their satellite parties--dressed up, having fancy foods and champagne! I was there for educational purposes--visiting neat museums! I was there for career purposes--staying in hotels, exploring various areas, eating at restaurants!
Now, suddenly, I live here. Driving on the Beltway used to seem like an exciting adventure; now it's part of my life. The shopping centers had interesting names; now they're just where I go to pick stuff up. All those monuments and DC landmarks are just 30 minutes away; I see them on CNN, and it's somewhat jarring. I think "That's half an hour from me now." The areas I always heard about in undergrad (Manassas, Falls Church, Vienna) are demystified--they're just areas.
And there's a part of me that still feels like I'm on a vacation. That I'm going to stop staying in this time-share townhouse that looks eerily like my own home . . . and I'm going to pack up all of my stuff (strange how much I brought this time) . . . and I'm going to get back on the plane at Dulles (or was it BWI?) . . . and I'm going to fly back home to . . .
Wait, where do I live again?
Right, the magical land of Fairyfax.
No, it was surreal because, for one thing, after being joined at the hip for some time, suddenly we were 6 - 8 hours apart after we graduated from Virginia Tech. The only times I saw them after 1997 occurred because I was in VA or they were in SC for a bridal shower, or a baby shower, or a graduation party, or a wedding, and then I went back to SC or they went back to MD and/or VA, or we all met in NC for a weekend.
Now, suddenly, I'm an hour and a half from Sherri, 40 minutes from Julie.
On one hand, one BIG hand, that's fantastic. I get to see them a few times a month, rather than a few times a year.
On the other, it's so strange. Because I'd become reluctantly used to seeing them a few times a year. IF I was lucky.
The strangeness contributes to my belief that I don't really live here. I feel like I'm on an extended vacation. Every time I've been in DC, well, EVER, it's because I'm here for a weekend, a week at the longest, and then I'll be leaving.
It started in 1983, when I was in the Gifted Program in War, WV. The Gifted Program was one of the few things I liked about my childhood, for a lot of reasons, one being the yearly end-of-year trip. In May that particular year, we went on a trip to Washington, DC, which was the first time I'd ever gone. We went to a variety of monuments . . . we saw a show at the Kennedy Center . . . we went to the Smithsonian. My favorite was the Natural History Museum. Also at the Smithsonian snack bar: I had the best hot dog I've ever eaten. Not kidding. We also went to the zoo, where I was enchanted by this wee teeny antelope called a dik-dik.
That's a baby, but they don't get much bigger than a small dog. Like 2 feet tall. TEENY.
But I digress.
Later, when I was in undergrad at VT, I heard about these mysterious areas in The DC Metro Area, collectively known as NoVa. I imagined these places to be fantastic wonderlands. Reston, you say? No doubt the streets are made of candy.
During undergrad, I went to DC a few times, but always just for a few days, and it was one big party the whole time I was there.
Right before my exciting trip to San Francisco with Julie, I stayed just outside of DC with her. Again: big party.
After that, I found myself in the DC metro area every now and again, mostly for friends' weddings and wedding-related things.
Over this past year, I've been to DC quite a few times. In June, I went to the American Library Association conference, which was in DC. I was unemployed at the time, but I was looking for a job in the library field, and I believed that going to the conference would help me. I'd network, meet people, learn things. I could talk about it in job interviews. This would be great. Also, I could see some friends and look at a city I really liked.
Then, months later, I was flown up to the area to go to an interview for George Mason University.
I got the job, and flew back up to look for a place to live.
So for my entire life, and definitely for the past year, I found myself in DC many times, in vacation-y ways. I was there for weddings and all their satellite parties--dressed up, having fancy foods and champagne! I was there for educational purposes--visiting neat museums! I was there for career purposes--staying in hotels, exploring various areas, eating at restaurants!
Now, suddenly, I live here. Driving on the Beltway used to seem like an exciting adventure; now it's part of my life. The shopping centers had interesting names; now they're just where I go to pick stuff up. All those monuments and DC landmarks are just 30 minutes away; I see them on CNN, and it's somewhat jarring. I think "That's half an hour from me now." The areas I always heard about in undergrad (Manassas, Falls Church, Vienna) are demystified--they're just areas.
