In Which Our Heroine Tries to Pay Tribute
Hello,
As many of you are aware, I have just returned from the funeral of my friend Jonathan (Jock) Smout, who died in an avalanche two weeks ago. (news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/3355577.stm)
Jock and I had been friends since our first day of college, when we were in the same entryway in our hall of residence. One of my favorite stories of him was an erg test on the first day of our second year. We were being measured on wattage per stroke, and when he saw how well I was doing, he came over and quietly coxed me to an even better score, all the while warning me to maybe lay off a little as I was beating his score, which as a member of the men's varsity 8+ was a bit much. I unfortunately walked away afterwards, getting about 10 feet before suffering a massive seizure in the hallway. When I woke up in the hospital the next day there was the usual card signed by all the members of the squad. In large writing in the middle was the note "Serves you right for beating my score. Love, Jock"
Though winter training was overdue when I planned to start it two weeks ago, and for obvious reasons it was again delayed, I have decided to compete in the world indoor rowing championships (CRASH-Bs - www.crash-b.org) here in Boston on February 22. I have done this before, and it is quite fun, which is rather bizzarre for an event that conveniently has bins lying around for you to be sick into when you've finished. I only have a month to train, which isn't much, but I will be racing as a tribute to Jock. To further pay tribute, I will be using the occasion to raise money for the Huntingdon's Disease Society of America. (www.hdsa.org) Huntindon's Disease is a genetic disease which is completely fatal. This disease was quite prevalent in Jock's family and he lost a number of family members. He twice ran the London Marathon to raise money for funds to battle Huntingdon's, and I feel this is a very fitting tribute to his memory and to carry on his work. The HDSA is ranked one of America's top philanthropies, which means that by far the majority of the money raised there goes to actual research and work. It was founded thirty five years ago by Nora Guthrie, widow of the great American songwriter Woody Guthrie, who himself died of the disease and whose children are at risk of developing it (symptoms do not appear until the late thirties, early forties). I feel confident that money given to them is being given to a worthy organization.
I hope that you will help me in this tribute. If you choose to do so, please send me a cheque made out to the Huntingdon's Disease Society of America. Do not make them payable to me! I will spend checks made payable to me on booze, fast living and other reckless things not considered charitable, and as such will not be tax deductible the way ones payable to the HDSA will. Please send your cheque to me so that it arrives before Feburary 22, 2004. E-mail me for the mailing address - I don't think posting in on the web for strangers to read is a good thing. And feel free to come down to the Reggie Lewis center on the day and watch me sweat it out!
Thank you for your help and your consideration. I'm developing a drastic training plan right now!
Much love,
Anne
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
In Which There are Updates
There is a lot to write about Christmas. It was great. Harters was here, lunches were had with old friends, new friends were made, much beer was drunk. Jim was here for New Years and Christmas, and that was great joy. Ethan got married, David's wife had a baby girl and Nils got engaged. I tried to write about it last night (and it was loooooooooooooooooooooooooong) but it didn't go through for some bizarre reason. Unfortunately, the holidays came to a hard end with a phone call this morning that informed me a good college friend had died in an avalanche in France. I've copied an article I found on line below.
Avalanche skier attended county school
A British skier who died after being caught in an avalanche in France was a former Shrewsbury School pupil, it emerged today. Management consultant Jonathan Smout was on holiday with friends in the resort of Tignes when the accident happened.
The former public schoolboy was pushed into a hole by the impact of the avalanching snow.
The 34-year-old Briton was part of a seven-strong group of skiers, which included an instructor, who were travelling off-piste when the avalanche happened on Monday. No-one else was injured in the accident.
Mr Smout's father, David who lives in the Scottish borders, said: "We were told Jonathan didn't really have a chance, that the compacted snow would have been like being hit by concrete.
"Jonathan was a very loyal son who lived life to the full. Skiing was one of his great interests, along with mountain climbing."
Mr Smout lived in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, and was employed through an agency by Barclays Bank.
He had been a boarder at Mowden School in Northumberland before attending Shrewsbury School and later the University of Nottingham.
There is a lot to write about Christmas. It was great. Harters was here, lunches were had with old friends, new friends were made, much beer was drunk. Jim was here for New Years and Christmas, and that was great joy. Ethan got married, David's wife had a baby girl and Nils got engaged. I tried to write about it last night (and it was loooooooooooooooooooooooooong) but it didn't go through for some bizarre reason. Unfortunately, the holidays came to a hard end with a phone call this morning that informed me a good college friend had died in an avalanche in France. I've copied an article I found on line below.
Avalanche skier attended county school
A British skier who died after being caught in an avalanche in France was a former Shrewsbury School pupil, it emerged today. Management consultant Jonathan Smout was on holiday with friends in the resort of Tignes when the accident happened.
The former public schoolboy was pushed into a hole by the impact of the avalanching snow.
The 34-year-old Briton was part of a seven-strong group of skiers, which included an instructor, who were travelling off-piste when the avalanche happened on Monday. No-one else was injured in the accident.
Mr Smout's father, David who lives in the Scottish borders, said: "We were told Jonathan didn't really have a chance, that the compacted snow would have been like being hit by concrete.
"Jonathan was a very loyal son who lived life to the full. Skiing was one of his great interests, along with mountain climbing."
Mr Smout lived in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, and was employed through an agency by Barclays Bank.
He had been a boarder at Mowden School in Northumberland before attending Shrewsbury School and later the University of Nottingham.
Saturday, December 27, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Gets Her Christmas Presents
Ah, the holidays. I was a little nervous about Christmas. Could is possibly be as good as Thanksgiving? What with Rita being out of town, the prospect seemed unlikely. This was before Christmas turned into a three week long celebration! As we all know, the church doesn't really know when Christ was born, so the date is a wee bit random, although it does tie in nicely with the pagan celebrations of the winter solstice and dovetails as well with metaphors about light shining into our lives during the darkest days of the year. So needless to say, we weren't terribly wed to the actual day of Christmas here. Which is good. We took it as it comes, which kicked off on the Friday before Christmas (almost a week before) when we
Ah, the holidays. I was a little nervous about Christmas. Could is possibly be as good as Thanksgiving? What with Rita being out of town, the prospect seemed unlikely. This was before Christmas turned into a three week long celebration! As we all know, the church doesn't really know when Christ was born, so the date is a wee bit random, although it does tie in nicely with the pagan celebrations of the winter solstice and dovetails as well with metaphors about light shining into our lives during the darkest days of the year. So needless to say, we weren't terribly wed to the actual day of Christmas here. Which is good. We took it as it comes, which kicked off on the Friday before Christmas (almost a week before) when we
Sunday, December 14, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Bows Down To the AP News Service
When they say truth is stranger than fiction, this is exactly the sort of thing they're talking about - you can't even make this stuff up:
Retired Schoolteacher Claims to be Strom Thurmond's Out of Wedlock Mixed Race Love Child!
A 78-year-old retired schoolteacher is coming forward after years of silence to claim she is the illegitimate mixed-race daughter of the late Sen. Strom Thurmond, her attorney said Saturday.
Essie Mae Washington-Williams, who lives in Los Angeles, had long been rumored to be the daughter of the one-time segregationist, who died June 26 at the age of 100. She is coming forward now at the urging and encouragement of her children, attorney Frank K. Wheaton said.
''She's decided to come forward to bring some closure to what has been thought to be an old family secret,'' Wheaton told The Associated Press.
''We're not trying to upset the Thurmond estate. We are merely bringing closure to Essie Mae's life, so her children have an opportunity to know from where they come, whether those ancestors are black or white matters not. It is part of our American history.''
Williams told The Washington Post that Thurmond privately acknowledged her as his daughter and had provided financial support since 1941. The Post first reported her claims on its Web site Saturday.
Williams, who has scheduled a news conference in Columbia, S.C., on Wednesday, previously denied rumors that Thurmond, the nation's oldest and longest-serving senator, was her father.
''There was an agreement between the parties that she would never discuss the fact that Sen. Thurmond was her father,'' another of Williams' attorneys, Glenn Walters, told The AP. ''He never denied that Ms. Washington-Williams was his daughter.''
Walters said Williams was not seeking money and did not want to challenge Thurmond's will: ''She simply wants the truth about her life to be told.''
Those close to Thurmond said they were unsure about Williams' claim.
''I really don't know anything about that story, so you'll need to talk to someone else,'' said Thurmond's widow, Nancy Moore Thurmond. The couple separated in 1991.
''I certainly have no answer one way or the other,'' said Bettis Rainsford, a longtime family friend. ''I'm sure the senator may have sowed some wild oats in his early days, but certainly I have no information about that.''
Doris Strom Costner, a distant cousin of Thurmond's, said she doesn't think the claim is true.
''I don't appreciate anyone coming forth after he's dead, you know? It doesn't make good sense,'' Costner said.
Williams told the Post she waited until now to go public with her story because she didn't want to embarrass herself or hurt Thurmond's career.
''I want to bring closure to this,'' she said. ''It is a part of history.''
In seven decades of politics, Thurmond gained fame and infamy as an arch-segregationist, but he later came to support a holiday for the slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King.
Williams claims Thurmond fathered her long before his political career started, when he was a 22-year-old living in his parents' home in Edgefield, S.C. Her mother, then 16, had been working as a maid in the Thurmonds' home.
If challenged by the Thurmond family, Williams is ready to submit to DNA tests, Wheaton said.
Williams said she has documents to validate her claim, including cashier's check stubs, mementos from Thurmond and a letter from an intermediary who delivered money from the senator. She provided the Post with a copy of a 1998 Thurmond letter thanking her ''for the nice Father's Day note you sent me.''
She told the newspaper she received money at least once a year in sessions arranged by Thurmond's Senate staff. In recent years, as the senator's health declined, she said, financial assistance was passed through a Thurmond relative in South Carolina.
Wheaton said the amount of money Thurmond provided over the years was ''a very substantial amount'' but less than $1 million.
Williams' mother, Carrie Butler, was unmarried when she gave birth to her in 1925. Butler's neighbors in the impoverished section of Edgefield helped feed and clothe the child, according to Post interviews with local residents.
Butler's sister, Essie, took the child when she was 6 months old to live with a married aunt, Mary Washington, in Coatesville, Pa., a Philadelphia suburb.
Williams told the Post she first met Thurmond around 1941, when she returned to Edgefield for a visit at age 16. Her mother was suffering from an untreatable kidney disease and insisted on introducing her to her father, Williams said.
In a meeting lasting 20 to 30 minutes, Williams said, Thurmond called her a ''very lovely daughter.''
''I was very happy. I knew I had a father somewhere, and it was wonderful to meet him.''
Williams claims she had another conversation with Thurmond in 1947, when he was governor of South Carolina and a year away from running for president on a Dixiecrat platform of segregation.
''He asked her directly, 'How does it feel to be the daughter of the governor and not be able to tell anyone about it?''' Wheaton said. ''She said it felt fine.''
When they say truth is stranger than fiction, this is exactly the sort of thing they're talking about - you can't even make this stuff up:
Retired Schoolteacher Claims to be Strom Thurmond's Out of Wedlock Mixed Race Love Child!
A 78-year-old retired schoolteacher is coming forward after years of silence to claim she is the illegitimate mixed-race daughter of the late Sen. Strom Thurmond, her attorney said Saturday.
Essie Mae Washington-Williams, who lives in Los Angeles, had long been rumored to be the daughter of the one-time segregationist, who died June 26 at the age of 100. She is coming forward now at the urging and encouragement of her children, attorney Frank K. Wheaton said.
''She's decided to come forward to bring some closure to what has been thought to be an old family secret,'' Wheaton told The Associated Press.
''We're not trying to upset the Thurmond estate. We are merely bringing closure to Essie Mae's life, so her children have an opportunity to know from where they come, whether those ancestors are black or white matters not. It is part of our American history.''
Williams told The Washington Post that Thurmond privately acknowledged her as his daughter and had provided financial support since 1941. The Post first reported her claims on its Web site Saturday.
Williams, who has scheduled a news conference in Columbia, S.C., on Wednesday, previously denied rumors that Thurmond, the nation's oldest and longest-serving senator, was her father.
''There was an agreement between the parties that she would never discuss the fact that Sen. Thurmond was her father,'' another of Williams' attorneys, Glenn Walters, told The AP. ''He never denied that Ms. Washington-Williams was his daughter.''
Walters said Williams was not seeking money and did not want to challenge Thurmond's will: ''She simply wants the truth about her life to be told.''
Those close to Thurmond said they were unsure about Williams' claim.
''I really don't know anything about that story, so you'll need to talk to someone else,'' said Thurmond's widow, Nancy Moore Thurmond. The couple separated in 1991.
''I certainly have no answer one way or the other,'' said Bettis Rainsford, a longtime family friend. ''I'm sure the senator may have sowed some wild oats in his early days, but certainly I have no information about that.''
Doris Strom Costner, a distant cousin of Thurmond's, said she doesn't think the claim is true.
''I don't appreciate anyone coming forth after he's dead, you know? It doesn't make good sense,'' Costner said.
Williams told the Post she waited until now to go public with her story because she didn't want to embarrass herself or hurt Thurmond's career.
''I want to bring closure to this,'' she said. ''It is a part of history.''
In seven decades of politics, Thurmond gained fame and infamy as an arch-segregationist, but he later came to support a holiday for the slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King.
Williams claims Thurmond fathered her long before his political career started, when he was a 22-year-old living in his parents' home in Edgefield, S.C. Her mother, then 16, had been working as a maid in the Thurmonds' home.
If challenged by the Thurmond family, Williams is ready to submit to DNA tests, Wheaton said.
Williams said she has documents to validate her claim, including cashier's check stubs, mementos from Thurmond and a letter from an intermediary who delivered money from the senator. She provided the Post with a copy of a 1998 Thurmond letter thanking her ''for the nice Father's Day note you sent me.''
She told the newspaper she received money at least once a year in sessions arranged by Thurmond's Senate staff. In recent years, as the senator's health declined, she said, financial assistance was passed through a Thurmond relative in South Carolina.
Wheaton said the amount of money Thurmond provided over the years was ''a very substantial amount'' but less than $1 million.
Williams' mother, Carrie Butler, was unmarried when she gave birth to her in 1925. Butler's neighbors in the impoverished section of Edgefield helped feed and clothe the child, according to Post interviews with local residents.
Butler's sister, Essie, took the child when she was 6 months old to live with a married aunt, Mary Washington, in Coatesville, Pa., a Philadelphia suburb.
Williams told the Post she first met Thurmond around 1941, when she returned to Edgefield for a visit at age 16. Her mother was suffering from an untreatable kidney disease and insisted on introducing her to her father, Williams said.
In a meeting lasting 20 to 30 minutes, Williams said, Thurmond called her a ''very lovely daughter.''
''I was very happy. I knew I had a father somewhere, and it was wonderful to meet him.''
Williams claims she had another conversation with Thurmond in 1947, when he was governor of South Carolina and a year away from running for president on a Dixiecrat platform of segregation.
''He asked her directly, 'How does it feel to be the daughter of the governor and not be able to tell anyone about it?''' Wheaton said. ''She said it felt fine.''
Friday, December 12, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Tries to Act All Suprised
Ok, folks, hands up! All those who are in the least suprised that Halliburton is accused of $61 billion worth of overcharging in Iraq, stick your hands right up in the air. Anyone? Anyone at all? How about you in the back? No? You mean the fact that a company that is already accused of billions of overspending on the Big Dig, and is attached to the Vice President of the United States that won the contract in a process that wasn't open to other bidders might have been out for its own profit margins without regard to anything else? The only thing I'm suprised by is that there isn't perpetual outrage at this whole thing. But at least the outrage seems to be growing. Because now there is official international outrage over the fact that the US won't allow bidding by companies from countries that were against the war in Iraq. As though the companies were official policy makers. And as though pacifists should be punished. Heck, if the US had listened to the rational coutries and their rational companies, the US wouldnt' be in this mess, complete with $61 billion overcharging.
I have to say that the fact that this is allegedly a $61 billion overcharge for GASOLINE in IRAQ is the truly amazing part of it. Good heavens people, if you're going to overcharge for something, don't overcharge for snow to the eskimos, sand to the saharah, or gas to Iraq.
Love,
Anne
Ok, folks, hands up! All those who are in the least suprised that Halliburton is accused of $61 billion worth of overcharging in Iraq, stick your hands right up in the air. Anyone? Anyone at all? How about you in the back? No? You mean the fact that a company that is already accused of billions of overspending on the Big Dig, and is attached to the Vice President of the United States that won the contract in a process that wasn't open to other bidders might have been out for its own profit margins without regard to anything else? The only thing I'm suprised by is that there isn't perpetual outrage at this whole thing. But at least the outrage seems to be growing. Because now there is official international outrage over the fact that the US won't allow bidding by companies from countries that were against the war in Iraq. As though the companies were official policy makers. And as though pacifists should be punished. Heck, if the US had listened to the rational coutries and their rational companies, the US wouldnt' be in this mess, complete with $61 billion overcharging.
I have to say that the fact that this is allegedly a $61 billion overcharge for GASOLINE in IRAQ is the truly amazing part of it. Good heavens people, if you're going to overcharge for something, don't overcharge for snow to the eskimos, sand to the saharah, or gas to Iraq.
Love,
Anne
Thursday, December 11, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Tries to Figure out Dentistry
Ouch. It has happened. A crown on my tooth has half broken off. This is not good, particualrly as there seems to be minimal proivsion in this country for dental care for the poor, so I'm not quite sure what to do. I'm investigating programs with the local dental schools, which are certainly cheaper, but for some reason still feel the need to charge you to be treated by students. That's some racket they've got going there in dentistry! But I really don' thave a choice. This is more than a bit painful! And yet, my appetite is undiminished. Amazing.
And of course this is in the middle of exams. I had my first exam last night. I was a bit worried about it as a) it was the tougher of my exams this semester, b) I haven't actually taken an exam in two years, and c) it was pass/fail, so who knew where the bar was set on this exam. In addition, the book I wanted was in the library and the library was shut for the weekend due to the snow. Turned out I shouldn't have worried. It was the most bizarre exam I've taken, mostly in that it seemed to have little to do with the subject we studied, and was more a pop quiz on what we learned in contracts class many years ago (many many in my case). I finished in under two hours for a three hour exam, which was a first for me. And then I had to wait for the boys to take me to dinner. But they arrived, and after a couple Midori sours, I was set. Exam just a brief distant memory and waiting to get ready for the next one.
I have made plans now to make gingerbread men with my friend Catherine on Sunday. Catherine is three, so this will be a very fun project for her. And for me, although I think I'm going to make the dough ahead of time. There's a lot of chilling and all that, so I think this is the best way. Mixing the batter is not the exciting thing. Cutting the cookies and decorating the men, that's the fun bit. I shall do the prep, and then we can have fun!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Anne
Ouch. It has happened. A crown on my tooth has half broken off. This is not good, particualrly as there seems to be minimal proivsion in this country for dental care for the poor, so I'm not quite sure what to do. I'm investigating programs with the local dental schools, which are certainly cheaper, but for some reason still feel the need to charge you to be treated by students. That's some racket they've got going there in dentistry! But I really don' thave a choice. This is more than a bit painful! And yet, my appetite is undiminished. Amazing.
And of course this is in the middle of exams. I had my first exam last night. I was a bit worried about it as a) it was the tougher of my exams this semester, b) I haven't actually taken an exam in two years, and c) it was pass/fail, so who knew where the bar was set on this exam. In addition, the book I wanted was in the library and the library was shut for the weekend due to the snow. Turned out I shouldn't have worried. It was the most bizarre exam I've taken, mostly in that it seemed to have little to do with the subject we studied, and was more a pop quiz on what we learned in contracts class many years ago (many many in my case). I finished in under two hours for a three hour exam, which was a first for me. And then I had to wait for the boys to take me to dinner. But they arrived, and after a couple Midori sours, I was set. Exam just a brief distant memory and waiting to get ready for the next one.
I have made plans now to make gingerbread men with my friend Catherine on Sunday. Catherine is three, so this will be a very fun project for her. And for me, although I think I'm going to make the dough ahead of time. There's a lot of chilling and all that, so I think this is the best way. Mixing the batter is not the exciting thing. Cutting the cookies and decorating the men, that's the fun bit. I shall do the prep, and then we can have fun!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Anne
Sunday, December 07, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Gets Snowed In
For those of you not currently aware of the weather patterns of New England, Cambridge is currently getting snowed upon. This started around ten last night, and is forecast to go through tomorrow afternoon, when it will taper off to flurries. Now this is a good thing, as I do have those pesky exams to study for, but I haven't been doing as much of that as maybe my professors would want. Instead, I've gotten all industrious. I have:
- cleaned my room (always a feat and a half. Turns out there's floor under there.)
- Hung shelves in the kitchen. Two of them. And then cleaned the kitchen.
- Broken out the food processor.
The food processor is a grand grand thing. I burnt out the motor on my last one, and when my friend Stuart came to stay in October, I said to him "Don't bring a bottle of wine for me. I want a food processor. With POWER!" I said it jokingly, but damn if he didn't come through. I'm doubly impressed since Stuart can't cook, so he knows nothing about such things as food processors. In fact, a recent IM conversation with Stuart involved him telling me that for the first time ever he had made rice. That's it, just rice. Well, everyone has to start somewhere. I'm not spoiling any suprises by saying that for Christmas I'm cutting him some of the home grown herbs here (the rosemary, the bay, maybe some tarragon), copying ouut some of my more easy recipes, and then baking him some of my famous chocolate chunk, hazlenut and orange cookies. Poverty calls for creativity in the old Chrimbo presents this year. Mostly I'm knitting (although some of these presents may be late. I'm not a fast knitter.) But to bake the cookies, I needed to chop them. In the food processor! And then I made some butternut squash soup. More food proecessor. Now I'm just all a flutter. I'm thinking pecan pie (crusts= processor) and maybe some salsa. Damn I love that food processor.
Speaking of knitting, I think I ought to get to that too. Christmas is coming, and so is Jim! He's going to want his scarf, since after all he's never seen snow!
Love,
Anne
For those of you not currently aware of the weather patterns of New England, Cambridge is currently getting snowed upon. This started around ten last night, and is forecast to go through tomorrow afternoon, when it will taper off to flurries. Now this is a good thing, as I do have those pesky exams to study for, but I haven't been doing as much of that as maybe my professors would want. Instead, I've gotten all industrious. I have:
- cleaned my room (always a feat and a half. Turns out there's floor under there.)
- Hung shelves in the kitchen. Two of them. And then cleaned the kitchen.
- Broken out the food processor.
The food processor is a grand grand thing. I burnt out the motor on my last one, and when my friend Stuart came to stay in October, I said to him "Don't bring a bottle of wine for me. I want a food processor. With POWER!" I said it jokingly, but damn if he didn't come through. I'm doubly impressed since Stuart can't cook, so he knows nothing about such things as food processors. In fact, a recent IM conversation with Stuart involved him telling me that for the first time ever he had made rice. That's it, just rice. Well, everyone has to start somewhere. I'm not spoiling any suprises by saying that for Christmas I'm cutting him some of the home grown herbs here (the rosemary, the bay, maybe some tarragon), copying ouut some of my more easy recipes, and then baking him some of my famous chocolate chunk, hazlenut and orange cookies. Poverty calls for creativity in the old Chrimbo presents this year. Mostly I'm knitting (although some of these presents may be late. I'm not a fast knitter.) But to bake the cookies, I needed to chop them. In the food processor! And then I made some butternut squash soup. More food proecessor. Now I'm just all a flutter. I'm thinking pecan pie (crusts= processor) and maybe some salsa. Damn I love that food processor.
Speaking of knitting, I think I ought to get to that too. Christmas is coming, and so is Jim! He's going to want his scarf, since after all he's never seen snow!
Love,
Anne
Saturday, November 29, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Braves Black Friday
It is something I always have to explain to foreigners. First, we have a holiday that doesn't involve going to church, even in a token fashion. It is a holiday solely revolving around eating. Doesn't matter what faith you are. If you want the full tradition, you need some turkey, booze and some football. And then.....the next day, everyone goes shopping. True. It is the single biggest retail sales day of the year. But I never remember it being this bad. I turned on teh TV this morning at 6, and people were already in the malls. Including a rather bizarre moement of one of my classmates being interviewed on television. And this year, I was going to have to brave it working in the shop. I had been hearing for weeks now about "what the holidays are like at Burdicks." I'm getting clues of it. But today was the first real test. And when I turned up at noon, my worst fears weren't really realized. Admittedly, we were full, and we were certainly busy, but for Black Friday (so called as this is when retailers go into the black, although I think from the people working in shops that day it has another meaning, it didn't seem too bad. But then I realized that people were eating lunch. Even on the busiest days, you can count on two lulls. One around noon and one around six, when people eat dinner. Then at one and at seven they come storming back into the shop. For those of you going out shopping in the near future, I offer the following tips:
1. If you're standing in a long line, by the time you get to the front know what you want to order. This way, you will not cause a riot. It is quite amazing the number of people who stand in line like sheep (frequently yakking on the cell phone) and then are suddenly amazed when they get to the front. Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, I dunno. Causes of death: being beaten by mob standing behind you or alternately me jumping over the counter and strangling the 85th person who does this to me on a busy day.
2. It is rude to linger in doorways. We have a small shop, but most people like to get a seat. When the seats are full, as they're pretty much going to be until after January, people stand around and wait for seats. Today, for some reason, many people in a row decided to linger in the doorway. This puts them in the way of people coming in, people going out, and also cause people not to come in the shop because they think they can't get in, so we lose business. We now have authority to have a quiet word with people who linger in doorways.
3. There is a five dollar minimum for all credit card purchases. If you don't have five dollars of change in your wallet, just maybe you shouldn't be buying that hot chocolate. This goes double if you're only spending $1.50 on a cup of tea.
4. We are a busy shop, We are not your secretary. If you want to send your 10 year old out while you have a cup of coffee and give her your cell phone, please don't have her interrupt us at our jobs unless there is some sort of emergency on her part. Emergencys, for the record, involve at least one of the following: blood loss, vomiting and/or a felony in progress.
5. I am paid for my job, and I am paid sufficiently. But we do get tips and we do appreciate them. If you're going to make me spend twenty minutes on you while you can't make up your mind, have me make up and wrap up special packages for you and I do it all cheerily (there should be no reward for poor conduct), then consider throwing a quarter in the tip jar. It won't hurt you, but it could make my day. Really.
6. If you are in a crowded cafe, and you are directly in the line of traffic, please try to do your best to move out of that line of traffic. It is not fun for me to have to say "excuse me" to you repeatedly. And I can't tap you on the shoulder since my hands are full of dishes.
7. If you're rude to me, you're not going to get my best service. Tired, I understand. Harried, I understand. Flat out rude, I will not understand. And I will not like it either.
Love,
Your harried hostess
It is something I always have to explain to foreigners. First, we have a holiday that doesn't involve going to church, even in a token fashion. It is a holiday solely revolving around eating. Doesn't matter what faith you are. If you want the full tradition, you need some turkey, booze and some football. And then.....the next day, everyone goes shopping. True. It is the single biggest retail sales day of the year. But I never remember it being this bad. I turned on teh TV this morning at 6, and people were already in the malls. Including a rather bizarre moement of one of my classmates being interviewed on television. And this year, I was going to have to brave it working in the shop. I had been hearing for weeks now about "what the holidays are like at Burdicks." I'm getting clues of it. But today was the first real test. And when I turned up at noon, my worst fears weren't really realized. Admittedly, we were full, and we were certainly busy, but for Black Friday (so called as this is when retailers go into the black, although I think from the people working in shops that day it has another meaning, it didn't seem too bad. But then I realized that people were eating lunch. Even on the busiest days, you can count on two lulls. One around noon and one around six, when people eat dinner. Then at one and at seven they come storming back into the shop. For those of you going out shopping in the near future, I offer the following tips:
1. If you're standing in a long line, by the time you get to the front know what you want to order. This way, you will not cause a riot. It is quite amazing the number of people who stand in line like sheep (frequently yakking on the cell phone) and then are suddenly amazed when they get to the front. Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, I dunno. Causes of death: being beaten by mob standing behind you or alternately me jumping over the counter and strangling the 85th person who does this to me on a busy day.
2. It is rude to linger in doorways. We have a small shop, but most people like to get a seat. When the seats are full, as they're pretty much going to be until after January, people stand around and wait for seats. Today, for some reason, many people in a row decided to linger in the doorway. This puts them in the way of people coming in, people going out, and also cause people not to come in the shop because they think they can't get in, so we lose business. We now have authority to have a quiet word with people who linger in doorways.
3. There is a five dollar minimum for all credit card purchases. If you don't have five dollars of change in your wallet, just maybe you shouldn't be buying that hot chocolate. This goes double if you're only spending $1.50 on a cup of tea.
4. We are a busy shop, We are not your secretary. If you want to send your 10 year old out while you have a cup of coffee and give her your cell phone, please don't have her interrupt us at our jobs unless there is some sort of emergency on her part. Emergencys, for the record, involve at least one of the following: blood loss, vomiting and/or a felony in progress.
5. I am paid for my job, and I am paid sufficiently. But we do get tips and we do appreciate them. If you're going to make me spend twenty minutes on you while you can't make up your mind, have me make up and wrap up special packages for you and I do it all cheerily (there should be no reward for poor conduct), then consider throwing a quarter in the tip jar. It won't hurt you, but it could make my day. Really.
6. If you are in a crowded cafe, and you are directly in the line of traffic, please try to do your best to move out of that line of traffic. It is not fun for me to have to say "excuse me" to you repeatedly. And I can't tap you on the shoulder since my hands are full of dishes.
7. If you're rude to me, you're not going to get my best service. Tired, I understand. Harried, I understand. Flat out rude, I will not understand. And I will not like it either.
Love,
Your harried hostess
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Trys to Remember What She Is Thankful For
Ah, it has been quite a week. My Mother and Grandmother have been caught in everyone's favorite past time "Anne's Family Coming to Town without Ever Telling Her" which is always fun. Granted, this time my Uncle at least told me and invited me. This beats out the previous record where I found out from relatives outside the country that all of them and my sister were staying in a hotel three blocks away and in fact visible from my bedroom window. We're such a close family - they oughta put us on Christmas cards.
My friend Graham had sent me a list of things to be thankful for this year, in case I was running out. Considering that last year I spent Thanksgiving's four day weekend on my sofa debtaing shuffling off this mortal coil (but who would take care of the cat?) I am grateful for medication to treat my adrenaline condition, my wonderful doctor, my cat, my friends, my roommate (also a friend), my doubles partner Lizzie (also a friend), my coaches (more friends), my bike and the fact that I have a job and it is in a top notch chocolate shop, even if it isn't the legal job of my dreams. Although I'm waiting to hear on one hot and heavy duty paid internship, so pray for me!
Other things to be thankful for this holiday (in case none of the above apply to you):
- I'm not Martha Stewart.
- I"m not Michael Jackson.
- I'm a hell of a cook, and have more food than most of the rest of the world at my disposal.
- the internet. I'm terribly thankful for the internet.
- Howard Dean is forcing the Democratic Party to realize what really makes voters tick isn't just "I'm not W."
- Flowers. Nuff said.
- Reid's new book (you'll have to wait to read it, but it will be worth it and will make you feel better)
- Tibet. Be thankful it is there. Go there and you'll understand.
- That Gap.com is now making pants that fit me, and look like everyone else's pants.
- Reconnecting with old friends. I ran into one last week who I haven't seen in over two years, what with my travels and her moving to California. But we're back, and we're having dinner.
- Broccoli casserole with wild rice. Mmmmmmmmm.
And sleep. It isn't coming very well tonight, but I love it when it is here.
Love,
Anne
Ah, it has been quite a week. My Mother and Grandmother have been caught in everyone's favorite past time "Anne's Family Coming to Town without Ever Telling Her" which is always fun. Granted, this time my Uncle at least told me and invited me. This beats out the previous record where I found out from relatives outside the country that all of them and my sister were staying in a hotel three blocks away and in fact visible from my bedroom window. We're such a close family - they oughta put us on Christmas cards.
My friend Graham had sent me a list of things to be thankful for this year, in case I was running out. Considering that last year I spent Thanksgiving's four day weekend on my sofa debtaing shuffling off this mortal coil (but who would take care of the cat?) I am grateful for medication to treat my adrenaline condition, my wonderful doctor, my cat, my friends, my roommate (also a friend), my doubles partner Lizzie (also a friend), my coaches (more friends), my bike and the fact that I have a job and it is in a top notch chocolate shop, even if it isn't the legal job of my dreams. Although I'm waiting to hear on one hot and heavy duty paid internship, so pray for me!
Other things to be thankful for this holiday (in case none of the above apply to you):
- I'm not Martha Stewart.
- I"m not Michael Jackson.
- I'm a hell of a cook, and have more food than most of the rest of the world at my disposal.
- the internet. I'm terribly thankful for the internet.
- Howard Dean is forcing the Democratic Party to realize what really makes voters tick isn't just "I'm not W."
- Flowers. Nuff said.
- Reid's new book (you'll have to wait to read it, but it will be worth it and will make you feel better)
- Tibet. Be thankful it is there. Go there and you'll understand.
- That Gap.com is now making pants that fit me, and look like everyone else's pants.
- Reconnecting with old friends. I ran into one last week who I haven't seen in over two years, what with my travels and her moving to California. But we're back, and we're having dinner.
- Broccoli casserole with wild rice. Mmmmmmmmm.
And sleep. It isn't coming very well tonight, but I love it when it is here.
Love,
Anne
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Contemplates a Fate Worse than Death
It all gets worse sometimes before it gets better. In this case, I thought I was getting better ecause I took Lemsip to make me feel better. And it worked. For a while. And then it reacted with the other medications I take. And not in a good way, like say suddenly discovering a cure for malaria. But no, in a bad way. A very bad way indeed. In a "get up and leave the movie theatre while Colin Firth is on screen diving into a pond and call your doctor from the lobby as you head to the ER" sort of way. I have recovered, but should I get another cold or snuffle for the rest of the year, the prescription is lozenges and warm water humidifiers. The orchids will go crazy.
In the meantime, that dreaded time of year known as final exams are fast approaching. One take home exam, one paper (45 pages, plus footnotes), and one pass/fail three hour exam. I've never taken a class pass/fail before, but I'm doing ok with this one. The wondered if my urge to overacheive would fall to the wayside, but I find that since I don't know where the pass/fail standard lies, the urge to overacheive has been replaced with sincere fear and terror of failure. Maybe that's the same thing. Although in some ways, it is better since I'm not sure where in a class on IP licensing, the A answers and the C answers divide. So overall, I think it is a good thing.
I thought not getting along with my family would get me out of having to make agonizing decisions about where to spend Thanksgiving, but apparently not. My new roommate is great, but her boyfriend tends towards bossing me around rather, so I haven't really taken to him. On her suggestion, I tried talking to him about this, but not only did it not take, but since we were in a car at the time, he retaliated by driving exceedingly aggressively. Thus, of course, not making me like him any more. It isn't a hatred, but it is starting to evolve into a rather sincere dislike as opposed to the prior apathy I had about him. And now comes Thanksgiving. Rita wanted to spend the day cooking and then having dinner, which is a big part of her traditions. I like it, except unless one of my friends comes along (I've invited Alex, but haven't heard yet - keeping my fingers crossed there for a buddy on my side), it is basically going to be a day of me being uncomfortable in my own kitchen. Having just made dinner with him working in the kitchen (I tried to make a nice suggestion that maybe he'd be more comfortable at hte big table in the yoga room, but he didn't budge.), I'm pretty positive I can't hack a whole day of it. Cooking is just too much fun for me to have the life sucked out of it like that, so if no Alex or other fun people, I'm heading to Marita's for turkey day and a whole lot of beer. Which is sad, as while I like Marita a lot, I'd like to spend the day happily in my own kitchen with my own fun roommate. It isn't like he bosses her around or anything, so it isn't something where I should step in and intervene for her mental or physical well being. I just need to step out for my own! Sad, though. But there's beer and football at Marita's!
Love,
Anne
It all gets worse sometimes before it gets better. In this case, I thought I was getting better ecause I took Lemsip to make me feel better. And it worked. For a while. And then it reacted with the other medications I take. And not in a good way, like say suddenly discovering a cure for malaria. But no, in a bad way. A very bad way indeed. In a "get up and leave the movie theatre while Colin Firth is on screen diving into a pond and call your doctor from the lobby as you head to the ER" sort of way. I have recovered, but should I get another cold or snuffle for the rest of the year, the prescription is lozenges and warm water humidifiers. The orchids will go crazy.
In the meantime, that dreaded time of year known as final exams are fast approaching. One take home exam, one paper (45 pages, plus footnotes), and one pass/fail three hour exam. I've never taken a class pass/fail before, but I'm doing ok with this one. The wondered if my urge to overacheive would fall to the wayside, but I find that since I don't know where the pass/fail standard lies, the urge to overacheive has been replaced with sincere fear and terror of failure. Maybe that's the same thing. Although in some ways, it is better since I'm not sure where in a class on IP licensing, the A answers and the C answers divide. So overall, I think it is a good thing.
I thought not getting along with my family would get me out of having to make agonizing decisions about where to spend Thanksgiving, but apparently not. My new roommate is great, but her boyfriend tends towards bossing me around rather, so I haven't really taken to him. On her suggestion, I tried talking to him about this, but not only did it not take, but since we were in a car at the time, he retaliated by driving exceedingly aggressively. Thus, of course, not making me like him any more. It isn't a hatred, but it is starting to evolve into a rather sincere dislike as opposed to the prior apathy I had about him. And now comes Thanksgiving. Rita wanted to spend the day cooking and then having dinner, which is a big part of her traditions. I like it, except unless one of my friends comes along (I've invited Alex, but haven't heard yet - keeping my fingers crossed there for a buddy on my side), it is basically going to be a day of me being uncomfortable in my own kitchen. Having just made dinner with him working in the kitchen (I tried to make a nice suggestion that maybe he'd be more comfortable at hte big table in the yoga room, but he didn't budge.), I'm pretty positive I can't hack a whole day of it. Cooking is just too much fun for me to have the life sucked out of it like that, so if no Alex or other fun people, I'm heading to Marita's for turkey day and a whole lot of beer. Which is sad, as while I like Marita a lot, I'd like to spend the day happily in my own kitchen with my own fun roommate. It isn't like he bosses her around or anything, so it isn't something where I should step in and intervene for her mental or physical well being. I just need to step out for my own! Sad, though. But there's beer and football at Marita's!
Love,
Anne
Saturday, November 08, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Contemplates the Up Side of Death
It is coming on. I can feel it. The lurking dreaded cold clammy hand of lurgy. Ugh, I feel ghastly. The tickle in the throat, the little bit of a cough, the drip drip drip of the sinuses, the aches in the joints that say "I'm a virus and there's sweet FA you can do about it, baby." I don't get sick often, but boy when I do, I get sssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeck. In fact, that last time I got sick, and had these aches in my back the night before, I woke up the next morning and spent the next night (and in fact the next week) in the hospital. It was an experience and a half. And I will in fact pass on the wisdom gained from that experience to you: if they're pressuring you to have the spinal tap with the fact that if you have spinal meningitis you might die, consider opting for death. Because death will be a heck of a lot less painful, considering you'll probably sleep right through it. And if the first doctor can't manage to get fluid on the spinal tap, again consider the death option before letting a new and exciting doctor near your back with one of those needles. I say this despite the fact that the second doctor cut a deal with me - she got one shot, my boyfriend could hold my hand (the first doctor had kicked him out), and if she couldn't do it in one go, it was over and no one else was going to have a try. Credit to her - she got the fluid in one take, and with the anesthetic I didn't feel pain, just pressure, but that said there was enough pressure that when I held Kit's hand, he had to be very sweet and kind, and just say things like "Remind me never to arm wrestle you, honey." Which is something I always find truly amazing. There you are, or there I was, three days of a 104 degree fever, weak as a kitten all day, all I can do to open my eyes and watch TV, but they start sticking needles into my back and suddenly I'm Xena, Warrior Princess with the grip of steel!
I'm sure it is just a wee little virus.
But if it isn't, don't let those Lutherans get ahold of me!
Love, but no kisses in case you catch what I've got,
Anne
It is coming on. I can feel it. The lurking dreaded cold clammy hand of lurgy. Ugh, I feel ghastly. The tickle in the throat, the little bit of a cough, the drip drip drip of the sinuses, the aches in the joints that say "I'm a virus and there's sweet FA you can do about it, baby." I don't get sick often, but boy when I do, I get sssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeck. In fact, that last time I got sick, and had these aches in my back the night before, I woke up the next morning and spent the next night (and in fact the next week) in the hospital. It was an experience and a half. And I will in fact pass on the wisdom gained from that experience to you: if they're pressuring you to have the spinal tap with the fact that if you have spinal meningitis you might die, consider opting for death. Because death will be a heck of a lot less painful, considering you'll probably sleep right through it. And if the first doctor can't manage to get fluid on the spinal tap, again consider the death option before letting a new and exciting doctor near your back with one of those needles. I say this despite the fact that the second doctor cut a deal with me - she got one shot, my boyfriend could hold my hand (the first doctor had kicked him out), and if she couldn't do it in one go, it was over and no one else was going to have a try. Credit to her - she got the fluid in one take, and with the anesthetic I didn't feel pain, just pressure, but that said there was enough pressure that when I held Kit's hand, he had to be very sweet and kind, and just say things like "Remind me never to arm wrestle you, honey." Which is something I always find truly amazing. There you are, or there I was, three days of a 104 degree fever, weak as a kitten all day, all I can do to open my eyes and watch TV, but they start sticking needles into my back and suddenly I'm Xena, Warrior Princess with the grip of steel!
I'm sure it is just a wee little virus.
But if it isn't, don't let those Lutherans get ahold of me!
Love, but no kisses in case you catch what I've got,
Anne
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Gets to Repeat her Favorite Word Over and Over
It is common knowledge that my favorite word in the whole wide world is "mitten." It is just one of those words that is so much fun to say, and it also conjures up a cozy image. Mitten, mitten, mitten. The problem with me and mittens though is that I couldn't find mine after all the moving. It snowed the other morning and I biked to work in the snow. Barehanded. It was, to say the least, chilling. Rita's Mom had been visiting us a couple weeks before that and she knits like a fiend. I called her up and left a message saying that it was snowing, my hands were cold and I needed to knit mittens pronto. She not only sent me a mitten pattern, she sent me mittens! And these are some real kick butt mittens. Gray wool, big enough and felted. The felting gives them serious thickness, and I can also attest after wearing them biking tonight that it also makes them relatively windproof. Plus, she made the cuff part long enough that it extends over the back of my hands when my arms are stretched out over the bike. I was actually quite cranky that when I got them, it had warmed up again and I couldn't wear them. So I welcomed today's cold snap with open arms. And mittened hands. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Mittens!
Love,
Anne
It is common knowledge that my favorite word in the whole wide world is "mitten." It is just one of those words that is so much fun to say, and it also conjures up a cozy image. Mitten, mitten, mitten. The problem with me and mittens though is that I couldn't find mine after all the moving. It snowed the other morning and I biked to work in the snow. Barehanded. It was, to say the least, chilling. Rita's Mom had been visiting us a couple weeks before that and she knits like a fiend. I called her up and left a message saying that it was snowing, my hands were cold and I needed to knit mittens pronto. She not only sent me a mitten pattern, she sent me mittens! And these are some real kick butt mittens. Gray wool, big enough and felted. The felting gives them serious thickness, and I can also attest after wearing them biking tonight that it also makes them relatively windproof. Plus, she made the cuff part long enough that it extends over the back of my hands when my arms are stretched out over the bike. I was actually quite cranky that when I got them, it had warmed up again and I couldn't wear them. So I welcomed today's cold snap with open arms. And mittened hands. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Mittens!
Love,
Anne
Monday, November 03, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Opts Not to Become a Lutheran
I am surrounded by avid Lutherans. Not that I'd consider the breed a particularly evangelical bunch, but my roommate is a Lutheran, her mother is a "good little Lutheran" and our friend Graham is a Lutheran who as soon as he gets his act in gear (which may be sooner now that he has successfully acheived the banning of smoking throughout large portions of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts) is heading to Divinity School to become the first Lutheran Pope. Rita and Graham go to the same church here in Cambridge, and hardly suprisingly it is a Lutheran Church. Yesterday was "Friendship Sunday" which is basically where you bring your friends to church. I was willing to go, Lutheranism not being so far from Anglicanism, and once Graham offered to take me to lunch afterwards, I found I was more than willing to worship for food. (Does this tie in with my food and faith paper? Hmmmmmmmmm, maybe.) So with less than an hour to go, I bounded into Rita's room, woke her up and informed her we had to go worship. She was less than enthused, which was a little suprising seeing as she was co-chair of Friendship Sunday, but I did wake her up, so maybe it wasn't quite so suprising. Rita takes a bit to get going in the morning. But once she was up, she was adamant we had to go because "It isn't like Greek orthodox. These Germans need to be on *time.*" So sprinting out of the house, we got there just in the nick of time, whapped Graham in the back of his head to get his attention and make him come sit with us, and I rapidly discovered that friendship Sunday was to be all about ......
Death.
Yes, death. Turns out these Lutherans are a morbid breed. Or more accurately, it turns out that in a bit of a scheduling mixup, Friendship Sunday was scheduled for All Saints Day, which is a popular time to talk about death. Those who had gone before, etc etc. Before the service, there was an announcement about death, the hymns were perky little numbers about the afterlife, and during the service we had to write down the names of someone who had died and then go up on the altar, hand in our card, light a candle and then stick it in some sand pots. This proved to be quite problematic for me as it raised all sorts of implications. First, did the person I named have to be Lutheran? Did they have to have died in the last year? What if I didn't know if they were Lutheran? What if God didn't like them? What if it was a year and a day ago that they died? And besides, it seemed so wrong to be writing things in church - I felt as though I was supposed to be paying attention to something, not writing stuff down. But Rita named her grandfather, who passed away recently, and who was a good Lutheran, so I went with that. Went up, turned in my card, lit my candle, stuck it in the sand, and felt a bit awkward about the whole thing really. The candles were a little tricky too - since there were pots of them filled and I was near the end of the line, it was difficult to put it in and manage not to get your clothing caught on fire. But I pulled it off somehow. I really do feel that there was a potentially very beautiful and symbolic moment in there just waiting to get out, but not quite making it. Went back, sat down, and waited for the peace bit, during which all I wanted to do was grab ahold of Rita and Graham, hold them very tightly and order them not to die. Rita then *left* because she had to go to work. I opted out of communion as I didn't really feel up to it, and then made it through the service and off to the promised lunch bit. That was good, but we went with lots of people from church, and I got stuck at the end of the table with Graham, who is one of hte funniest people I know, and some people who weren't that funny. This inluded the guy who thought reading anything but the Wall Street Journal was a waste of his time as he had other things to do. All in all, I don't think I'm about to convert to Lutheranism. Although Graham says that now that the chip has been implanted in my brain, I'll start to feel a lot less pain and start to think that those Lutherans really have the right idea. Time will tell, I suppose!
love, and wishing you all don't die,
Anne
I am surrounded by avid Lutherans. Not that I'd consider the breed a particularly evangelical bunch, but my roommate is a Lutheran, her mother is a "good little Lutheran" and our friend Graham is a Lutheran who as soon as he gets his act in gear (which may be sooner now that he has successfully acheived the banning of smoking throughout large portions of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts) is heading to Divinity School to become the first Lutheran Pope. Rita and Graham go to the same church here in Cambridge, and hardly suprisingly it is a Lutheran Church. Yesterday was "Friendship Sunday" which is basically where you bring your friends to church. I was willing to go, Lutheranism not being so far from Anglicanism, and once Graham offered to take me to lunch afterwards, I found I was more than willing to worship for food. (Does this tie in with my food and faith paper? Hmmmmmmmmm, maybe.) So with less than an hour to go, I bounded into Rita's room, woke her up and informed her we had to go worship. She was less than enthused, which was a little suprising seeing as she was co-chair of Friendship Sunday, but I did wake her up, so maybe it wasn't quite so suprising. Rita takes a bit to get going in the morning. But once she was up, she was adamant we had to go because "It isn't like Greek orthodox. These Germans need to be on *time.*" So sprinting out of the house, we got there just in the nick of time, whapped Graham in the back of his head to get his attention and make him come sit with us, and I rapidly discovered that friendship Sunday was to be all about ......
Death.
Yes, death. Turns out these Lutherans are a morbid breed. Or more accurately, it turns out that in a bit of a scheduling mixup, Friendship Sunday was scheduled for All Saints Day, which is a popular time to talk about death. Those who had gone before, etc etc. Before the service, there was an announcement about death, the hymns were perky little numbers about the afterlife, and during the service we had to write down the names of someone who had died and then go up on the altar, hand in our card, light a candle and then stick it in some sand pots. This proved to be quite problematic for me as it raised all sorts of implications. First, did the person I named have to be Lutheran? Did they have to have died in the last year? What if I didn't know if they were Lutheran? What if God didn't like them? What if it was a year and a day ago that they died? And besides, it seemed so wrong to be writing things in church - I felt as though I was supposed to be paying attention to something, not writing stuff down. But Rita named her grandfather, who passed away recently, and who was a good Lutheran, so I went with that. Went up, turned in my card, lit my candle, stuck it in the sand, and felt a bit awkward about the whole thing really. The candles were a little tricky too - since there were pots of them filled and I was near the end of the line, it was difficult to put it in and manage not to get your clothing caught on fire. But I pulled it off somehow. I really do feel that there was a potentially very beautiful and symbolic moment in there just waiting to get out, but not quite making it. Went back, sat down, and waited for the peace bit, during which all I wanted to do was grab ahold of Rita and Graham, hold them very tightly and order them not to die. Rita then *left* because she had to go to work. I opted out of communion as I didn't really feel up to it, and then made it through the service and off to the promised lunch bit. That was good, but we went with lots of people from church, and I got stuck at the end of the table with Graham, who is one of hte funniest people I know, and some people who weren't that funny. This inluded the guy who thought reading anything but the Wall Street Journal was a waste of his time as he had other things to do. All in all, I don't think I'm about to convert to Lutheranism. Although Graham says that now that the chip has been implanted in my brain, I'll start to feel a lot less pain and start to think that those Lutherans really have the right idea. Time will tell, I suppose!
love, and wishing you all don't die,
Anne
Monday, October 27, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Makes Her Way Down the Charles
Ah, the Head of the Charles Regatta (HOCR). The pinnacle of the fall racing season. Three miles upstream on the Charles, through seven bridges, nearly a full circle of turns, on a narrow course, and more than half the entrants get rejected in a lottery system as it is just so popular they can't hold all the space! And that was before they cut the entry numbers by 5% this year, as it was still getting too crowded. Lizzie and I raised a whole lot of money for charity to get an entry, and had been training for this since March. The problem was..... well, the problems werer numerous. For starters, there is no club event in the double at the Head of the Charles, which is a bit of a pain as there is a club event for every other category. You have to qualify for the club events, mostly by NOT being on the national squad for the last few years, not going to the Olympics for the last six years, not finishing in the top three spots at the Head of the Charles for a couple years, no recent Pan Am games, World championships, that sort of thing. As I said, there is no club double for some reason. So those 18 Olympians and national squad members were just lying there in bite sized chunks, waiting for us. And don't forget to go back and re-read those past few entries here. Lizzie's broken nose. My cracked ribs. And as if that wasnt' enough, two days before the race Lizzie got a nasty infection in her hand. She got IV antibiotics, but while waiting for them to clear her hand was so swollen that by the day before the race she could neither bend or straighten her fingers. I confess, I completely stressed about it. Would she be able to row? If God forbid she couldn't, should I find another partner or just pack it in? Ordinarily, I would say pack it in even though it was the Head of the Charles, as Lizzie is my doubles partner and there is a bond there that shouldn't be sold out at the first opportunity. The issue for me was the money raised. People had in effect paid for us to do this, and it seemed morally wrong to let them down, particularly as we weren't talking about a small amount of cash. But quite frankly, who really cared about rowing when we were talking about Liz's health? That was without question the overriding issue. Gack. Complete stress. Not enough medication!
Being down and being dockmaster on Saturday afternoon didn't help. It was much easier this year than in year's past. but what is it with people sometimes? Why some guy felt the need to give me an obscene gesture and get belligerent with my crew I'll never know. Threatened with a penalty, the crew he was "helping" (he wasn't even a coach - he was two seat's boyfriend, and by all accounts will never be allowed anywhere near a dock in a regatta again), made him apologize but for goodness sakes! The crew in question, it must be said, was a set of some of the nicest women I've come across and it was a horrid feeling to even have to threaten a penalty. They were stunned, and they seemed ready to club him into submission had he not agreed to apologize. Poor things. I think this sort of problem of association has happened to all of us at one point or another.
The good news is that Melbourne University Boat Club, who had been staying with us (well, two of them stayed, but most of them came in and out and it must be said were most excellent houseguests. We're looking forward to having htem back next year.) WON the Club 8+ on Saturday by a good thirteen second margin. Well done MUBC! There was much jumping around and screaming when I found this out and it really felt good. Huzzah! Huzzah! CRI men came in eighth, and within five percent of the winning time which gives them a guaranteed entry for next year. Wonderful.
Then came Sunday. Nerves a-blazing but with our race not until 2:55 in the afternoon, Team Milhouse went for breakfast with the great Osterman, who is the best person to have with you prior to a regatta, as we had discovered at the Head of the Connecticut. Part coach, part Mom, experienced rower but with out the emotional baggage that goes along with any of those things prior to a race, Kate organizes gear, pins numbers, double checks water bottles, the whole thing. Breakfast with Kate was great. Liz's hand was checking out - she'd be able to row although it was going to hurt like a mutha. You have to admire that kind of commitment. And again, as has previously been examined in these posts, you have to wonder where commintment ends and insanity begins. Although such examination could wait until later. The race was on!
Rowing down to the start started off well. We got into the groove, but then we got to the finish line where everyone was turning around to head back to Magazine Beach and the start. Chaos, and it throws you off your stride. But we took our time and made it down with just the right amount of time. Note to organizers, the new traffic pattern at the start either needs to be better signed or better patrolled or just plain re-thunk. It looked good on paper, but didn't work so well in practice. But we made it into our line up to sit and wait for not so long actually when we discovered that our bow number had fallen off. In fact, we picked it up out of the river as it drifted past us. No way to put it back on while on the river. Damn. Minute penalty, that. Nothing to do about it then, but we were off through the start. It was an, um, well, errrrr, interesting race. Yet again, another boat tried to run us over. But our now well developed sense of self-preservation led to Liz steering it just right. They couldn't master the turns, so our course was very much "here they come again!" and "look out, they're coming back!" and "once more for good measure!" Bleh. But we kept our cool. The second boat was a bit less predictable (it is somehow easier to predict the very worst steering boats - you know they're going to whap you, you just don't know when, so the tactic is always be waiting for it. So there was a little oar overlap there, but they thanked us for our good steering at the end so we feel good about that. The problem was more that we kept losing our focus. Hardly suprising. The good news is we kept getting it back. Our bad bits were truly awful, but the good bits and indeed there were some, were some of the best rowing we have done all season. We struck a really good 27 beats a minute comign out of Anderson (to loud Aussie cheers!) that was impressive. But then we nearly hit JFK street bridge, so that wasn't so impressive.
On straight time, we were amazed to find out we didn't finish last even though it was our worst time over the course by minutes. Sadly, that bow marker penalty dropped us to last. Ah well, it iwill never happen again. Now we know better.
Next episode: recoup, recover, and relax.
Love,
Muffin
Ah, the Head of the Charles Regatta (HOCR). The pinnacle of the fall racing season. Three miles upstream on the Charles, through seven bridges, nearly a full circle of turns, on a narrow course, and more than half the entrants get rejected in a lottery system as it is just so popular they can't hold all the space! And that was before they cut the entry numbers by 5% this year, as it was still getting too crowded. Lizzie and I raised a whole lot of money for charity to get an entry, and had been training for this since March. The problem was..... well, the problems werer numerous. For starters, there is no club event in the double at the Head of the Charles, which is a bit of a pain as there is a club event for every other category. You have to qualify for the club events, mostly by NOT being on the national squad for the last few years, not going to the Olympics for the last six years, not finishing in the top three spots at the Head of the Charles for a couple years, no recent Pan Am games, World championships, that sort of thing. As I said, there is no club double for some reason. So those 18 Olympians and national squad members were just lying there in bite sized chunks, waiting for us. And don't forget to go back and re-read those past few entries here. Lizzie's broken nose. My cracked ribs. And as if that wasnt' enough, two days before the race Lizzie got a nasty infection in her hand. She got IV antibiotics, but while waiting for them to clear her hand was so swollen that by the day before the race she could neither bend or straighten her fingers. I confess, I completely stressed about it. Would she be able to row? If God forbid she couldn't, should I find another partner or just pack it in? Ordinarily, I would say pack it in even though it was the Head of the Charles, as Lizzie is my doubles partner and there is a bond there that shouldn't be sold out at the first opportunity. The issue for me was the money raised. People had in effect paid for us to do this, and it seemed morally wrong to let them down, particularly as we weren't talking about a small amount of cash. But quite frankly, who really cared about rowing when we were talking about Liz's health? That was without question the overriding issue. Gack. Complete stress. Not enough medication!
Being down and being dockmaster on Saturday afternoon didn't help. It was much easier this year than in year's past. but what is it with people sometimes? Why some guy felt the need to give me an obscene gesture and get belligerent with my crew I'll never know. Threatened with a penalty, the crew he was "helping" (he wasn't even a coach - he was two seat's boyfriend, and by all accounts will never be allowed anywhere near a dock in a regatta again), made him apologize but for goodness sakes! The crew in question, it must be said, was a set of some of the nicest women I've come across and it was a horrid feeling to even have to threaten a penalty. They were stunned, and they seemed ready to club him into submission had he not agreed to apologize. Poor things. I think this sort of problem of association has happened to all of us at one point or another.
The good news is that Melbourne University Boat Club, who had been staying with us (well, two of them stayed, but most of them came in and out and it must be said were most excellent houseguests. We're looking forward to having htem back next year.) WON the Club 8+ on Saturday by a good thirteen second margin. Well done MUBC! There was much jumping around and screaming when I found this out and it really felt good. Huzzah! Huzzah! CRI men came in eighth, and within five percent of the winning time which gives them a guaranteed entry for next year. Wonderful.
Then came Sunday. Nerves a-blazing but with our race not until 2:55 in the afternoon, Team Milhouse went for breakfast with the great Osterman, who is the best person to have with you prior to a regatta, as we had discovered at the Head of the Connecticut. Part coach, part Mom, experienced rower but with out the emotional baggage that goes along with any of those things prior to a race, Kate organizes gear, pins numbers, double checks water bottles, the whole thing. Breakfast with Kate was great. Liz's hand was checking out - she'd be able to row although it was going to hurt like a mutha. You have to admire that kind of commitment. And again, as has previously been examined in these posts, you have to wonder where commintment ends and insanity begins. Although such examination could wait until later. The race was on!
Rowing down to the start started off well. We got into the groove, but then we got to the finish line where everyone was turning around to head back to Magazine Beach and the start. Chaos, and it throws you off your stride. But we took our time and made it down with just the right amount of time. Note to organizers, the new traffic pattern at the start either needs to be better signed or better patrolled or just plain re-thunk. It looked good on paper, but didn't work so well in practice. But we made it into our line up to sit and wait for not so long actually when we discovered that our bow number had fallen off. In fact, we picked it up out of the river as it drifted past us. No way to put it back on while on the river. Damn. Minute penalty, that. Nothing to do about it then, but we were off through the start. It was an, um, well, errrrr, interesting race. Yet again, another boat tried to run us over. But our now well developed sense of self-preservation led to Liz steering it just right. They couldn't master the turns, so our course was very much "here they come again!" and "look out, they're coming back!" and "once more for good measure!" Bleh. But we kept our cool. The second boat was a bit less predictable (it is somehow easier to predict the very worst steering boats - you know they're going to whap you, you just don't know when, so the tactic is always be waiting for it. So there was a little oar overlap there, but they thanked us for our good steering at the end so we feel good about that. The problem was more that we kept losing our focus. Hardly suprising. The good news is we kept getting it back. Our bad bits were truly awful, but the good bits and indeed there were some, were some of the best rowing we have done all season. We struck a really good 27 beats a minute comign out of Anderson (to loud Aussie cheers!) that was impressive. But then we nearly hit JFK street bridge, so that wasn't so impressive.
On straight time, we were amazed to find out we didn't finish last even though it was our worst time over the course by minutes. Sadly, that bow marker penalty dropped us to last. Ah well, it iwill never happen again. Now we know better.
Next episode: recoup, recover, and relax.
Love,
Muffin
Friday, October 24, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Frets Her Way Through Recoverystrong>
This morning when I bicycled to work, it was snowing. That's even earlier this year than usual. But I guess it is officially a harbinger of winter, and with winter starts (but only starts) to spell the end of on water rowing practice. We've really ended it due to the fact that racing season is over and we need a bit of time to heal. Heal from broken noses, two cracked ribs, and an infected hand. But I progress too quickly. You know about the broken nose already, let me go on to the ribs.
Our first race of the season was the Head of the Textile, which we were looking forward to with great enthusiasm. Then we found out that we had registered for the Open Double rather than the Club Double. This was because we hadn't realized there was a club double, and as such we didn't bother to sign up for it. There were four boats in the Open - ours and three others. The first one ran us over 20 strokes from the start. When I say ran us over, I mean what I say - their bow overlapped our stern by at least 8 inches. This is despite us being on the bouy line with no where to move but in their way. Not that it mattered - they never looked over. We filed a protest at the end of the race, and were vindicated, but I have to say it threw us off our stride rather. But we picked it up and moved on, with the offending boat ahead of us. Then we went to pass the boat that had started ahead of us. This proved to be tricky. Not because they were fast - they were slower than molasses in January, but rather because they couldn't steer to save their lives. Or, as it turned out, my ribs. Their course was roughly that of the Super G slalom. And they took a stem Christie turn just as we were passing them, and rammed us from the starboard side. Miraculously, they didn't break our oar, but they did catch my oar and move it with their boat, slamming it into my chest with enough force that the handle edge cracked two of my ribs. We kept going. I mean, we had to row back to the finish line anyway to land, and I didn't realize that the pain was just going to get worse. But it did. The pain, that is. The water conditions also got progressively worse as well. And the only other boat in our race was eventually going to pass us as they were fast, but they couldn't steer well enough to stay on the course OR decide which side to pass us on either. It was exceptionally nerve wracking - neither of us wanted to get hit again. First they were on port side, then starboard side, the port side again (outside the bouys), then back on the course on starboard side. Finally, they pushed us over to the bouys and kept on trying to push us, so I told them to move over. They told us to move over. I lost my temper as I just wasn't going to be rammed again. "YOU HAVE TO MOVE TO THE CENTER LINE!" I screamed. But I have to say that I also put three (possibly more) strong explitives into that rather short sentence. It worked to get them to move over, but I have to say I was ashamed of myself. Panic is never pretty. The ribs, it turns out, were cracked. They hurt, but I'll heal.
Somehow, we had to regroup for the next race, which was the next Sunday in Connecticut. Aptly, it was named Head of the Connecticut. I don't think either Lizzie or I had the confidence we could pull it together after such a disasterous Textile. And Head Conn is not my favorite race in the world - it is an extra half mile on the other races and the course is a bit tricky. But I have come to Jesus and seen the light that is the joy of the Head of the Connecticut regatta. Lizzie steered a great race, and we rowed pretty well for us. It was truly a fun experience. A bit amazing in that in my view from the stern, I watched six boats after us go off the course severely and in fact they had to be rallied back on the course by a marshall and YET no bouy penalties were awarded. Shocking, and it would have moved us up in the standings. But never mind. We still had fun, and seeing as it rained so hard we collected an inch of water in our boat during the race, that is an amazing feat in and of itself.
Which brings us up to the Head of the Charles. But I have other work to do right now, chickadees, so I will leave that til later.
Love,
Anna the Slowly Returning
This morning when I bicycled to work, it was snowing. That's even earlier this year than usual. But I guess it is officially a harbinger of winter, and with winter starts (but only starts) to spell the end of on water rowing practice. We've really ended it due to the fact that racing season is over and we need a bit of time to heal. Heal from broken noses, two cracked ribs, and an infected hand. But I progress too quickly. You know about the broken nose already, let me go on to the ribs.
Our first race of the season was the Head of the Textile, which we were looking forward to with great enthusiasm. Then we found out that we had registered for the Open Double rather than the Club Double. This was because we hadn't realized there was a club double, and as such we didn't bother to sign up for it. There were four boats in the Open - ours and three others. The first one ran us over 20 strokes from the start. When I say ran us over, I mean what I say - their bow overlapped our stern by at least 8 inches. This is despite us being on the bouy line with no where to move but in their way. Not that it mattered - they never looked over. We filed a protest at the end of the race, and were vindicated, but I have to say it threw us off our stride rather. But we picked it up and moved on, with the offending boat ahead of us. Then we went to pass the boat that had started ahead of us. This proved to be tricky. Not because they were fast - they were slower than molasses in January, but rather because they couldn't steer to save their lives. Or, as it turned out, my ribs. Their course was roughly that of the Super G slalom. And they took a stem Christie turn just as we were passing them, and rammed us from the starboard side. Miraculously, they didn't break our oar, but they did catch my oar and move it with their boat, slamming it into my chest with enough force that the handle edge cracked two of my ribs. We kept going. I mean, we had to row back to the finish line anyway to land, and I didn't realize that the pain was just going to get worse. But it did. The pain, that is. The water conditions also got progressively worse as well. And the only other boat in our race was eventually going to pass us as they were fast, but they couldn't steer well enough to stay on the course OR decide which side to pass us on either. It was exceptionally nerve wracking - neither of us wanted to get hit again. First they were on port side, then starboard side, the port side again (outside the bouys), then back on the course on starboard side. Finally, they pushed us over to the bouys and kept on trying to push us, so I told them to move over. They told us to move over. I lost my temper as I just wasn't going to be rammed again. "YOU HAVE TO MOVE TO THE CENTER LINE!" I screamed. But I have to say that I also put three (possibly more) strong explitives into that rather short sentence. It worked to get them to move over, but I have to say I was ashamed of myself. Panic is never pretty. The ribs, it turns out, were cracked. They hurt, but I'll heal.
Somehow, we had to regroup for the next race, which was the next Sunday in Connecticut. Aptly, it was named Head of the Connecticut. I don't think either Lizzie or I had the confidence we could pull it together after such a disasterous Textile. And Head Conn is not my favorite race in the world - it is an extra half mile on the other races and the course is a bit tricky. But I have come to Jesus and seen the light that is the joy of the Head of the Connecticut regatta. Lizzie steered a great race, and we rowed pretty well for us. It was truly a fun experience. A bit amazing in that in my view from the stern, I watched six boats after us go off the course severely and in fact they had to be rallied back on the course by a marshall and YET no bouy penalties were awarded. Shocking, and it would have moved us up in the standings. But never mind. We still had fun, and seeing as it rained so hard we collected an inch of water in our boat during the race, that is an amazing feat in and of itself.
Which brings us up to the Head of the Charles. But I have other work to do right now, chickadees, so I will leave that til later.
Love,
Anna the Slowly Returning
Friday, October 17, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Forgets to Slow the Heck DownHello there sports fans. A bigger recap will be forthcoming. Highlights to include:
* Racing! With blood, gore, two crashes, swearing and two cracked ribs!
* Houseguests! Two mothers, two Australian strangers, a long lost but re-found a friend and the gift of a food processsor.
* Work! And lots of it! And a near-sacking! (But I somehow pulled it out of the fire.)
* School! And my apparent incarnation there as some sort of religious zealot! (Who knew? News to me.)
* Construction! Missing walls, rebuilt walls, ceilings, painting, trim and the quest for where on earth to put all these plants and tress in the meantime!
* And last but not least, baseball, baseball, baseball! Although now that the Red Sox lost the ALCS, that's over for the season. I won't watch much of the World Series, but I"m rooting for the Marlins due to my long held beliefs that I cheer for the Red Sox and whoever is playing the dreaded Yankees.
More Monday peeps.
Love,
Your long lost Anna
* Racing! With blood, gore, two crashes, swearing and two cracked ribs!
* Houseguests! Two mothers, two Australian strangers, a long lost but re-found a friend and the gift of a food processsor.
* Work! And lots of it! And a near-sacking! (But I somehow pulled it out of the fire.)
* School! And my apparent incarnation there as some sort of religious zealot! (Who knew? News to me.)
* Construction! Missing walls, rebuilt walls, ceilings, painting, trim and the quest for where on earth to put all these plants and tress in the meantime!
* And last but not least, baseball, baseball, baseball! Although now that the Red Sox lost the ALCS, that's over for the season. I won't watch much of the World Series, but I"m rooting for the Marlins due to my long held beliefs that I cheer for the Red Sox and whoever is playing the dreaded Yankees.
More Monday peeps.
Love,
Your long lost Anna
Monday, September 22, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Goes to Yoga Class
Yoga, ah, yoga. I'd been debating going to yoga for a while but fell prey to the classic "oh, I don't have the time." This despite the fact that I certainly had the time if I felt like it. It is always just the initial effort of getting there, etc etc. But my coach had ordered me to go (and also to start doing ab circuits) so I went. Being a competitive sort though, I went to Power Yoga. Supposedly at the studio of the guy who originated it. But that's not the issue. Power Yoga, it turns out, is held in a 90 degree room, which a) limbers your joints, and b) makes you sweat in a way you've never sweated before. At first, I thought this was going to be horrible - the woman in front of me (in a Basics class) was doing handstands to warm up. Holy Hannah. But then class started and we all had to do our series of poses, etc. The heat certainly did help with flexibility and movement, but the sheer amount of sweat was amazing, and towels are a big requirement since the floor gets very slippery with everyone dripping like that. Up, down, all around, wheeee. I was good at some of the poses, but for some reason the simple ones (like the "Tree") eluded me. I shall have to practice the tree, but in the meantime I keep finding myself stretching and suddenly winding up in these yoga poses, thinking about creating space in my shoulderblades and the like. Normalcy is so far away..........
Yoga, ah, yoga. I'd been debating going to yoga for a while but fell prey to the classic "oh, I don't have the time." This despite the fact that I certainly had the time if I felt like it. It is always just the initial effort of getting there, etc etc. But my coach had ordered me to go (and also to start doing ab circuits) so I went. Being a competitive sort though, I went to Power Yoga. Supposedly at the studio of the guy who originated it. But that's not the issue. Power Yoga, it turns out, is held in a 90 degree room, which a) limbers your joints, and b) makes you sweat in a way you've never sweated before. At first, I thought this was going to be horrible - the woman in front of me (in a Basics class) was doing handstands to warm up. Holy Hannah. But then class started and we all had to do our series of poses, etc. The heat certainly did help with flexibility and movement, but the sheer amount of sweat was amazing, and towels are a big requirement since the floor gets very slippery with everyone dripping like that. Up, down, all around, wheeee. I was good at some of the poses, but for some reason the simple ones (like the "Tree") eluded me. I shall have to practice the tree, but in the meantime I keep finding myself stretching and suddenly winding up in these yoga poses, thinking about creating space in my shoulderblades and the like. Normalcy is so far away..........
In Which Our Heroine Puts Her Heroine Powers to the Test
Oh the humanity! And the blood. Team Milhouse has had a wee setback. Liz has broken her nose. She was doing an abdominal circuit, and if you want to know how you can break your nose doing that, you'll have to e-mail me and ask me. Not that I can provide great answers, as frankly I watched it happen and I still don't know exactly how this occured. One second there was the toning of the abdominal muscles. The next second there was blood, gore and screaming. Granted, not that much screaming. Certainly not as much screaming as if *I* had broken *my* nose. But then I am a noted wimp, and Liz is quite obviously a tough girl. Which is good, as she also got a fat lip too. She will recover fully, or so we're told. They'll reset her nose tomorrow (she will need painkillers for that, and frankly I am already needing valium at the sheer thought of it.) and she can row again as "soon as she can breathe through her nose" the doctor says. We are supposed to race on Saturday. If we actually do that, well, I'll be even more impressed with Liz than I already am.
Frankly, when it all happened, I was a bit of a mess. Liz keeps thanking me for all my help, but all I did was drive her to the hospital and make a couple of phone calls. Oh, and ask a lot of questions. But that is the sort of thing I do anyway. It really is not fun though (flashbacks to the hypothermia incident) to have to make phone calls to people's parents and say "Errrr, hello. We're in the Emergency Room. No, calm down, everyone's going to be fine. But we're worried that she's broken her nose." And of course, the whole thing would have gone a bit better and actually asked Liz's dad's secretary if I could speak to Liz's dad, rather than Liz's brother.
The truly best bit actually occurred coming home. Having dropped Liz off into the care of her rather shocked roommate, I grabbed a couple of bags of books and nabbed the bus home. Changing buses in Harvard Square, I had one of those mildly disassociative states where you suddenly perceive yourself as others see you. There I was, one in the afternoon, sweaty, in spandex and a rain jacket, the ever present rowing sandals and socks combo, spattered with blood (I found some on my face later, just to add to the sight), looking like quite the recently released serial killer. But a highly literate serial killer, given the two big bags of books. Just as I realized that the men in white coats were about to swoop from somewhere to take me somewhere padded on all four walls, the woman next to me suddenly turns and asks me "Do you row?" What gave it away? That copy of "Moral Man and Immoral Society" at the top of my book bag?
Team Milhouse Emergency Room Visits So Far This Season:
Anne: 4 (once accompanying Liz)
Liz: 2 (once accompanying Anne)
Oh the humanity! And the blood. Team Milhouse has had a wee setback. Liz has broken her nose. She was doing an abdominal circuit, and if you want to know how you can break your nose doing that, you'll have to e-mail me and ask me. Not that I can provide great answers, as frankly I watched it happen and I still don't know exactly how this occured. One second there was the toning of the abdominal muscles. The next second there was blood, gore and screaming. Granted, not that much screaming. Certainly not as much screaming as if *I* had broken *my* nose. But then I am a noted wimp, and Liz is quite obviously a tough girl. Which is good, as she also got a fat lip too. She will recover fully, or so we're told. They'll reset her nose tomorrow (she will need painkillers for that, and frankly I am already needing valium at the sheer thought of it.) and she can row again as "soon as she can breathe through her nose" the doctor says. We are supposed to race on Saturday. If we actually do that, well, I'll be even more impressed with Liz than I already am.
Frankly, when it all happened, I was a bit of a mess. Liz keeps thanking me for all my help, but all I did was drive her to the hospital and make a couple of phone calls. Oh, and ask a lot of questions. But that is the sort of thing I do anyway. It really is not fun though (flashbacks to the hypothermia incident) to have to make phone calls to people's parents and say "Errrr, hello. We're in the Emergency Room. No, calm down, everyone's going to be fine. But we're worried that she's broken her nose." And of course, the whole thing would have gone a bit better and actually asked Liz's dad's secretary if I could speak to Liz's dad, rather than Liz's brother.
The truly best bit actually occurred coming home. Having dropped Liz off into the care of her rather shocked roommate, I grabbed a couple of bags of books and nabbed the bus home. Changing buses in Harvard Square, I had one of those mildly disassociative states where you suddenly perceive yourself as others see you. There I was, one in the afternoon, sweaty, in spandex and a rain jacket, the ever present rowing sandals and socks combo, spattered with blood (I found some on my face later, just to add to the sight), looking like quite the recently released serial killer. But a highly literate serial killer, given the two big bags of books. Just as I realized that the men in white coats were about to swoop from somewhere to take me somewhere padded on all four walls, the woman next to me suddenly turns and asks me "Do you row?" What gave it away? That copy of "Moral Man and Immoral Society" at the top of my book bag?
Team Milhouse Emergency Room Visits So Far This Season:
Anne: 4 (once accompanying Liz)
Liz: 2 (once accompanying Anne)
Monday, September 15, 2003
In Which Our Heroine Gets Into the Cambridge Thing
Long time, no post. Life has been terribly busy of late. School, moving (still moving! There is still stuff at Liz's.) Work. Practice. More practice. Ab circuits. The whole nine yards. But in the midst of all this, slowly a routine is settling in of some fashion. And I've been enjoying being a Cantab. Working at Burdick's has meant some unusual hours for me, as I've been leaving work at 11;45 at night - far past my usual bedtime. This has, however, led to some interesting exposures. For starters, on Saturday nights I now cycle past the people lined up for the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I didn't know people still did that, but they do. In full regalia and camp. I guess they enjoy it. I can see where it would be fun to do again, but I can't see myself out there in bustier and boots throwing things. Maybe I'm just turning into an old fuddy duddy. Or maybe not, as I now cycle to school (across the bridge, which is an excellent adventure in and of itself) and get far too much joy out of being at the top of the ramp of the parking garage and just letting the brakes off to fly down the ramp. I think the biking is one of my most favorite things about Cambridge. Everyone bikes, it seems. Not just the students. As I pedal around, there are more people out of Harvard Square cycling than in it without question. And of course, being Cambridge there are cycle lanes and most drivers seem to know how to handle it. Those that don't I just assume are from Boston. That is an easy assumption to make, I must say. The second I cross over the river, it is driving and biking chaos. The Boston Bike Coordinator was fired over the weekend. