In Which Our Heroine Has an Adventure in Retailing
It started. The job started. Was I up to the challenge? I think so. Overall, I think I did well. Burdick's, as I mentioned, is an upscale chocolatiers. That said, the interview asked nothing about my knowledge of chocolate or food in general. Rather it went a bit like this: "We're hiring." "I'd like a job then, please." "Ok, you're hired. Start Sunday for a training session. 4-8." They did ask, however, when I arrived if I knew anything about chocoalte. I confessed that I did a bit. Ok, first you have to be familiar with all the stock. People will ask you all kinds of questions about what it tastes like, what your favorite is, what flavours are predominant, etc. Thus one must eat the chocolate. And know it like the back of your hand. If you're behind the counter, the procedure for this is pretty simple. Pick a chocolate you feel like eating. Eat it. Ok, I can do that. The same procedure goes for the cakes, the pastries, the coffees, the teas, water, lemonade, and so on. If you're on shift, it is all free. Oh the humanity, how will I ever cope?

Since we get asked lots of questions, I wanted to be prepared to answer them, so when I was being shown the cocoa powder, I enquired whether it was Dutch process or natural process. No one knew. In fact, no one knew what the difference was, so I explained thusly:
"Ductch process cocoa powder uses an alkali process during manufacture. It is slightly darker than regular process, and should be used when baking something with baking powder as a levener, as the chemical process creates a lighter pastry. Natural process uses an older method and results in a lighter colour and should be used when baking with baking soda as a levener, as again the chemical reactions will create a lighter pastry." People were stunned. Just plain stunned. I was put behind the counter pretty quickly after that.

Behind the counter, I then had to explain to a customer what a tuile was. A tuile is a cookie shaped like an old roof tile (tuile is french for tile). They are very thin, and when still hot out of the oven they are draped over a rolling pin or some thing else round and left to cool. The result looks like a taco shell but tastes much better with tea or coffee. Again, the people around me were stunned that I knew this. Promotion seems imminent. They have not, however, seen me try to make coffee yet. That could get me fired. I still cannot make a decent cup of coffee to save my life. But hopefully I will learn the proper way soon!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Gets One of Them There Job Things
It had to happen sometime. Actually, given the current financial situation, it really had to happen soon. Law being a bit of a dead area at the moment, I started applying for some steady "everyone does it" retail work. Of course, since everyone does it, I worried there might not be enough jobs, what with all them students arriving, but it turns out that the students are at a bit of a losing edge since they don't stick around for the holidays. In the end, I just walked into the job I wanted. Literally. Rita and I were in one of my favorite stores, and she commented that she liked the way they wrapped everything up. The gal behind the counter commented that they were hiring. I asked for a job. I got one. I start today (Sunday) at four.

So what, you ask, am I retailing? What better, I reply, than hand made chocolates. The new job is at Burdick's. I'm terribly excited. My friends are terribly excited. All bow down and pay respects to my 50% staff discount and my ability to make better hot chocolate than you ever dreamed of in your wildest food fantasies.

Ah, chocolate.
Love,
Anne

The Promulgation of the New Rules.
Courtesy of my friend Graham, I present to you here and now, a proposal to end the dating wars:
There should be the dating equivalent of the "penalty box" in hockey.

Here's my short list of dating reforms.

1. First dates should begin in a room like the rooms used for visitations in prison. The two people sit in little chairs on opposite sides of an impenetrable Plexiglas barrier and talk on those little prison phones. If they decide they like each other well enough, they then get to meet in person minus the Plexiglas. If they decide they don't really like each other, then no harm, no foul. (I stole this idea from Jerry Seinfeld.)

2. Dating should be strictly regulated by the Massachusetts Dating Commission (MDC), a highly-qualified, impartial body of seven women and five men (yes, it has to be uneven with men in the minority) chosen for their intelligence, attention to etiquette, and experience with dating.

3. Anyone who wants to get into the dating scene has to register with the MDC. Any unregistered daters will be summarily arrested if caught dating illegally. This ought to take care of all the married men out there who are trying to scam younger women, because married persons would not be able to legally register with the MDC.

4. All daters will be issued a guidebook containing dating rules, like "no fair saying you'll call and then not doing so," "no fair standing someone up," etc. Any dater can report any violation of the rules to the MDC. Bars, nightclubs, dance halls, etc. will also be patrolled by undercover, plainclothes dating cops.

5. An appropriate penalty scheme can be set up. Infractions of the more serious rules, result in harsher penalties such as a suspension of one's license to date. Infractions of the less serious rules result in the assignment of demerit points and minor penalties such as being in "the penalty box" and hence no dating for one weekend. Accumulation of enough demerit points in a certain period of time (say three months) results in harsher penalties such as the aforementioned ones. The slate is wiped clean annually, but the MDC will track repeat violators beyond the one-year mark.

6. Repeat offenders are assigned even harsher penalties such as having to dress up in old-fashioned Pilgrim clothing and wearing scarlet letters that denote the infractions involved, such as "CNC" for "chronic no caller" or "TR" for "terminally rude" or "MAG" for...you guessed it..."Mennonite Ass Grabber." Many will be required to wear electronic ankle bracelets.

7. Although I am generally opposed to the death penalty, the MDC may, indeed, feel that certain dating infractions warrant it.

8. Those who are the victims of repeated violations will be treated to the "Dream Date" of their choice from the patented MDC Dream Date Resource Catalogue.

Whaddya think? I think this is a system that could work.

-from a future MDC Commissioner


In the spirit of public comment, a couple of interesting questions have already been raised. First, a need has been identified for a scarlet monogram of "HMW" for "high maintenence woman." Fair dinkum, I say. There have also been questions raised about the patented (patent pending?) MDC Dream Date Resource Catalogue of a more existential crisis nature - if they are such dream dates, then why are they available? The answer is that under the new rules, they are only worthy to date those who, having been abused, are worthy of such a dream date. A rather Garrison Keillior "you're never truly free until you've wandered around being repressed for a while" sort of concept.

Mennonite Ass Grabber, by the way, is a true story from the depths of the trenches, which continues to prove my rule about dating - that it is either a great time or a heck of a story.

If you have comments, please e-mail them to me at anne@goannego.com
Love,
A future MDC beneficiary

In Which Our Heroine Eagerly Awaits Some Approval (alternate title: A Peace Treaty for the Dating Wars)
My friend Graham, having had to listen to both myself and Rita fight our battles in the dating wars of late (and indeed, going to one of the combatants on the other side, looking to give him a good old fashioned Clint Eastwood stare), and also being a lawyer, has e-mailed me a new proposal regarding the rules of the modern dating game. It is a profound concept, and I have enquired of him as to whether or not I can post it here. Seeing as he didn't know I had a website, this may take some doing. But such a proposal has been wanting for some time, and Graham is truly a revolutionary for putting it down on paper. He proposes himself as a future commissioner of enforcing the rules, but that sounds good to me. Graham, in addition to being a sensitive, caring, exceptionally smart sort of individual, is a big lad, and could well serve as an enforcer. A sort of Emily Post and Terminator all rolled into one.

The dating wars continue to take their toll around here. I've moved in with Rita for the week, and it has been somewhat of a re-birth of my female self. The lack of children has re-cast me into a single person role, and I have had tutelage from the masters. First, at major shock from both Rita and Liz that I had never seen "Pride and Predjudice" - the six hour long BBC/A&E miniseries, I was shown it on Monday. Well, most of it. I haven't seen the last hour and a half, and I confess to being completely addicted, and salivating at the thought of seeing the conclusion. You'd think I'd never read the book and didn't know what happened! Then, for further edification and amusement, Rita rented and we re-watched "Bridget Jones' Diary." a manoeuvre that culminated in poor Rita, the next night returning from what she describes as "the worst date ever in the history of dating." (Which to put into context, followed on from the date with a guy who was a fussy eater, and talked mostly about his being a fussy eater. To a woman who when you need a snack, whips out the manchego and membrilla with great abandon), wandered into the kitchen to fix a drink and began to belt out her own chorus of "All By Myself." Truly a great comic homage from the depth of the dating war trenches. One must keep a sense of humor. Particularly when so many of the opponents are such a joke!

Tomorrow I am supposed to be going to NYC to see my friend who is there on her honeymoon. The problem is, I don't know if she actually made it, seeing as there was the massive blackout yesterday and NYC shut down and is only now just returning to power. So I don't know if her flight actually came in. I think I should just go and meet her there at the Ritz. I mean, if you know where someone is staying then just go there!

Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine finally Remembers it is the Silly Season
In England, they actually have a name for it - the "Silly Season" in mid to late August where everyone is on holiday and it is too hot to do anything, so there is consquently minimal news to report. But since the papers have to fill up their pages somehow, things that people actually don't care about, or ordinarily wouldn't care about are suddenly front page news. For example, who knew or indeed worreid about the State of Maine's worm shortage? Certainly not hte worms of the state of Maine, who in the face of less competition I would presume to be fat and happy and chatting about all the cheap real estate about for raising little worms and things. But apparently in the worm wars, we United States people are at a serious shortfall. Thus, leave it to the Brits to save us. True, all true. Read about it here. Yes! Take me to the worm story! I think this also explains yesterday's major news story about the guy smashing shop windows dressed in his underpants. Maybe the heat made him snap. It is certainly making my friend Paul a little testy. Sheesh. One day over 100 degrees and he's insane. I referred him back to the "moving out of a fourth floor apartment" saga. He felt better that he didn't have to do that!

The heat and humidity here (it isn't so hot really, but it is massively humid and we keep having thunderstorms. They are predicted for all week.) has truly slowed things down. No one wants to do anything. Except eat ice cream, which is a booming business at the moment. And indeed, I don't want to do anything either. So I'm going to leave this and go do nothing at all! Ta!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Notes the Obvious
You know, sometimes, the news is just the sheer reporting of the facts. No real journalistic ability involved. From today's BBC News:
A man who smashed more than 40 city centre shop windows, dressed only in his underpants has been sent to a secure institution for psychiatric tests.

Well, now that's a real relief and a half. I was worried he might have been teaching our preschoolers. I mean, really, what else do you do with the guy?

In Which Our Heroine Braves the Dating Wars
It turns out that today has been a big day in the war between the sexes. I was supposed to have a lunch date. Up til about 10 this morning, the chappie seemed nice. In fact, he still seems nice, but he had to cancel due to a lab meeting. Now, this could in fact be completely 100% true. There are large parts of my psyche that do indeed hold this to be true, as I believe that people should be taken at their word on such matters. But since the cancellation, I have not had an e-mail or a call from him. Oh, these last few hours! (Hee hee, I am joking, folks.) This could be such a simple matter as the strains of the work day, or in best insecure Bridget Jones fashion, could be because am leper and will be found half eaten by alsatians one day. Of course, any quick physical exam shows immediatlely that I have no leprosy lesions, therefore, I shall chalk it up to strains of workday, and not even consider caddishness on an official basis until a couple of days of no contact have passed.

The only reason I am even considering caddishness is an actually completely unrelated event which happens to have occurred last night and today. I have a friend who is venturing forth on Match.com, with not unconsiderable success I might add. Last night, when we met for a movie, she enquired of me as to whether I knew a certain gentleman who happens to be a patent lawyer. I didn't recognize the name, but she wasn't 100% certain of it either. Of course, being a Boston patent lawyer means I can pretty much find out everything I need to know about him in three notes, I mean three phone calls. It turns out that he had called her up last night. Strange? You'd think not, you'd think it sounds like the standards of the dating dance, but she had not given him her phone number. And when she enquired of him about how he got it, he said "well, I know who you are." Creepy? Ra-ther!

Today, she e-mailed me about it, and said she was increasingly uncomfrotable about what had happened. It turned out, when she e-mailed me the name, I did indeed know the chap, and fired off an e-mail to him enquiring as to what this was all about. His response was that she was easy to find on Google, and that everyone did it. This, I concede, is true. In fact, I did the same thing with my date (undate?) for safety and sheer curiosity reasons. But I maintain that it is what you then do with that information that determines whether or not you cross a line of privacy. I ran the same search. To get her last name, you'd have to read through about three reports, and then go to another source to track down her phone number. His defense was that he did it for his own protection, and that "any rational person wouldn't think it uncommon." Further, he stated that if she didn't want to be called, she should get an unlisted phone number. Whaaaaaaat? He also asserted that it would have been easy, and acceptable for him to run searches on other databases to see if she had a criminal record. I agree with her assertion - he should be trying to sweep her off her feet, not determine whether or not she is a cereal killer. Although she has been known to polish off the odd bowl of Fruit Loops................ Needless to say, he ain't getting his first desired date with her, and in fact she is now out on a date with someone else. For which she is following all the standard safety rules: let someone know where you're going, have someone check in to make sure you're ok, and when you'll be back, as well as leave the information you have about who you're meeting. She seems to be having a very good time!
Yours,
Dateless in Boston

In Which Our Heroine Gets Interviewed
My friend Elenarda has been taking part in an interview challenge. The nuts and bolts of it are someone asks you five questions, you answer them in your blog, then other people can either e-mail you to ask you five questions to post, or ask for five questions from you for them to post. My five questions as put to me are (I've put in my answers):
And Anne... Oh my! What don't I know about you...?

1. What's the first thing you're going to do when you stop being nomadic in a month's time?

I suppose that in typical lawyer fashion it will depend on when you define my no longer being nomadic. The process goes a little like this: paint (I have a colour picked out.), hang curtains to not flash the neighbours, unpack, fetch kitty from Susan's, keep unpacking, then make a great big dinner in my new big kitchen and eat it on my new big dining room table. Menu to be determined based on weather.

2. What's your favourite joke of the moment?

Well, George W. Bush's presidency is certainly the biggest joke of this moment and any moment of the last couple of years, but it is so tragic, expensive and utterly bizzarre that I can't say it is my *favorite* joke of the moment. So instead I will have to go with Gavin Esler's statement that "If at first you don't succeed, skydiving isn't for you."

3. If you could have anyone's baby you wanted, whose would it be and why? (Guess who wanted to know THAT one LOL)

I'd have my baby. What a bizzarre question. You could get arrested for taking someone else's baby, you know.

4. Give us an inside tip onto how you manage to do so well on the Daq!

Given my current ranking at 101 on the Daq I guess I am doing pretty well. Top trading tips: have far too much time on your hand, so that you can absorb enough tittle tattle to deal in celebrity shares. Then go on news, not hunches. If Arnie is going to spend days dithering about whether he wants to be governor of California at the same time T3 opens, that's pretty much a sure thing. And have more than one stock. Ranking is about percentage increase. If you own one stock, which is a common strategy, you and everyone else owning that one stock will increase at an identical rate. If you own two stocks, there is an extra variable which will permit you to move up. Or down, I guess, over the single stock owning people.

5. What are the advantages and disadvantages to having a 35 inch inside leg?

First off, it is actually a 38 inside leg.

Advantages: I can see over people, so I never get claustrophobic in crowds. I've got a huge edge in rowing. I look great in mini-skirts. People naturally line up behind me, and don't get as rude with me as they do with other people since I'm bigger than they are.

Disadvantages: As much as men say they want a really leggy babe with large ta-tas, they're fibbing. Because myself and the other leggy gals don't get asked out as much as we should as men can be a bit intimidated by the height thing. (Then again, who really wants such men?) Then there are the guys who ONLY want to go out with you because your'e taller than they are, who frankly are even worse. It is like I am Everest and they just want to climb me. And for some reason, shoes in my size are only made with high heels. What, I want to bump my head on stuff? And it is hard to get trousers to fit correctly. But all in all, I'm happy enough with it.

So the deal is:

1 -- Send an e-mail (see link above), saying you want to be interviewed.
2 -- I will respond; I'll ask you five questions.
3 -- You'll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4 -- You'll include this explanation.
5 -- You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

In Which Our Heroine Wonders Even More About US Privacy Laws
I have a handy little thing over in the corner that keeps track of who is logging on to my website. Sort of. It gives me the IP adress, so I know if you're coming from a particular domain. It also tells me if you've linked to me from a search engine (I am popular under "rubber duck 1992" and "cotimundi" searches, along with the occasional "tall leggy spandex woman" search, but I really try not to think about those so much.) or from another web page. This is occasionally amusing to see what people find me listed as, and sometimes interesting, but today it is a bit scary, because someone has twice in the last week been reading me from the Department of Justice - the DOJ. Now, this could be a perfectly innocent reader who happens to find me amusing or interesting or whatever, or it could be something far more malevolent. Given the current state of play of the privacy laws and Patriot II, I'm not desperately inclined to give the benefit of the doubt to our government. I think John Ashcroft is one of the scariest Attorneys General we have ever had in this country, and I'm not afraid to say it. Much. There is fear there. My country is violating basic rights on a level that I have never seen before, and not many people seem terribly concerned about it. But I am. And, just maybe, someone in the DOJ is interested in my being concerned about it. Patriot Act my fat scarred butt, is what i have to say about it. The only patriotic thing about it is the name. It reflects nothing of what this country stands for. The government should fix its own house first before coming after the likes of me, but it won't. As Bill Cosby once said "The government comes for the ordinary people first." Mind you, it is a bit like the Catholic Church, who are burning my buttons today because of their renewed vigor in making sure there is no such thing as legalized gay marriage. Now, I'm neither gay, nor am I married, and actually I'm not Catholic, but I have to say that this is one of the most hypocritical things going round at the moment. Two people who love each other and want to commit to each other is wrong in the church's eyes, but ordained clergy molesting scores of people is something to be covered up for years? There is a substantial credibility gap there, and I'm not buying it. I suppose it isn't hypocritical in that opposition to same sex relations has always been part of church teaching. But then so is a priest not being celibate, abusing his office, not being honest with his flock, premarital sex, and again same sex relations. But priests who did these things were not dismissed from the clergy or even ex-communicated from the church. Most of them are still there. In many cases, they were promoted through the ranks. And the church has continued to stay rather quiet about that whole issue. But same sex marriages, even of non-Catholics? That topic the church is going to town on. The shame of it all is what I notice.

Of course, credibility gaps abound these days. Starting with George W. Shrub and the whole Yellowcake fiasco. "I gave the speech but it is everyone else's fault but mine." And what has such a gaffe cost us? American lives, a billion dollars a week, and confirmation that America is a big old USSR style bully and a half. Heck, as if this wasn't enough, we're threatening to withdraw military support to countries that don't agree not to prosecute us in the International Criminal Tribunal! Latvia now can't afford to send the troops to Iraq to replace ours. Way to go, USA!

Yours Canadianly,
Anne

Today's conundrum, courtesy of McSweeney's. Joanie loves Chachi. But did Chachi love Joanie? Do we really care?

In Which Our Heroine Responds to her Fans
I'm feeling terribly praised of late. First, my friend Rita told me that my blog titles always remind her that she is the heroine of her own life and that she finds that inspiring. Since Rita is one of the cooler people I know, I found that very nice. And I'm getting lots of other compliments as well, but none so much as this first draft of a recommendation for a job, which was sent to me for my review. You know, to get the tone right, make sure it hits the points of what the job description says they're looking for. I figured a Professor at MIT would be a good credit. At least he was honest:

"Anne Wolfe has asked me to write to you on her behalf, and I do so with an
unusually strong sense of purpose. I can see why a glance at her CV might
leave you highly impressed -- impeccable academic credentials (on both
sides of the Atlantic), long dedication to athletics: she would, it seems,
have much to offer. When you meet her, you will realize how physically
imposing she is, as well.
But what all this leaves hidden is the fact that she is (and even by the
standards of the legal profession), she is an unusually, perhaps even
uniquely amoral being. It is safe to say that she has not one whit of
ethical standards. But she does have a fine, lucid prose style, at least."

If that doesn't get me the legal shark job of my dreams, well, nothing ever will. Everyone wants to hire an attorney with a fine, lucid prose style.

This recommendation is sitting there in my in-box of e-mail with two other great quotes of the day. The first, from my ever dear friend Neil that "While all political careers end in failure, all lives wind up in suburbia." The other is a direction, regarding the rubber duckies, but really just good life directions as well that I should "Look where seaweed, driftwood and all things afloat piles up along the shore. Then root around in the piles with a stick." Now that is a career plan and a half.

Speaking of duckies, I noticed as I strolled through the Boston Gardens this evening that there are some quite new (a few days old) ducklings in the pond. It seems terribly late in the season, but with their Mrs. Mallard were indeed a Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack and Nack. Another Mrs. Mallard (they are related you see) had a Pack with her, who seemed to be about three weeks old. I think the bad weather this spring led to late clutches. I think I am also spending far too high a percentage of my brain power on ducks these past few months.

Even scarier, my friend Joe (known to all in the Royal Navy as "Neil" or just plain "Grandad" is now a career advertisement for joining up: You can see it here.. He claims the photo was taken after a tough night of liberating a pub in West Devon. Join the Royal Navy! Learn Signaling and Radar! And you too......can be a fireman.

Speaking of career plans, I have a presentation to give tomorrow and I want to review it. If you know anything about trade secrets, e-mail me!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Maybe Goes a Bit Too Far
After a bit of research on line, and a comment from my current employer that he thought he'd read that the rubber ducks were supposed to wash up on Crane's Beach, just north of here, and reading on the man's website that the guy who is tracking the rubber ducks loves to receive e-mail, I have actually e-mailed that man and asked for a slightly better prediction of the whens and the wheres of the rubber duck wash up. (It was only a couple of minutes ago. I haven't heard back yet.) And if I have the chance, I am going. Just to sit on the beach and walk up and down and look for the duckies. Why? Because it is a great opportunity to sit on a beach *and* advance the scientific cause. Just how often in a life do you get the opportunity to do that? Next to never, and now there's a chance. How excellent!

Or maybe I just need to knuckle down a bit further. I think I am getting a bit delusional since I still don't live in my own home. My living situation isn't bad. I spent last night at my friend Jim's, both to give the kids a break from me, and me a break from the kids. It was very odd this morning to not wake up to hyper children who want to play with you while you're still a bit bleary eyed, but rather to hear gentle knocking at the door, a "Good morning, Anne! Would you like a banana smoothie?" and then get started with a good solid breakfast of toast, bacon, coffee, and mangos. Then, since it was Saturday morning, Jim noticed the time and said (I suppose I should preface this by pointing out he does have a PhD in Molecular Biology at MIT, and so is one of the brighter people I know.) "Hey! Wanna go watch SpongeBob Squarepants? We've missed the first one, but there's another hour of it on!" Ah, Sunday. How I love Sundays when they're done right. Except now I'm back in the library, working on my presentation.
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Goes all Aflutter
I don't know about you, but I'm incredibly excited. After all, I live in New England. And after many years, and important scientific contributions, the rubber ducks are going to land, and they're landing here in New England! For those of you unfamiliar with the story, first of all click here to confirm I am not actually insane. (Well, ok, so I'm insane, but on this topic I remain lucid.) and then read on about how a crate of rubber ducks was washed off a cargo ship in 1992 and have been floating on the waves ever since, tracking ocean currents, and are now nearing their journey's end. I am so excited I am tempted to go to the beach and wait for them. One of my favorite parts of the story is the statement that "some of the ducks broke away and headed for Europe - and Hawaii." These were obviously the elite of the group, in search of vast cultural experiences in the cathedrals and museums of Europe, and some others just fancied a tropical beach holiday following their trip to the Arctic Ocean, where it took them five years to get through. Some ducks, in faster currents, swam (swam?) twice as fast as expected, and became known as "hyper-ducks." What it takes to stand out in one's floatilla these days is apparently quite a bit, I see.

My mind has snapped a bit of late, as I have been spending so much time looking after my friend's kids. There are two boys, aged 3 and 6 1/2. It requires use of a different skill set than what I'm used to. For starters, it requires the repeated ability to count to three. As in, "If you don't stop screaming by the time I count to three, there will be no story tonight." This is now a statement so frought with peril that I just have to say it, and don't actually have to count to three. Also required: must be conversant with the ins and outs of Bob the Builder (but know not to give Bob a funny voice when you read the story), the ability to gracefully "lose" races to answer the front door, and the ability to cook food kids will actually eat, versus the food adults will want to eat. There's a knack to this, and I haven't quite got it yet. I live on curry, tabouleh and
elaborate dishes of wild rice, broccoli, chicken and incredible sauces. They want Tofu pups and the youngest can't have any dairy products. And they're vegetarian. Challenges to me to cook things they want to eat. But they're getting more adventurous. They have to - they're starving! No, they're eating fine.

We have had our pins sent to us. Team Milhouse rides again!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Moves Out
For those of you not in the greater Boston area, let me give you some brief insights into our weather this year. It sucketh. In fact, it sucketh rocks. Big, bad rocks. We skipped spring and went straight to summer, but summer was never warm, and it rained 70% of weekend days since March. But not last weekend, oh no. Last weekend it was in the high 90s to 100F, and humid to the nth degree. Of course it was, because I was moving out of my apartment. Now, this is a good thing. My apartment, while lovely, was very expensive and after two years of unemployment, there was just no way to afford $1300 a month in rent. So I moved out. I have no where to live until September 1, but it isn't as bad as it sounds. I know where I'm living then, and in fact most of my stuff is already there in the cellar. I (and the other roommates) are just waiting for one roommate to move out. In the meantime, I'm free and easy, and living on other people's sofas. This seems to have worked out well, as my friend needs someone to look after her kids, and I need something to do. Excellent all round.

The moving itself was traumatic. Determined to do it on my own, I just took bags and boxes and went down the stairs. All four flights. And then I went up the stairs to get more stuff. 98F outside, I don't even want to think what it was inside. I was dripping and covered in sweat. I did not look good, I certainly did not smell good, and frankly I was slightly cranky. There is always that part of moving where you've moved a bunch of stuff out, and suddenly you don't even know how you did it, but you have even more stuff than before anything left the apartment. The normal laws of physics do not apply to moving. And neither do weather patterns.

I'm very excited about moving into my new place, when it finally happens. Lots of room, kitty space, the whole nine yards. And good roommates. This is key. I have had bad roommates before. I have been known to dine out on the spectacular weirdness of my previous roommates. So even though I knew Liz before agreeing to this, and met Julia, I think there was just as much checking out of each other, which reassures me. Or as my friend Martyn says "at that cheap a rent, who cares if you hate each other?" He has a point, but I need home to be a place I am happy to come to at the end of the day. Julia claims that if I cook the way I did for my party, she will do all my dishes. Hee hee. I don't think it will come to that, but still I'm happy about the move.

For a homeless chick, I have to say I'm really not doing too badly. Five stories and a jacuzzi. That jacuzzi felt incredibly good after two straight days of schelpping up and downstairs in such heat. I suppose I shouldn't kvetch so much about it. As I pointed out at the time, it could have been worse. It is far easier to move everything down the stairs than up the stairs. But yes, the jacuzzi did feel good. And the kids I'm looking after, while I have had my run ins with them before, are really behaving quite well. We've gone out on the river to see turtles and talk to scullers, and play and pretend like any young ones.

Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Goes on a Road Trip
As previously noted, Liz and I broke some oars. Through the joy of the internet, we managed to locate new oars. But they were in Chattanooga, Tennessee, which is no where near here. Hartmut could bring them to Princeton, NJ, which is closer to here than Chattanooga, but still not that near here. The answer was obvious: it was time for a road trip. So leaving at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning, we headed off. Seventeen hours later, we returned. Sounds onerous, but really it wasn't that bad until the last hour. We stopped along the way a bunch of times, ate great food, ate bad food which tasted great, managed to hit four states (most of them twice), and arrived in Princeton on all but a whim and a prayer. The rowing community is an amazing place. We don't know Hartmut, and Hartmut doesn't know us. But before even receiving a cheque from us, he brought the oars to Princeton, and left them with Sean. Sean, in turn, wasn't in Princeton when we were there, but gave us directions via cell phone and said "you'll find them lying under a Filippi double." The oars were indeed there, $750 oars lying under a $7000 boat, not locked, not anything, just out to public view. And we walked off with them. Alarms did go off, but they were less about stealing the oars, than they were about the fact that Liz and her brother had swapped Volkswagens as her car was a little too small to fit long oars inside. Turns out if you open the boot and then subsequently open a side door, the alarm goes off. This fact being slightly obscure, we didn't know about it, until we had to figure out what happened and how to turn it off. Amidst visions of hauling back up I-287 for hours with the alarm going, we did manage to stop the noise. Total errand time in Princeton: 7.38 minutes. So we made a further stop for ice cream, and headed back north. Calls to Julia helped us listen to the Sox game on the radio (Julia knowing how to do this in every major city on the eastern seaboard.) and we hit Massachusetts in good time and in a good mood. Until we got to the Newton tolls and waited over an hour for no reason just to get through the tollbooth. Crankiness and petulance soon ensued. But once through that, it was home safe and sound, and very very very very tired.

Next post: how to bring about good weather by deciding to move out of your fourth floor walk up apartment.
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Has a Major Merangue Crisis
Well, tomorrow is the party. A party! A party! And this is a good thing, except that I am doing the cooking. And since I dont know how many people are turning up, and never have calculated how much people will eat, I don't know whether or not I have enough food. I think I have enough for people to drink, so that should be ok. But in the midst of all the cooking (chicken in two different marinades, scallops in another marinade, a very nice plum pie, and the cake is coming along) my merangues won't fluff as it is too humid. Oh no! Oh no! What is a gal to do???????

I don't know why I throw parties. I can't handle the stress.
Love,
Stressed in the Kitchen

In Which Our Heroine Eats Pancakes
One of the best things about rowing is pancakes afterwards. Let me correct that statement. *The* best thing about rowing is pancakes afterwards. Liz and I utilized this concept this weekend in our training. Saturday was a looooong slow row, aimed entirely at picking up bridges and points on the Head of the Charles course, then turning around and practicing them. This will stand us in good stead come race time, because we will now practice them for months. This could really help out. It certainly improves confidence. But it was a long row. Immediately following it, we grabbed Julia from wherever she was and then hit Victor's for pancakes. Ah, pancakes. The Route 66 special - pancakes (raspberry for me, chocolate chip for Liz, plain for Julia), 2 eggs the way you want them, and ham, sausage or bacon. Plus, for us rower types, sides of Scally toast. Because you really can't get enough carbohydrates in 20 minutes. We tried, but obviously not. So we scarfed it down with some classically bad coffee, and were happy people.

But the rest of Saturday was spent with me on my feet, helping with the CRI annual auction. It went well this year. Again. Good donations, great volunteers, lots of fundraising. Jane's hat went for a record $310. Now that is a hat. And then some.

Sunday, back to the boathouse, this time to erg. We were exceptionally glad we had made the plan to erg when we saw the weather. Because true to Boston form this year, it was heaving it down with rain. Even harder than before! I think this is actually the hardest I'd seen it rain yet this year. I just can't believe it. But good to erg, although it seems like every time we do a piece to push ourselves, it has to be so humid you can bite the air and chew on it. At least I'm doing the work. That is the important thing. But by the time I came home Sunday, between all of Saturday and what erging we did, plus being re-stuffed with pancakes (ahhhhh, the pancakes were even better on Sunday!) I came home, did a whole one load of laundry, and napped away the afternoon.

Erging without pancakes this morning wasn't the same, I have to say. Not the same thing at all. But maybe that's why I'm home and baking right now. Well, that and the party Wednesday. The merangues are in the oven, humidity or no!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Experiences Someone Else's Tuesday the 16th
While I have relatively strong feelings that gut instincts, etc should be relied upon, occasionally to the extent of not wishing to get out of bed on certain mornings, or falling in love over the timespan of all of twenty minutes, somedays you just don't know what you're going to wind up with, and that is the case when someone else is having a bad day. Actually, Liz's day started out pretty well. There was sun, there was a picnic, there was our staff end of season Swan Boat ride, there was joy. With some brief arrangements made to meet up for practice, off we went our separate ways, to meet up again to head to Liz's house to grab gear and go. "How was your day?" was met with the revelation of quite horrible things happening at her job. It is quite a despairing situation, really, and one you don't even want to contemplate, but Liz was having to contemplate it. Never mind, it was time to row, and some days you just need to row more than others. This, it seemed, was one of those days, and rowing was going to be fun no matter what.

The situation changed, however, when there was a wee collision. A double, coming upstream, was so far over on our side of the river that they passed us on the incorrect side of the boat. And not quite wide enough, as there was the pranging. We took out their washbox, and then Liz's starboard oar snapped. In two places. The opposing boat, without even bothering to enquire if we were ok, proceeded to announce that "they were wide, but we were waaaaaaaaay wide." Meaning, of course, that we were too wide. Untrue! Quite profoundly untrue! And then they grabbed their washbox out of the drink and rowed off, after announcing that one of us was going to have a long row home. It was enough to make me glad that we'd taken out their washbox! But then you just have to let it go. There are jerks out there in the world, and if you let them all get to you, you're going to be a quite unhappy person.

Besides, we had bigger problems. We still had to get home, which was three plus miles upstream, and we had a broken oar, which would set the boat terribly off balance and risk us falling in, not to mention that it would be one long slow row even if we did manage to do it. Luckily, Jessica came over in a motor launch to see what was up, and nipped into CBC to grab us a spare pair of sculling oars. We made it upstream, even if not perfectly set up as the oars no longer matched, but whew, it was over. We landed, and then something else happened to Liz which I won't go into here, but let's just say it was enough to make the poor girl say "Good lord, WHAT ELSE can go wrong in four hours?" (Let your minds wander here. It could be anything, and I'm not giving hints. Just know that it was not kind of fate to do such a thing.)

Some things then needed to be sorted out. First, we had to call Jon, who is the man who is very kindly letting us borrow his boat and his oars, and say "Um, hullo, we've had a bit of a bust up. But we'll replace your oars pronto." Unfortunately, I had to leave this all on voice mail, which is not the way I would have liked to have done it. But I also didn't want him to find out from someone else what had happened. We were responsible for the equipment, and thus it was our responsibility to tell him about it, not someone else, so voice mail was the option. Then we had to figure out how much it was going to cost us to replace the oars. Turns out $650. Ouch! Liz seemed to think she was going to have to do this herself, since it was her oar and her steering but my view is that if we're a team, then we're a team. We were rowing, it was our oars, and we're in it together. Even if we weren't, I really don't think it is condusive to team harmony and efforts to suddenly back off and say "well, Liz, this is just all you and you're on your own with it. See you tomorrow for practice!" Not that I was desperate to pick up a bill for $325, but team is not a concept that is defined by pricetags. I do have to say though that it does seem a bit of a waste of a pair of brand new grips! :)

And of course, Liz needed some special treatment - fate was handing it to her rough. I asked her if she wanted a drink or food or anything, but really she wanted to go home, and have a drink there. Sometimes home is just a good place to be. So we went back to Liz's place, watched the rest of the Sox game (they won, thankfully), ate some sandwiches and then I went back home. Things started to just stabilize a bit, thankfully. And now it is onwards and upwards!
Love,
Anne

In Which Our Heroine Experiences Friday the 13th.
Thankfully, that day is over. It was quite an experience. I still cannot find my keys. But hey, who needs keys on a cold, wet rainy day when all you want to do is row, but it just never works out that way? But all was not lost. At least I got to pick up my ice cream maker. Which is not precisely what a girl needs on a cold rainy day, when on a whim to feel girly a girl has dressed up in a red thing dress and is feeling a bit cold anyway. But never mind. Got to stay plucky! I went in to Burdicks to pick up their gift certificate donated to the auction and discovered they had upped their donation to actually be a box of chocolates, which from Burdick's is nothing to be sneezled at. And I made my way to the boathouse, through the rain, with my dress, my ice cream maker and the chocolates, but not caring because I was going to row. And since it was wet anyway, I wouldn't mind getting wetter for putting new grips on our sculls.

For those who haven't had the experience, putting replacement grips on scull handles (sweep handles don't have grips, although some of them do have bits of padding) is a relatively simple process of applied physics. First, cut off the old grips, which are no doubt so worn that they'll come off easily anyway. Then, produce the new grips, which will look like extremely sturdy condoms with the vital anatomy missing, although they're so solid in form you're permitted to wonder where the anatomy disappeared off to. Accept a slightly obscene mindset anyway - things aren't going to get any better. This is because the best posture to now adopt is to straddle the scull as though you're riding a broomstick - blade behind you, end of handle in front of you, collar anywhere comfortable. Then you use your thumbs to stretch out the bottom of the grip to put them on the scull handle. They won't go on far, but that's ok. Because then you take a running water hose and stick it over the far end of the grip, which has a wee hole in it. The grip will naturally fill up with water, which will cause it to expand a little bit. Then, keeping it full of water (I find it helps to put your finger over the end instead of the hose once it is full), you push it down and on to the grip fully. This happens rather easily, but the handle will shoot the water that cannot compress any more out the bottom of the grip, rather like a squid. And of course, this water will sploosh all over your nether regions, leaving you looked as though you've been so startled by something you've wet your shorts. Luckily, you'll do this all in a boathouse, so no one will notice if you're covered in damp or wet patches. Everyone else is covered in sweat anyway. But anyway, we did it. And then, ready to go out and row, I discovered that my keys (to boathouses along the river, apartment, T Pass, the lot) were gone. We looked EVERYWHERE. Four hours, a locksmith and $75 later I got into my apartment. Bleh!
Love,
Locked out of Cleveland Circle