And there's a part of me that still feels like I'm on a vacation. That I'm going to stop staying in this time-share townhouse that looks eerily like my own home . . . and I'm going to pack up all of my stuff (strange how much I brought this time) . . . and I'm going to get back on the plane at Dulles (or was it BWI?) . . . and I'm going to fly back home to . . .
Wait, where do I live again?
Right, the magical land of Fairyfax.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A bad day
I stayed home from work today because I've been feeling pretty bad. I thought I had an ear infection, but after a visit to an ENT, I learned that I have a form of vertigo. I was given a prescription for Antivert, and a list of exercises to do.
After the appointment, Curtis and I went next door for lunch.
While we were eating, it started to snow, so we hurried up and left for our home, which was 6 miles away. That was at 4:30 or so.
At 8:35, I realized we were getting nowhere, so we parked in a parking lot and walked the last 1.3 miles in a foot of snow. We walked through our front door at 9:15.
The DC metro area is in total gridlock.
I also was overjoyed to find a letter from United telling me that they would not be reimbursing me for the bag that they, or the Columbia Metropolitan Airport, lost or stole or caused to be stolen in November.
This was not the best day I've had.
After the appointment, Curtis and I went next door for lunch.
While we were eating, it started to snow, so we hurried up and left for our home, which was 6 miles away. That was at 4:30 or so.
At 8:35, I realized we were getting nowhere, so we parked in a parking lot and walked the last 1.3 miles in a foot of snow. We walked through our front door at 9:15.
The DC metro area is in total gridlock.
I also was overjoyed to find a letter from United telling me that they would not be reimbursing me for the bag that they, or the Columbia Metropolitan Airport, lost or stole or caused to be stolen in November.
This was not the best day I've had.
Monday, January 17, 2011
A busy weekend, part 2
After fun with beer tasting on Friday, Curtis and I drove to Catonsville, Maryland, to visit our fellow ex-South Carolinians, Mich and Eric. It was really good--and somewhat disorienting--to see people we knew from our other life. It served to increase my idea that I'm just on vacation, and will be returning to Columbia in a week or so.
We traveled up 66, then 495, then 95, then 695 to meet Mich and Eric at their new house, which is absolutely adorable. I have total house envy. I like our townhouse fine; it's in good shape, it has a lot of room, it has a huge amount of closet space . . . but I'm not crazy about it. It just doesn't have any character. But M&E's house? Character out the yang. It's a free-standing house, for one thing, which I really like; and, for another, it has beautiful hardwood floors, pretty bathrooms, great kitchen, and so many interesting architectural details. I would love to live in a neighborhood like this, and it was interesting to see; I'd really been under the impression that all the areas up here are on the cookie-cutter side. However, Catonsville is an hour from our house. I'll come back to this subject later; for now, our trip.
From Catonsville, we headed to Ellicott City, which is extremely close by. Catonsville alone was adorable, with charming little buildings and businesses, but I was wholly unprepared for Ellicott City. It was literally like something out of a dream.
It is weirdly reminiscent of Welch, West Virginia; maybe even more so Kimball or Keystone or Northfork. Driving there, I commented to Curtis that it looked like the road between Bluefield and Welch, Route 52. As soon as we saw Ellicott City's downtown, I gasped; it really did look exactly like Welch: steep, bare mountainsides, houses crawling up the rock faces, houses clinging to the edges of the cliffs, businesses pressed close against the streets, apartments above the businesses.
The similarities, however, did not extend themselves to the financial success that Ellicott City appears to be enjoying; whereas Welch has been dying a slow, painful death since the 80s, maybe even the 70s, Ellicott City is thriving--a charming, touristy mountain town. It makes me sad to think about where my hometown, and its nearby towns, is headed, and I wonder if there's anything to be done. I heard, once, that the success of America was built on the back of Appalachia, leaving the state and its citizens with very little capital in return.
But that's another blog, for another day.
Curtis, Mich, Eric, and I made our way down the steep sidewalk, wandering in and out of wine shops, antique stores, furniture stores, and a truly inspiring vintage clothing store. We debated restaurants for a while before deciding on Cacao Lane. While they screwed up Mich's bacon, and our waitress seemed less than interested in serving us, everything else was fantastic. Curtis got a roast beef sandwich; Eric had a portobello sandwich; and I had quiche. Mich stuck with water, but Curtis had his standby, Sierra Nevada, and Eric and I split a bottle of pinot grigio. And Mich and Eric very kindly treated us, which we greatly appreciated.
Afterward, I pondered checking out a tea room, Tea on the Tiber, but decided to head to the Pure Wine Cafe instead. We each had a glass of wine, then headed back to Mich & Eric's for a fudge tasting. The fudge came from a really interesting store: Southwest Connection & Silver Arrow Fudge. Where else can you get dreamcatchers and fudge all at the same place?
We sampled five different kinds: chocolate, peanut butter, chocolate explosion (which was chocolate fudge with three kinds of nuts), tiger fudge (which was vanilla fudge with stripes of chocolate and peanut butter), and cappuccino. The chocolate explosion was my least favorite, mostly because I just don't like nuts. The chocolate was delicious, and always an excellent standby. But the surprise winner for me that day was the tiger fudge; really quite tasty.
Attending us at our tasting that day was Mich and Eric's sweet baby pit bull Roxie, who stared mournfully at us while we tortured her with our delicious fudge.
We hugged goodbye, and as we got in the car, I was handed an extra treat: a man was out walking his pomeranian, who was a sweet fluffy blond baby who looked at me excitedly as we got into the car. Had I had my wits about me, I would have had Curtis knock said man out while I tossed our new pet into the car, but that idea didn't occur to me until we were already in the car and they'd gotten away.
We came home that night and passed out, as apparently a major ingredient in the fudge is Nyquil.
As I said before, though, there's a subject that I've been pondering, that was driven home especially hard when we visited Mich and Eric. It's something I've thought about since we first learned we'd be moving here: where to live. The potential commute. Areas. I was spoiled by the ability to drive about 7 minutes each way for my job in Columbia. The longest commute I had was about 20 minutes, from Broad River Rd. to Middleburg Office Park, off of Forest Dr. Now I drive about 15 minutes each way to George Mason, and I know how very lucky I am.
But I know for a fact we won't live in this townhouse forever; like I said, it's fine. There's nothing wrong with it. But it's not where I want to live while we're here. We're going to start looking for a house somewhere around August or September, and until then, we're going to be looking at neighborhoods and thinking very seriously about where we'd like to be, and what we're willing to put up with re: commutes and re: mortgage.
Well, enough about real estate and driving about for now; in my next installment, we'll be meeting Sherri and Julie in yet another newly visited area.
We traveled up 66, then 495, then 95, then 695 to meet Mich and Eric at their new house, which is absolutely adorable. I have total house envy. I like our townhouse fine; it's in good shape, it has a lot of room, it has a huge amount of closet space . . . but I'm not crazy about it. It just doesn't have any character. But M&E's house? Character out the yang. It's a free-standing house, for one thing, which I really like; and, for another, it has beautiful hardwood floors, pretty bathrooms, great kitchen, and so many interesting architectural details. I would love to live in a neighborhood like this, and it was interesting to see; I'd really been under the impression that all the areas up here are on the cookie-cutter side. However, Catonsville is an hour from our house. I'll come back to this subject later; for now, our trip.
From Catonsville, we headed to Ellicott City, which is extremely close by. Catonsville alone was adorable, with charming little buildings and businesses, but I was wholly unprepared for Ellicott City. It was literally like something out of a dream.
It is weirdly reminiscent of Welch, West Virginia; maybe even more so Kimball or Keystone or Northfork. Driving there, I commented to Curtis that it looked like the road between Bluefield and Welch, Route 52. As soon as we saw Ellicott City's downtown, I gasped; it really did look exactly like Welch: steep, bare mountainsides, houses crawling up the rock faces, houses clinging to the edges of the cliffs, businesses pressed close against the streets, apartments above the businesses.
The similarities, however, did not extend themselves to the financial success that Ellicott City appears to be enjoying; whereas Welch has been dying a slow, painful death since the 80s, maybe even the 70s, Ellicott City is thriving--a charming, touristy mountain town. It makes me sad to think about where my hometown, and its nearby towns, is headed, and I wonder if there's anything to be done. I heard, once, that the success of America was built on the back of Appalachia, leaving the state and its citizens with very little capital in return.
But that's another blog, for another day.
Curtis, Mich, Eric, and I made our way down the steep sidewalk, wandering in and out of wine shops, antique stores, furniture stores, and a truly inspiring vintage clothing store. We debated restaurants for a while before deciding on Cacao Lane. While they screwed up Mich's bacon, and our waitress seemed less than interested in serving us, everything else was fantastic. Curtis got a roast beef sandwich; Eric had a portobello sandwich; and I had quiche. Mich stuck with water, but Curtis had his standby, Sierra Nevada, and Eric and I split a bottle of pinot grigio. And Mich and Eric very kindly treated us, which we greatly appreciated.
Afterward, I pondered checking out a tea room, Tea on the Tiber, but decided to head to the Pure Wine Cafe instead. We each had a glass of wine, then headed back to Mich & Eric's for a fudge tasting. The fudge came from a really interesting store: Southwest Connection & Silver Arrow Fudge. Where else can you get dreamcatchers and fudge all at the same place?
We sampled five different kinds: chocolate, peanut butter, chocolate explosion (which was chocolate fudge with three kinds of nuts), tiger fudge (which was vanilla fudge with stripes of chocolate and peanut butter), and cappuccino. The chocolate explosion was my least favorite, mostly because I just don't like nuts. The chocolate was delicious, and always an excellent standby. But the surprise winner for me that day was the tiger fudge; really quite tasty.
Attending us at our tasting that day was Mich and Eric's sweet baby pit bull Roxie, who stared mournfully at us while we tortured her with our delicious fudge.
We hugged goodbye, and as we got in the car, I was handed an extra treat: a man was out walking his pomeranian, who was a sweet fluffy blond baby who looked at me excitedly as we got into the car. Had I had my wits about me, I would have had Curtis knock said man out while I tossed our new pet into the car, but that idea didn't occur to me until we were already in the car and they'd gotten away.
We came home that night and passed out, as apparently a major ingredient in the fudge is Nyquil.
As I said before, though, there's a subject that I've been pondering, that was driven home especially hard when we visited Mich and Eric. It's something I've thought about since we first learned we'd be moving here: where to live. The potential commute. Areas. I was spoiled by the ability to drive about 7 minutes each way for my job in Columbia. The longest commute I had was about 20 minutes, from Broad River Rd. to Middleburg Office Park, off of Forest Dr. Now I drive about 15 minutes each way to George Mason, and I know how very lucky I am.
But I know for a fact we won't live in this townhouse forever; like I said, it's fine. There's nothing wrong with it. But it's not where I want to live while we're here. We're going to start looking for a house somewhere around August or September, and until then, we're going to be looking at neighborhoods and thinking very seriously about where we'd like to be, and what we're willing to put up with re: commutes and re: mortgage.
Well, enough about real estate and driving about for now; in my next installment, we'll be meeting Sherri and Julie in yet another newly visited area.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
A busy weekend, part 1
Part of our new life in the DC Metro area has involved finding our way around, getting oriented to the area, discovering new and interesting things to do, and, not least of all, seeing friends.
We combined all of those things this past weekend.
On Friday, we went to Ashburn, Virginia, to visit our friend Mike. He was hosting a beer tasting, as he and his circle of beer aficionado friends do every month, and the husband I were lucky enough to be invited. Curtis is much more knowledgeable on the beer topic than I am, and he's definitely more of a beer enthusiast than I, but I always like a chance to a) see people I know and like; b) meet new people; c) see new parts of the world; and d) drink alcohol.
Mike had told us that Ashburn was "out in the country," but I had trouble envisioning it. I came up here with the idea that Northern Virginia was just one big parking lot linking an endless string of strip malls, and while our area does have its fair share of pavement and the aforementioned linked stores and restaurants, I'm pleasantly surprised to find trees, forests, and parks. And, as Mike promised, there was, indeed, country all over his neighborhood. The drive there was a two-lane road sandwiched between farmland, and it was extremely reminiscent of the Virginia near where I grew up, Tazewell County, and the Virginia of my undergraduate years, Blacksburg and greater Montgomery County.
On the way there, we saw the charming Evergreen Market. It was one of those rickety old markets made of cinderblocks, the kind you see mouldering on back roads, about to be torn down, until someone comes along and rehabs it. Kudos to the Evergreen Market folks; if we didn't live so far from you, we'd shop there.
We met two of Mike's friends, Tony and Trisha, who are fellow West Virginians, and that was interesting; of the five people there that night, four were from WV, and I can't remember the last time that has happened outside of family reunions. After 13 years in South Carolina, I became accustomed to seeing no West Virginians, ever.
Mike had made a really delicious chicken chili, and I tried Frito Pie for the first time. Only last week I ate Chili Mac for the first time, from Hard Times Cafe, here in Fairfax. I can't remember who told me about Chili Mac, but it sounded vile the first time I heard of it: spaghetti with chili on it? Oh, HORK. But I tried it at Hard Times, with their Terlingua chili (they have 4 different kinds, including a vegetarian version), and found it unexpectedly delicious. So, armed with my new knowledge of Chili Mac, I felt comfortable branching out to Frito Pie, which is, for those who don't know: Fritos topped with chili. It was good, and a good experience, but next time I'll eat the chili by itself.
We tried 6 different Imperial Stouts that evening, one of which tasted exactly like chocolate Tootsie Roll Pops. There was another I drank right afterward, which was literally tasteless in the beginning, but after it had neared room temperature, was quite flavorful. Sadly, I do not remember the names of these. I will have to ask Mike.
We also had Sierra Nevada's 30th Anniversary Imperial Stout, easily my favorite. Curtis is a fan of all things Sierra Nevada, and this particular gem did not disappoint. After it, I'm sad to report that we drank the one Curtis and I had brought, Young's Chocolate Stout, and it did not stand up as well. While it boasted a truly prodigious head, it was surprisingly thin.
I'd also used the Young's to make my dessert, a chocolate toffee trifle, of which Carolyn is a fan. When I made it before, I used Kahlua to soak the chocolate cake; this time, I soaked it all day in Young's. I wasn't sure how it would turn out, but was pleased in the end.
We had a lovely night with old and new friends, then headed home to rest up before our jaunt to Catonsville and Ellicott City, Maryland, to see fellow SC transplants Mich and Eric.
That trip will be the subject of the next installment of No One's Wearing Pink Here . . .
We combined all of those things this past weekend.
On Friday, we went to Ashburn, Virginia, to visit our friend Mike. He was hosting a beer tasting, as he and his circle of beer aficionado friends do every month, and the husband I were lucky enough to be invited. Curtis is much more knowledgeable on the beer topic than I am, and he's definitely more of a beer enthusiast than I, but I always like a chance to a) see people I know and like; b) meet new people; c) see new parts of the world; and d) drink alcohol.
Mike had told us that Ashburn was "out in the country," but I had trouble envisioning it. I came up here with the idea that Northern Virginia was just one big parking lot linking an endless string of strip malls, and while our area does have its fair share of pavement and the aforementioned linked stores and restaurants, I'm pleasantly surprised to find trees, forests, and parks. And, as Mike promised, there was, indeed, country all over his neighborhood. The drive there was a two-lane road sandwiched between farmland, and it was extremely reminiscent of the Virginia near where I grew up, Tazewell County, and the Virginia of my undergraduate years, Blacksburg and greater Montgomery County.
On the way there, we saw the charming Evergreen Market. It was one of those rickety old markets made of cinderblocks, the kind you see mouldering on back roads, about to be torn down, until someone comes along and rehabs it. Kudos to the Evergreen Market folks; if we didn't live so far from you, we'd shop there.
We met two of Mike's friends, Tony and Trisha, who are fellow West Virginians, and that was interesting; of the five people there that night, four were from WV, and I can't remember the last time that has happened outside of family reunions. After 13 years in South Carolina, I became accustomed to seeing no West Virginians, ever.
Mike had made a really delicious chicken chili, and I tried Frito Pie for the first time. Only last week I ate Chili Mac for the first time, from Hard Times Cafe, here in Fairfax. I can't remember who told me about Chili Mac, but it sounded vile the first time I heard of it: spaghetti with chili on it? Oh, HORK. But I tried it at Hard Times, with their Terlingua chili (they have 4 different kinds, including a vegetarian version), and found it unexpectedly delicious. So, armed with my new knowledge of Chili Mac, I felt comfortable branching out to Frito Pie, which is, for those who don't know: Fritos topped with chili. It was good, and a good experience, but next time I'll eat the chili by itself.
We tried 6 different Imperial Stouts that evening, one of which tasted exactly like chocolate Tootsie Roll Pops. There was another I drank right afterward, which was literally tasteless in the beginning, but after it had neared room temperature, was quite flavorful. Sadly, I do not remember the names of these. I will have to ask Mike.
We also had Sierra Nevada's 30th Anniversary Imperial Stout, easily my favorite. Curtis is a fan of all things Sierra Nevada, and this particular gem did not disappoint. After it, I'm sad to report that we drank the one Curtis and I had brought, Young's Chocolate Stout, and it did not stand up as well. While it boasted a truly prodigious head, it was surprisingly thin.
I'd also used the Young's to make my dessert, a chocolate toffee trifle, of which Carolyn is a fan. When I made it before, I used Kahlua to soak the chocolate cake; this time, I soaked it all day in Young's. I wasn't sure how it would turn out, but was pleased in the end.
We had a lovely night with old and new friends, then headed home to rest up before our jaunt to Catonsville and Ellicott City, Maryland, to see fellow SC transplants Mich and Eric.
That trip will be the subject of the next installment of No One's Wearing Pink Here . . .
Thursday, January 13, 2011
This ain't my first time at the rodeo
If you look at my profile info, you'll see that this isn't my first blog. Curtis started one, which is somehow attributed to me, dedicated to our trips to the cabin in Virginia. Well, that's what we liked to call it, because "Driving 4 hours to get hammered for three straight days" makes us sound like a bunch of drunks, and no one likes that. I prefer "lush."
Then I did one this summer, at Tracy Haisley's urging. But, as I was in a bad, bad headspace, it was mostly just me bemoaning my lot in life and trying to keep my head out of the oven. Eventually, I realized we didn't have a gas oven, and writing, for the first time in my life, was only making me feel worse. I kept writing the same things over and over, about how depressed I was, how my life would never get better, how pointless my existence was. In the past, I would have reveled in my dissolution and misery, but that was when I was younger and imagined that life would somehow turn out well. And this summer, I did not entertain that fantasy at all. Furthermore, I couldn't figure out what on earth I'd write about that would make anyone want to read my blog. Today's pajamas: black! Today's lunch: tuna salad on white! Today's best television show: Law & Order SVU! Today's accomplishment: getting out of bed!
So I stopped with the blogging. I was depressing myself, and it wasn't at all cathartic.
Then life changed, and life changed drastically.
On one level, I suppose this blog could be viewed as gloating, or crowing about my life. And maybe there's something to that, although that's not what I intend. I hate reading "Look how awesome my life is" bullshit, and that's not what this is supposed to be.
Instead, this is more a report of something I haven't had in a while: happiness. Peace. Hope. A goal. Sure, there's adversity: the stress of a new job; no pay until the beginning of February; chinchilla freakouts; missing our friends in SC; leaving our house. But there's also the excitement of a new city; of learning new things; of meeting new people; of having a job where I feel valued.
So maybe there's some gloating, sure.
But there's also some relief.
Then I did one this summer, at Tracy Haisley's urging. But, as I was in a bad, bad headspace, it was mostly just me bemoaning my lot in life and trying to keep my head out of the oven. Eventually, I realized we didn't have a gas oven, and writing, for the first time in my life, was only making me feel worse. I kept writing the same things over and over, about how depressed I was, how my life would never get better, how pointless my existence was. In the past, I would have reveled in my dissolution and misery, but that was when I was younger and imagined that life would somehow turn out well. And this summer, I did not entertain that fantasy at all. Furthermore, I couldn't figure out what on earth I'd write about that would make anyone want to read my blog. Today's pajamas: black! Today's lunch: tuna salad on white! Today's best television show: Law & Order SVU! Today's accomplishment: getting out of bed!
So I stopped with the blogging. I was depressing myself, and it wasn't at all cathartic.
Then life changed, and life changed drastically.
On one level, I suppose this blog could be viewed as gloating, or crowing about my life. And maybe there's something to that, although that's not what I intend. I hate reading "Look how awesome my life is" bullshit, and that's not what this is supposed to be.
Instead, this is more a report of something I haven't had in a while: happiness. Peace. Hope. A goal. Sure, there's adversity: the stress of a new job; no pay until the beginning of February; chinchilla freakouts; missing our friends in SC; leaving our house. But there's also the excitement of a new city; of learning new things; of meeting new people; of having a job where I feel valued.
So maybe there's some gloating, sure.
But there's also some relief.
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