It's been a whirlwind week in the life of the Williamsons, that's for sure. I finally started work on the TFA summer curriculum, and my observations at Cape Henry went rather painlessly, contrary to my irrational sense of foreboding and my lack of desire to be in places filled with unfamiliar people. A la 7th Grade: "Thea, if I left you alone in a room full of people and came back an hour later, you still wouldn't know anyone." Thanks, but I think I've grown a little since then.
What completely made my day driving back from CHC was sitting at the stoplight at Great Neck Road. Windows down and a summer breeze blowing through the van, I turn my head to see a huge lifted Chevy right next to me, tires thicker than my body, and the full accessories package. As I wait patiently for my light, an animal sticks its head out the window. We're thinking: "pitbull probably, retriever, maybe a German shepherd." Not even. The demure little furry creature that peered over at me that afternoon was a purebred blue smoke persian cat. Who takes their cat out cruising? Who does that!??! I literally started laughing right there in the car. Then I thought to myself, okay, Mandi drives a truck, maybe it's a girl in there; I could see a girl owning that cat. Not even! The light turns green, and I pull slowly by the window, peering curiously to see who is sitting behind the wheel: the stereotypical surfer-boy with blonde buzzed hair and no shirt. Mirth peals out of my happy little self as I drive away home feeling very satisfied with myself for such cuotidian surprises. Made my day, man. Made my day.
What also made my day the day before was Mom being on drugs. She had a root canal in the morning, and it was my duty to chauffer her to the dentist, because the "anti-anxiety" drug that she took was so potent that she couldn't drive. Shit, I'll say it was potent; she couldn't walk down the hallway without running into doors at 7:45 am, and she didn't even remember driving home 'cause she fell asleep in about 7.4 seconds. I was supposed to go to the beach later on that afternoon, and managed to convince her to let us borrow the nice car, complete with sunroof and CD player (it's the little things, really), so I was all psyched. Yet, when she awoke from my nap and sat through a fashion show of my new "teacher clothes," I realized that the medication hadn't really worn off [when questioned about said fashion show the next day, mere looks of perplexedness followed]. Sitting at the kitchen table, we get into the usual "Welcome Home Thea" discussion:
1. Have you been to the dentist?
2. Have you been to the gynecologist?
Yes, mother. Thank you. 2.a Are you on birth control? Oh dear. Do we really have to have this discussion AGAIN? It seems as though we do. Praised be god, by the time my drugged up mother got to the statement "But you have to be protected from multiple partners!!" I hear an engine come up the driveway. Saved, at last! I excuse myself from the table and exit the room, followed quickly by the cat, ears flat back and hissing. Cathy, with slightly diminished motor-reflexes, dumped a pint sized glass of ice water on Ebony's head. Dry off cat, dry off Mother, dry off kitchen floor, then answer door. Whew, I think it's time for the beach.
Then on Thursday Dave migrated south, my new digital camera came in, and I started work on the car again. Memorial Day happened with *much* success and many crabs, and Alex even made it home for a bit, so all were happy. Whew.
Work continues up here in Ardmore on the car and the TFA reading, I've scheduled another observation on Monday, and I've got two glassblowing lessons coming up which should be exciting. Gotta buy health insurance, gotta pack the car. Man, sometimes I feel like a real "adult." Scary. Alas, it seems as though I don't have quite enough time to bring the blog up to date, but that's a good start. Back to work, Thea.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Showing posts with label VaBeach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label VaBeach. Show all posts
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Telltale Signs
There are a few things, all part of an everyday routine, that signify summer to me like nothing else. One of them is the beach. The other is pesto
I'm not talking about going down to the sand and wiggling your toes in the water beach, I'm talking frantically scanning the nearby water for jellyfish, wondering what creatures might be lurking in the dark shadowy water, letting salty hair dry out on a beach towel kind of beach. Yesterday morning, after a productive stint of errand running, I pulled in to 72nd street only to realize that I'd forgotten a most crucial ingredient for said "beach experience:" a towel.
Never fear, though, because *I* have local connections! Dialed up Rachael's cell to find out that the eldest Wagner child was living the high life in the Hudson Valley, sightseeing and dining at the CIA (that's the Culinary Institute of America for the uninitiated). Alas, while I could not accompany her on such gastronomic adventures, she was able to assist me in my quest for a sandy chaise. Having been assured that there was no one present in the house to give me a bathing blanket, I got the low down that the garage wasn't locked, so I pulled up the door and sure enough gained admittance to 7106 Oceanfront. Chatting all the while, I proceed through the laundry room, past the pantry and up the small flight of stairs that opens on the main hallway. As I chuckle at RAW's exploits in the Hudson River Valley, I hear a voice shriek from the patio "Where'd you come from?!"
Uh oh. As it turns out, Theresa, the babysitter had been folding laundry and talking on her cell phone, thus hand not answered the house line. Perplexed, she hurriedly told her friend that she'd call back, while I attempt to explain to both Theresa (in person) and Rachael (on the phone) what's going on. A short chat between the two of them (I relinquished my phone) solved all problems, and I even got a beach towel out of the whole ordeal. I reatreated back out through the garage, closing doors behind me, and then retreated further, out to the beach. Good times, good water, good sun.
Then, in a fit of verdant innovation, I decided that the basil out back needed to be harvested. When the pine nuts and olive oil hit the food processor, I knew it was summer. There are very few things that are as quintessentially summertime than fresh pesto, due to the seasonal availability of the ingredients, and the lackluster qualities of imitation pesto. Firing up the grill for roasted zucchini clinched the deal, and I had to admit to myself that even though it wasn't Memorial Day yet, it was definitely summer.
It's strange how these ordinary weekday events inspire thoughts of vacation and relaxation more than the surf-wear shopping extravaganza of this weekend, and it's 100 degree + heat, but that's just the way it goes in my crazy little head. The *only* downside, and I do mean only, is that schools are beginning to end, and that means that my quests for teaching observations are becoming ever that much more difficult. Well, I'll do what I can do, and then there's not much more I can do, right?
In the meantime, now that I've ordered my new camera (after much deliberation, and impressing the pants off the BestBuy salesclerk with my digital camera knowledge), I'm going to tackle the other half of my summer shopping project, and look for my teacher wardrobe. Off to Lynnhaven mall. Now that I think about it, maybe I'll buy a beach towel while I'm at it.
I'm not talking about going down to the sand and wiggling your toes in the water beach, I'm talking frantically scanning the nearby water for jellyfish, wondering what creatures might be lurking in the dark shadowy water, letting salty hair dry out on a beach towel kind of beach. Yesterday morning, after a productive stint of errand running, I pulled in to 72nd street only to realize that I'd forgotten a most crucial ingredient for said "beach experience:" a towel.
Never fear, though, because *I* have local connections! Dialed up Rachael's cell to find out that the eldest Wagner child was living the high life in the Hudson Valley, sightseeing and dining at the CIA (that's the Culinary Institute of America for the uninitiated). Alas, while I could not accompany her on such gastronomic adventures, she was able to assist me in my quest for a sandy chaise. Having been assured that there was no one present in the house to give me a bathing blanket, I got the low down that the garage wasn't locked, so I pulled up the door and sure enough gained admittance to 7106 Oceanfront. Chatting all the while, I proceed through the laundry room, past the pantry and up the small flight of stairs that opens on the main hallway. As I chuckle at RAW's exploits in the Hudson River Valley, I hear a voice shriek from the patio "Where'd you come from?!"
Uh oh. As it turns out, Theresa, the babysitter had been folding laundry and talking on her cell phone, thus hand not answered the house line. Perplexed, she hurriedly told her friend that she'd call back, while I attempt to explain to both Theresa (in person) and Rachael (on the phone) what's going on. A short chat between the two of them (I relinquished my phone) solved all problems, and I even got a beach towel out of the whole ordeal. I reatreated back out through the garage, closing doors behind me, and then retreated further, out to the beach. Good times, good water, good sun.
Then, in a fit of verdant innovation, I decided that the basil out back needed to be harvested. When the pine nuts and olive oil hit the food processor, I knew it was summer. There are very few things that are as quintessentially summertime than fresh pesto, due to the seasonal availability of the ingredients, and the lackluster qualities of imitation pesto. Firing up the grill for roasted zucchini clinched the deal, and I had to admit to myself that even though it wasn't Memorial Day yet, it was definitely summer.
It's strange how these ordinary weekday events inspire thoughts of vacation and relaxation more than the surf-wear shopping extravaganza of this weekend, and it's 100 degree + heat, but that's just the way it goes in my crazy little head. The *only* downside, and I do mean only, is that schools are beginning to end, and that means that my quests for teaching observations are becoming ever that much more difficult. Well, I'll do what I can do, and then there's not much more I can do, right?
In the meantime, now that I've ordered my new camera (after much deliberation, and impressing the pants off the BestBuy salesclerk with my digital camera knowledge), I'm going to tackle the other half of my summer shopping project, and look for my teacher wardrobe. Off to Lynnhaven mall. Now that I think about it, maybe I'll buy a beach towel while I'm at it.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
AAAAAAAAH
It is a beautiful fucking day outside, and I'm stuck in the Science Library. I can't think at the moment, and am in too much of the rushrushrush adrenaline mode of the past few days to accomplish anything. So instead of thinking critically, I'll synthesize.
I swear, I totally meant to go to class on Monday. After not working the entire weekend, getting gloriously sunburt at the soccer game on Sunday, and taking waaay too long to recover from the debauchery of Friday's Spanish Thesis Party, Monday morning was a kick in the ass. Schoenherr, the second reader, told me in no uncertain terms that all of the semiotic theory in my thesis was "wrong;" true, most of that wrongness is centered on my inversion and confusion of three definitions, but it's still something that HAS to be fixed. After that super-fun hour and a half long meeting, I realized that I'd missed the first part of my class at Bryn Mawr, and since I'd skipped the screening on Friday I figured what the fuck, I'll skip the discussion.
On my way back to the apartment, I checked my mail to find the mysterious Teach for America packet that everyone had already received last Thursday. In it I find that I've missed the financial aid deadline, because they didn't get me the information in time. Now thoroughly freaking out, and not being able to formulate coherent thoughts, I read incredulously through the documentation in the packet, made it to my bed and proceded to dehydrate myself thoroughly. By the time I composed myself, it was past time for English, and I hadn't packed for my trip home. Ooops. No English. Luckily, D. called in the midst of my discomposure and suggested that Starbucks might serve for a distraction before I headed out. Frappuccinos, here we come.
After that, I was on the road. There's something very meditative about long car trips, even if they do numb your rear. Not really feeling like listening to outside thoughts, I turned off the radio and rolled the window down all the way to get some fresh air, literally and figuratively. For about 3 hours, I listened to nothing but the sound of wind rushing in at 65 mph (70 on the Delaware Turnpike). I needed that time to be by myself and think about the decisions that I have to make in the next week. Who am I kidding? The next three days. All was relatively well until I hit the MD-DE state line and checked my voicemail.
TFA called twice, CHC called twice, and so did my confused parents, whom I had not informed of my plans. I finally got my lesson plan that I was to "teach" [in quotation marks, because i'm not going to convince myself that the kids in Spanish 3 learned a hell of a lot from my 55 minutes of grammatical hell: the past perfect subjunctive tense in "if" clauses. WTF, man. WTF?]. My ex-Spanish teacher kept me on the phone for a half an hour with teacher gossip and the new curriculum, despite my protests of "I have to keep driving" and "I'm really tired." So much for honesty.
Circa 8:00 pm my dry, itchy, salty eyes started to glaze over, and I conveniently spent 10 of the $15 I needed to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel on dinner. Oops. Then, at 9:00 I couldn't find a 1. working 2. open 3. non-sketchy ATM. Ended up negotiating with some skeptical indian guys running a Citgo right before the bridge, and got my 10 clams at last, just in time to get me home before 11:00. Fuckin' a, my interview STARTED at 8:00 the next morning.
Running on empty, as far as sleep goes, I show up at Cape Henry in my suit, ready to be professsional. I met with next year's Upper School Director, followed by the following people, in one-on-one 45 minute segments:
1. Upper School Guidance Counselor (the bane of my existence Junior year; how quaint that she hasn't changed at all, and remains thoroughly condescending)
2. 10th Grade Spanish 3
3. Another Spanish teacher
4. Head of Facilities and Maintenance
5. Current Head of Upper School
6. Head of School
7. Upper School Dean, Upper School Activities Director
8. Athletic Director
9. Head of Foreign Language Department
10. Next Year's Upper School Director
11. New-Faculty Coordinator/5th Grade Math Teacher
12. Student Panel
Are you kidding? By the time 3:30 rolled around, I was about interviewed out. I had a 25 minute break for lunch, and apart from that it was all questions, all the time. It's a hell of a good thing that Mrs. Ulmer was there to de-brief me for a while afterwards; there is something absolutely invaluable in someone you can trust to speak to you with honesty and candor, not to mention someone who really 'knows' you.
I drove home with a burning afternoon sun coming through the window of the poor, overworked van, listening to some fucking Clear Channel country station As American As Apple Pie. Does anyone else find that a little offensive, when the next set consisted of three songs about the United States Armed Forces? Needless to say, the "American Soldier" was portrayed rather heroically. I know it's a military town, I know Bush controlls Clear Channel, but what the fuck ever happened to the voice of dissent? How did it get crushed out of Hampton Roads?
I brought my own music for the long drive north on Wednesday morning, knowing that it would be a long one. I got through the first tunnel fine, and as I came back up over the ocean, drove right smack into a fog bank. The glowing reflection of the rising sun over the water dimmed to a faint yellow, and the entire world disapeared. I couldn't see where I was going, hardly knew which way to turn, and could only find the tunnel because of the flashing lights at its mouth. How appropriately metaphoric. I've never been in a fog that thick; all I could make out was maybe 1/4 mile in front of me, 2.5 streetlights. In spite of all the obscurity and uncertainty, I wasn't scared. I know the bridge, I've driven it before, so the fog was almost calming. I listened to Ella Fitzgerald croon away for a while, sailed by Fisherman's Island without even seeing the dunes around me, laughed at the "Scenic Overlook" sign that I could barely make out in the soup-eyness, and just drove on. By the time I reached Maryland it was refreshingly cool outside, and I'd switched back to country music to keep me awake and alert. Arrived at Haverford in record time, with an hour to spare, during which I finished my English reading at last.
Rushed off to glass in Philly, during which my teacher told me to "quit your day job and become a glassblower" which perversely made my day. He also convinced me to look seriously into summer classes, which I think I'm going to do, because I'm addicted =). Did absolutely no work on the Thesis all Wednesday, and am trying to rectify said catastrophe, along with 2. the financial aid mix-up and 3. DECIDING MY JOB FOR NEXT YEAR in the next 12 hours. Ha.
I've heard a lot of things from a lot of people, and the funny thing is that when I finally decide to tune them out listen to the clamor in my own messed up head, I find myself saying a lot of the same things. But I guess you've got to come to a decision yourself. As the sage LeVar Burton of Reading Rainbow says: "Don't take my word for it..."
The decision is still pending, as is the Thesis, but at least I'm not in quite as much of a fog now. I'm starting to think clearly, and if nothing else, am able to methodically quantify the work that must be done before Tuesday. One day at at time, Thea; don't worry so much if you can't see the rest of the bridge right now, but you've GOT to get yourself to the other end of it somehow.
I swear, I totally meant to go to class on Monday. After not working the entire weekend, getting gloriously sunburt at the soccer game on Sunday, and taking waaay too long to recover from the debauchery of Friday's Spanish Thesis Party, Monday morning was a kick in the ass. Schoenherr, the second reader, told me in no uncertain terms that all of the semiotic theory in my thesis was "wrong;" true, most of that wrongness is centered on my inversion and confusion of three definitions, but it's still something that HAS to be fixed. After that super-fun hour and a half long meeting, I realized that I'd missed the first part of my class at Bryn Mawr, and since I'd skipped the screening on Friday I figured what the fuck, I'll skip the discussion.
On my way back to the apartment, I checked my mail to find the mysterious Teach for America packet that everyone had already received last Thursday. In it I find that I've missed the financial aid deadline, because they didn't get me the information in time. Now thoroughly freaking out, and not being able to formulate coherent thoughts, I read incredulously through the documentation in the packet, made it to my bed and proceded to dehydrate myself thoroughly. By the time I composed myself, it was past time for English, and I hadn't packed for my trip home. Ooops. No English. Luckily, D. called in the midst of my discomposure and suggested that Starbucks might serve for a distraction before I headed out. Frappuccinos, here we come.
After that, I was on the road. There's something very meditative about long car trips, even if they do numb your rear. Not really feeling like listening to outside thoughts, I turned off the radio and rolled the window down all the way to get some fresh air, literally and figuratively. For about 3 hours, I listened to nothing but the sound of wind rushing in at 65 mph (70 on the Delaware Turnpike). I needed that time to be by myself and think about the decisions that I have to make in the next week. Who am I kidding? The next three days. All was relatively well until I hit the MD-DE state line and checked my voicemail.
TFA called twice, CHC called twice, and so did my confused parents, whom I had not informed of my plans. I finally got my lesson plan that I was to "teach" [in quotation marks, because i'm not going to convince myself that the kids in Spanish 3 learned a hell of a lot from my 55 minutes of grammatical hell: the past perfect subjunctive tense in "if" clauses. WTF, man. WTF?]. My ex-Spanish teacher kept me on the phone for a half an hour with teacher gossip and the new curriculum, despite my protests of "I have to keep driving" and "I'm really tired." So much for honesty.
Circa 8:00 pm my dry, itchy, salty eyes started to glaze over, and I conveniently spent 10 of the $15 I needed to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel on dinner. Oops. Then, at 9:00 I couldn't find a 1. working 2. open 3. non-sketchy ATM. Ended up negotiating with some skeptical indian guys running a Citgo right before the bridge, and got my 10 clams at last, just in time to get me home before 11:00. Fuckin' a, my interview STARTED at 8:00 the next morning.
Running on empty, as far as sleep goes, I show up at Cape Henry in my suit, ready to be professsional. I met with next year's Upper School Director, followed by the following people, in one-on-one 45 minute segments:
1. Upper School Guidance Counselor (the bane of my existence Junior year; how quaint that she hasn't changed at all, and remains thoroughly condescending)
2. 10th Grade Spanish 3
3. Another Spanish teacher
4. Head of Facilities and Maintenance
5. Current Head of Upper School
6. Head of School
7. Upper School Dean, Upper School Activities Director
8. Athletic Director
9. Head of Foreign Language Department
10. Next Year's Upper School Director
11. New-Faculty Coordinator/5th Grade Math Teacher
12. Student Panel
Are you kidding? By the time 3:30 rolled around, I was about interviewed out. I had a 25 minute break for lunch, and apart from that it was all questions, all the time. It's a hell of a good thing that Mrs. Ulmer was there to de-brief me for a while afterwards; there is something absolutely invaluable in someone you can trust to speak to you with honesty and candor, not to mention someone who really 'knows' you.
I drove home with a burning afternoon sun coming through the window of the poor, overworked van, listening to some fucking Clear Channel country station As American As Apple Pie. Does anyone else find that a little offensive, when the next set consisted of three songs about the United States Armed Forces? Needless to say, the "American Soldier" was portrayed rather heroically. I know it's a military town, I know Bush controlls Clear Channel, but what the fuck ever happened to the voice of dissent? How did it get crushed out of Hampton Roads?
I brought my own music for the long drive north on Wednesday morning, knowing that it would be a long one. I got through the first tunnel fine, and as I came back up over the ocean, drove right smack into a fog bank. The glowing reflection of the rising sun over the water dimmed to a faint yellow, and the entire world disapeared. I couldn't see where I was going, hardly knew which way to turn, and could only find the tunnel because of the flashing lights at its mouth. How appropriately metaphoric. I've never been in a fog that thick; all I could make out was maybe 1/4 mile in front of me, 2.5 streetlights. In spite of all the obscurity and uncertainty, I wasn't scared. I know the bridge, I've driven it before, so the fog was almost calming. I listened to Ella Fitzgerald croon away for a while, sailed by Fisherman's Island without even seeing the dunes around me, laughed at the "Scenic Overlook" sign that I could barely make out in the soup-eyness, and just drove on. By the time I reached Maryland it was refreshingly cool outside, and I'd switched back to country music to keep me awake and alert. Arrived at Haverford in record time, with an hour to spare, during which I finished my English reading at last.
Rushed off to glass in Philly, during which my teacher told me to "quit your day job and become a glassblower" which perversely made my day. He also convinced me to look seriously into summer classes, which I think I'm going to do, because I'm addicted =). Did absolutely no work on the Thesis all Wednesday, and am trying to rectify said catastrophe, along with 2. the financial aid mix-up and 3. DECIDING MY JOB FOR NEXT YEAR in the next 12 hours. Ha.
I've heard a lot of things from a lot of people, and the funny thing is that when I finally decide to tune them out listen to the clamor in my own messed up head, I find myself saying a lot of the same things. But I guess you've got to come to a decision yourself. As the sage LeVar Burton of Reading Rainbow says: "Don't take my word for it..."
The decision is still pending, as is the Thesis, but at least I'm not in quite as much of a fog now. I'm starting to think clearly, and if nothing else, am able to methodically quantify the work that must be done before Tuesday. One day at at time, Thea; don't worry so much if you can't see the rest of the bridge right now, but you've GOT to get yourself to the other end of it somehow.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Damn, it's over.
Another winter break comes to a close, now that I'm back in the HCA apartment. On the roommate's suggestion, I took a few hours to rearrange my room. Arms are most definitely not used to heavy lifting/pushing. This winter break saw several unexpected windfalls (is that redundant? I think windfalls are inherently surprising), most conspicuously two things: the flaming van is now parked under several inches of snow on hannum drive. Yes, I know that I'm probably going to get ticketed but dammit, it's icy. In short, I'm mobile in Haverford now. Manayunk, here we come. Secondly, as a corrolary to my driving expedition, the parents sponsored a mobile phone for my very own personal use. I am very excited and have been calling my nearest and dearest to experiment with said technological advance. Good times.
Speaking of good times...my last week at home that was supposed to be "productive," "boring" and "uneventful" all of a sudden turned into a great deal of fun, beginning on Sunday when I found out that the compañera de cuarto was trekking from New Hampshire to Charleston and was looking for lodging. So Teal made it South on Monday afternoon, whilst I was stripping paint off of the front of the van in the positively balmy 67 degree weather. How great is that?!?! We took a leisurely drive to 72nd street and went for a walk on the beach in the middle of January. After a little catching up over my corked pinot grigio, we headed downtown (all prettied up, claro) to Havana for mojitos before a fantastic sushi dinner on Granby Street. By 9:30 pm, us party girls were pooped, and collapsed immediately in bed.
Without a stop in the action, the very next day the great Amanda Eve returned to the beach, so of course girly martinis down at Crackers were in order. Girl talk over chocolate mint cocktails, and being complimented by the quasi-punk waiter (he liked my purse, and Mandi's rather...uh, expressive cartoon shirt) just about made my day. Fun continues on Wednesday with more girlie activities including but not limited to: the new Mandy Moore movie, lattes, cooking, shopping and the O.C.
Starting to feel that back to school vibe kick in, it was decided upon that Friday night was to be our night on the town complete with bubblicious-colored 4 inch stilettos (on Mandi's feet, not mine). Plans were made, goals set, and faces painted. Off to Granby Street, ladies! Dancing was done, drinks were purchased on our behalf =), and the midnight oil was burned...so much so that our evening didn't end until 4:30 in the Warren kitchen making egg and english muffin sandwiches. Pulled in to the driveway at 5:15, and fell asleep in my makeup with the cat on my arm and a slight grin on my face. Way to go for sobering (literally) political debates with Texans; can open, worms everywhere.
So it's snowing here now, and after my 6 hour drive I'm about tuckered out. I think it's time for sleepytime.
Speaking of good times...my last week at home that was supposed to be "productive," "boring" and "uneventful" all of a sudden turned into a great deal of fun, beginning on Sunday when I found out that the compañera de cuarto was trekking from New Hampshire to Charleston and was looking for lodging. So Teal made it South on Monday afternoon, whilst I was stripping paint off of the front of the van in the positively balmy 67 degree weather. How great is that?!?! We took a leisurely drive to 72nd street and went for a walk on the beach in the middle of January. After a little catching up over my corked pinot grigio, we headed downtown (all prettied up, claro) to Havana for mojitos before a fantastic sushi dinner on Granby Street. By 9:30 pm, us party girls were pooped, and collapsed immediately in bed.
Without a stop in the action, the very next day the great Amanda Eve returned to the beach, so of course girly martinis down at Crackers were in order. Girl talk over chocolate mint cocktails, and being complimented by the quasi-punk waiter (he liked my purse, and Mandi's rather...uh, expressive cartoon shirt) just about made my day. Fun continues on Wednesday with more girlie activities including but not limited to: the new Mandy Moore movie, lattes, cooking, shopping and the O.C.
Starting to feel that back to school vibe kick in, it was decided upon that Friday night was to be our night on the town complete with bubblicious-colored 4 inch stilettos (on Mandi's feet, not mine). Plans were made, goals set, and faces painted. Off to Granby Street, ladies! Dancing was done, drinks were purchased on our behalf =), and the midnight oil was burned...so much so that our evening didn't end until 4:30 in the Warren kitchen making egg and english muffin sandwiches. Pulled in to the driveway at 5:15, and fell asleep in my makeup with the cat on my arm and a slight grin on my face. Way to go for sobering (literally) political debates with Texans; can open, worms everywhere.
So it's snowing here now, and after my 6 hour drive I'm about tuckered out. I think it's time for sleepytime.
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Home.
Today was one of the most beautiful days I've seen all season; how delightfully ironic that it happened in Virginia Beach, after a veritable world-tour of a summer. Low 80's and hardly a trace of humidity in the blue cloud-puffed sky this afternoon as I sunned myself on the sand at 36th street, following an early lunch at the locals' favorite diner on the strip. So gorgeous, in fact, that it persuaded me to stop by WRV, the local surf shop, which I've avoided for years because I'm intimidated by surfer-types (the people who used to mock me in high school; you know the type--tan, blonde, perfect girls, and ripped beachy looking guys with tousled hair) and don't feel nearly 'cool' enough to patronize such establishments. Throwing caution to the balmy offshore wind, I stopped by in search of another pair of the perfect Reef flipflops, as my old ones had worn out during my travels in Spain. Not only did I find the paragon of beach footwear, but I also was flirted with by 15 and 17 year old boys. Ah, to be back in the heyday of my youth and enjoy such attentions.
The sky was clear, the breeze was just enough to keep me from getting uncomfortably hot while baking in the sand, and the North-Westerly wind kicked up the surf enough to make the beach fun. The water felt wonderful, so much so that I felt compelled to inhale at least a pint of it when I missed a wave while bodysurfing. It's good to live at the beach, even if my time in the water was cut short due to the appearance of some threatening looking cnidarians. I think I might have even gotten stung, but it was worth it.
Drove home with the windows down, new flipflops on my feet, enjoying one of those moments when I'm glad that my parents still live in Virginia Beach. All of the crepe myrtles are in bloom, filling the streets with tons of fluffy branches decked out in light pinks and purples, magenta, lilac, red, white, and plum. All the color distracts your attention from the idiocy of the divided highway/feeder road system that the city planners thought was a novel idea, and all seems right with the infrastructure. It's not a bad place to come back to. At U.S. customs in Cincinnati, the guy looked at my passport and said "Virginia Beach, eh? That's tough." I smiled back and laughed "yeah," as I walked down the hall; it may not be Malibu, but it's got its own charm.
Today was so unexpectedly good that I'm still in a little bit of shock, and I'm not sure what I've done to deserve it. My mother and I almost had another fight this morning, when she tried to carry on a conversation while I ate cereal and read the New York Times. If there's one thing that I just can't stand, it's someone asking incessant questions while I'm clearly in the middle of reading something, so I do my best to ignore and dodge the problem with curt replies. A tearful "are you mad, Thea?" was not an auspicious start to my last Sunday of summer, but thanks to ombudsman extraordinare (Dad), by the time I met them for lunch, we were all able to laugh a little about it, and it blew over. Whew. So like I said, this gift of a day was certainly not in reward for me being a perfect daughter, nor for my dogged work ethic, my accomplishments over the summer, my unthinking kindness towards puppies and small children, nor my charming personality. I really don't know why, and I'm not going to worry about it; I'll just accept it gracefully, say thank you, and remain quizzically puzzled by the weirdness of life.
I could get all philosophical and meditate on why it's so odd that today should come at the end of August, and back in the mundane world of my house and family, when I've been living in relatively exotic locales for the past 8 months and experiencing new places all the time. You know, something about coming full circle, the cyclical nature of life, traveling across the the ocean to find that your own home town can be one of the most beautiful places on the Atlantic, crap like that. But that would be silly, and might border on pretension...and I'm never silly and/or pretentious.
So I'll just sit here with a small happy twist to my mouth, contented after a successful evening in the kitchen (grilled black sea bass stuffed with lemon-basil pesto, cherry tomato and parsley tart, and tomato pesto clams), have a shower to wash of the the sea salt on my hands from cooking, plus the salt left in my hair, and head off to bed. Still not thinking about going back to school, classes, schedules, and all the things that will comprise my reality in seven-days' time, but today merits a little break, a grateful nod to whatever forces might be out there and want me to have a good time. I can take the hint guys--I may be slow, but I catch on eventually.
The sky was clear, the breeze was just enough to keep me from getting uncomfortably hot while baking in the sand, and the North-Westerly wind kicked up the surf enough to make the beach fun. The water felt wonderful, so much so that I felt compelled to inhale at least a pint of it when I missed a wave while bodysurfing. It's good to live at the beach, even if my time in the water was cut short due to the appearance of some threatening looking cnidarians. I think I might have even gotten stung, but it was worth it.
Drove home with the windows down, new flipflops on my feet, enjoying one of those moments when I'm glad that my parents still live in Virginia Beach. All of the crepe myrtles are in bloom, filling the streets with tons of fluffy branches decked out in light pinks and purples, magenta, lilac, red, white, and plum. All the color distracts your attention from the idiocy of the divided highway/feeder road system that the city planners thought was a novel idea, and all seems right with the infrastructure. It's not a bad place to come back to. At U.S. customs in Cincinnati, the guy looked at my passport and said "Virginia Beach, eh? That's tough." I smiled back and laughed "yeah," as I walked down the hall; it may not be Malibu, but it's got its own charm.
Today was so unexpectedly good that I'm still in a little bit of shock, and I'm not sure what I've done to deserve it. My mother and I almost had another fight this morning, when she tried to carry on a conversation while I ate cereal and read the New York Times. If there's one thing that I just can't stand, it's someone asking incessant questions while I'm clearly in the middle of reading something, so I do my best to ignore and dodge the problem with curt replies. A tearful "are you mad, Thea?" was not an auspicious start to my last Sunday of summer, but thanks to ombudsman extraordinare (Dad), by the time I met them for lunch, we were all able to laugh a little about it, and it blew over. Whew. So like I said, this gift of a day was certainly not in reward for me being a perfect daughter, nor for my dogged work ethic, my accomplishments over the summer, my unthinking kindness towards puppies and small children, nor my charming personality. I really don't know why, and I'm not going to worry about it; I'll just accept it gracefully, say thank you, and remain quizzically puzzled by the weirdness of life.
I could get all philosophical and meditate on why it's so odd that today should come at the end of August, and back in the mundane world of my house and family, when I've been living in relatively exotic locales for the past 8 months and experiencing new places all the time. You know, something about coming full circle, the cyclical nature of life, traveling across the the ocean to find that your own home town can be one of the most beautiful places on the Atlantic, crap like that. But that would be silly, and might border on pretension...and I'm never silly and/or pretentious.
So I'll just sit here with a small happy twist to my mouth, contented after a successful evening in the kitchen (grilled black sea bass stuffed with lemon-basil pesto, cherry tomato and parsley tart, and tomato pesto clams), have a shower to wash of the the sea salt on my hands from cooking, plus the salt left in my hair, and head off to bed. Still not thinking about going back to school, classes, schedules, and all the things that will comprise my reality in seven-days' time, but today merits a little break, a grateful nod to whatever forces might be out there and want me to have a good time. I can take the hint guys--I may be slow, but I catch on eventually.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
Twilight Zone
I'm too young to be nostalgic; I know this, I'm not stupid. But these past few days have been messing with my head a little. So many familiar scenes: matinee movies at surf and sand; meeting the parents for dinner out after work; getting up in p.j.'s to drive Dad out to the base and listening to Fresh Air on the ride home; meeting at the dairy queen on colley avenue for a night out in ghent, our evening's plans stymied because (as always) I'm underage; early nights driving home alone.
Tonight, at 2:00 am, leaving Kempsville and Mandi's house in the rusty Caravan, listening to classic country with the window rolled down, singing shamelessly as I let my hair down in true 80's movie fashion to blow in the wind on a warm, almost sticky Virginia Beach summer night that is classic to Hampton Roads. I had to check myself several times on the once familiar roads, the exits on and off of highway 264, and make sure the long unused synapses in my brain that used to steer me home without thinking were functioning properly. In a moment of hideously trite coincidence, I flipped the radio over to my other favorite station only to find the song "Save Tonight" now coming out of the blown-out speakers of the van. 'Fight the break of dawn...for tomorrow I'll be gone. I wish that I, that I could stay' it said to me, as I cruised home, the memory of one last big hug for Mandi before she left for Blacksburg in the morning still fresh in my mind. Excuse me, could I be in a bad episode of Felicity from sophomore year of high school, please? Give me a break people. Somebody up there must have a sick sense of humor to bestow such situational irony on me. I get the joke.
Heat lightning flashing overhead, I decide that I'm better off with 80's country that reminds me of a time far away enough to be blurry. I'm in no hurry to get home; this is pretty tame for a night out on the town: dinner at 219 with my family, a late showing of Seabiscuit at the mall, and then a quick goodbye over late-night television. Exactly like every other Friday night of my formative years in Va Beach, that's what's odd.
Only tonight, when I drove home, instead of waxing melodramatically over that boy that was never going to realize I wanted to be more than his friend, I calmly enjoyed the soundtrack to my life. I wasn't crying over the realization that I'd have to go back to school on Monday and deal with the people that either I'd yelled at or had mocked me the week before, none of that crap this time, just a bit of a sigh remembering how long it's been since the Three Witches have been in the same city for more than a day or two. I come home, listening to Ani Difranco as in days of yore, but instead of a mix tape made by an acquaintance in well-meaning pity (old school acoustic Ani) after seeing my frustrated bitterness, now I've got a CD acquired by chance from a new friend. On my run this afternoon as I passed by the club soccer tryouts at the field in my neighborhood and remembered doing the same thing years ago: watching the U-17 and U-18 boys' teams for a glimpse of my crush. Tonight I jogged by a little slower than I used to in high school when I was in shape. As the sun set, I found myself casually checking out the coach instead.
I would call all these moments regressive flashbacks, but they're not. They're strange doppelgangers of moments that happened a while ago, but softer than I remember them, less aggressive and hurtful. As I go through the same routines, the ones that used to comfort me still do (I'll always consider the cookbook section of Barnes and Noble one of my favorite evening haunts...I'm all about those couches), and the ones that used to make me want to run far far away from here don't irritate me so much. There's a sort of peace that I've made with this city, an understanding that we've agreed upon. It doesn't fuck with me too much, and I agree to not to try and make it something that it's not. We've grown up a little, seen some new people, and done our own thing for a while.
The cat climbs into my lap to try and push my fingers away from the keys as she settles down, but instead of urgently displacing her because I can't type fast enough to compete with jumbled angry thoughts, I endulge the formerly fat furball and scratch her head for a while as I pluck away with one finger on the keyboard. She knows that she doesn't have to comfort me tonight, and will wait around in the hallway until I'm ready to crawl into bed. Speaking of which, I shouldn't keep her waiting too long--don't want her to get pissed.
Tonight, at 2:00 am, leaving Kempsville and Mandi's house in the rusty Caravan, listening to classic country with the window rolled down, singing shamelessly as I let my hair down in true 80's movie fashion to blow in the wind on a warm, almost sticky Virginia Beach summer night that is classic to Hampton Roads. I had to check myself several times on the once familiar roads, the exits on and off of highway 264, and make sure the long unused synapses in my brain that used to steer me home without thinking were functioning properly. In a moment of hideously trite coincidence, I flipped the radio over to my other favorite station only to find the song "Save Tonight" now coming out of the blown-out speakers of the van. 'Fight the break of dawn...for tomorrow I'll be gone. I wish that I, that I could stay' it said to me, as I cruised home, the memory of one last big hug for Mandi before she left for Blacksburg in the morning still fresh in my mind. Excuse me, could I be in a bad episode of Felicity from sophomore year of high school, please? Give me a break people. Somebody up there must have a sick sense of humor to bestow such situational irony on me. I get the joke.
Heat lightning flashing overhead, I decide that I'm better off with 80's country that reminds me of a time far away enough to be blurry. I'm in no hurry to get home; this is pretty tame for a night out on the town: dinner at 219 with my family, a late showing of Seabiscuit at the mall, and then a quick goodbye over late-night television. Exactly like every other Friday night of my formative years in Va Beach, that's what's odd.
Only tonight, when I drove home, instead of waxing melodramatically over that boy that was never going to realize I wanted to be more than his friend, I calmly enjoyed the soundtrack to my life. I wasn't crying over the realization that I'd have to go back to school on Monday and deal with the people that either I'd yelled at or had mocked me the week before, none of that crap this time, just a bit of a sigh remembering how long it's been since the Three Witches have been in the same city for more than a day or two. I come home, listening to Ani Difranco as in days of yore, but instead of a mix tape made by an acquaintance in well-meaning pity (old school acoustic Ani) after seeing my frustrated bitterness, now I've got a CD acquired by chance from a new friend. On my run this afternoon as I passed by the club soccer tryouts at the field in my neighborhood and remembered doing the same thing years ago: watching the U-17 and U-18 boys' teams for a glimpse of my crush. Tonight I jogged by a little slower than I used to in high school when I was in shape. As the sun set, I found myself casually checking out the coach instead.
I would call all these moments regressive flashbacks, but they're not. They're strange doppelgangers of moments that happened a while ago, but softer than I remember them, less aggressive and hurtful. As I go through the same routines, the ones that used to comfort me still do (I'll always consider the cookbook section of Barnes and Noble one of my favorite evening haunts...I'm all about those couches), and the ones that used to make me want to run far far away from here don't irritate me so much. There's a sort of peace that I've made with this city, an understanding that we've agreed upon. It doesn't fuck with me too much, and I agree to not to try and make it something that it's not. We've grown up a little, seen some new people, and done our own thing for a while.
The cat climbs into my lap to try and push my fingers away from the keys as she settles down, but instead of urgently displacing her because I can't type fast enough to compete with jumbled angry thoughts, I endulge the formerly fat furball and scratch her head for a while as I pluck away with one finger on the keyboard. She knows that she doesn't have to comfort me tonight, and will wait around in the hallway until I'm ready to crawl into bed. Speaking of which, I shouldn't keep her waiting too long--don't want her to get pissed.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
it's been a great weekend; one of those times when I realize that summertime in Virginia Beach is fun. Driving back from our old haunt on 72nd street with an old highschool friend that i hadn't seen in over a year, hair salty from the ocean, still sleepy from my nap on the sand, listening to bad Justin Timberlake hip-hop in the car (and loving it) it felt like a real summer day. Like those days that make you forget about whatever else in the world may be going on, and enjoy good food, family, and friends.
I also cooked rockfish last night; I'm talking a 5.5 lb. beauty straight from the bay, fins tails and all, right on the grill. I love Chesapeake seafood, a cold glass of pinot grigio, and fresh homemade bread. Does it get much better than that? I'm not sure that it does. On top of all of that (in addition to the tomato burre blanc sauce), mom treated Christine and me to a repeat viewing of Pirates of the Caribbean. So much fun, yet again.
It's also summer thunderstorm season, which, while it's quite an adrenaline rush, and super fun at night, wreaked havoc on my automotive restoration endeavors. The damn hood rusted where I'd been sanding, so that puts me back at least another day on the flaming minivan. Damn shame.
The new reality TV show "Restaurant" starts up tonight, and for as much as I hate those manufactured fake attempts at "real life" I'm going to be suckered in to at least the first episode of 'behind the scenes' at a real professional kitchen. I've also been suckered into using too many quotation marks. Maybe I'll be able to justify the show as being research for the Watson, but I feel as though that's a bit far-fetched.
Well, back to entertaining my guest, and family bonding 'round the glowing television set. Who'd have thought that the Tour de France would have captivated my family so?
I also cooked rockfish last night; I'm talking a 5.5 lb. beauty straight from the bay, fins tails and all, right on the grill. I love Chesapeake seafood, a cold glass of pinot grigio, and fresh homemade bread. Does it get much better than that? I'm not sure that it does. On top of all of that (in addition to the tomato burre blanc sauce), mom treated Christine and me to a repeat viewing of Pirates of the Caribbean. So much fun, yet again.
It's also summer thunderstorm season, which, while it's quite an adrenaline rush, and super fun at night, wreaked havoc on my automotive restoration endeavors. The damn hood rusted where I'd been sanding, so that puts me back at least another day on the flaming minivan. Damn shame.
The new reality TV show "Restaurant" starts up tonight, and for as much as I hate those manufactured fake attempts at "real life" I'm going to be suckered in to at least the first episode of 'behind the scenes' at a real professional kitchen. I've also been suckered into using too many quotation marks. Maybe I'll be able to justify the show as being research for the Watson, but I feel as though that's a bit far-fetched.
Well, back to entertaining my guest, and family bonding 'round the glowing television set. Who'd have thought that the Tour de France would have captivated my family so?
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Meteorology
Just how humid is it???
-it's so humid that when I get out of the shower, I don't bother drying off with a towel
-it's so humid the fish in the tank are swimming freely throughout the living room
-it's so humid that paper wilts immediately upon leaving an air-conditioned building
-it's so humid the weather people don't even bother telling you anymore; on the über-doppler map under humidity it says "what the fuck do you THINK it is? It's Virginia Beach in the summer."
right. Very productive day today, spent all of it until about 6 pm in my pajamas. I love those kinds of days. I got all my pictures from Spain sorted or in albums finally, and the enlargements look great. I'm rather proud of a few of them. Also realized the ambiguity of my effervescing about D. Eggers, novelist extraordinaire, whose book I am currently reading. I laughed aloud today, alone in the kitchen during breakfast:
"We are young and naked and on the beach! [preparing for photo shoot] It will be beautiful and poetic and it hurts like a motherfucker. Our penises flop up and down, and then we pick up speed, slap left to right, back and forth--who would have thought left to right? The pain! People should not do this. Penises were not meant for running. I think of a distended muffler scraping the pavement; I think of a bird shaking the life out of a worm--the agony is ridiculous...I can't imagine what it's like for the pierced-penis guy. It's definitely not helping to keep it in place. If he had some sort of hookup, like to his navel--"
HA. HA. Ha. That's my diversion for the day.
The road trip to NYC, New Haven, and Philly is still on for tomorrow morning, estimated time of departure, 7:00 am. Things packed: 0 (that's zero), people who know I'm actually coming: indefinite, possibly 2. Hoping for 4. Guess I should get cracking on that.
Just how humid is it???
-it's so humid that when I get out of the shower, I don't bother drying off with a towel
-it's so humid the fish in the tank are swimming freely throughout the living room
-it's so humid that paper wilts immediately upon leaving an air-conditioned building
-it's so humid the weather people don't even bother telling you anymore; on the über-doppler map under humidity it says "what the fuck do you THINK it is? It's Virginia Beach in the summer."
right. Very productive day today, spent all of it until about 6 pm in my pajamas. I love those kinds of days. I got all my pictures from Spain sorted or in albums finally, and the enlargements look great. I'm rather proud of a few of them. Also realized the ambiguity of my effervescing about D. Eggers, novelist extraordinaire, whose book I am currently reading. I laughed aloud today, alone in the kitchen during breakfast:
"We are young and naked and on the beach! [preparing for photo shoot] It will be beautiful and poetic and it hurts like a motherfucker. Our penises flop up and down, and then we pick up speed, slap left to right, back and forth--who would have thought left to right? The pain! People should not do this. Penises were not meant for running. I think of a distended muffler scraping the pavement; I think of a bird shaking the life out of a worm--the agony is ridiculous...I can't imagine what it's like for the pierced-penis guy. It's definitely not helping to keep it in place. If he had some sort of hookup, like to his navel--"
HA. HA. Ha. That's my diversion for the day.
The road trip to NYC, New Haven, and Philly is still on for tomorrow morning, estimated time of departure, 7:00 am. Things packed: 0 (that's zero), people who know I'm actually coming: indefinite, possibly 2. Hoping for 4. Guess I should get cracking on that.
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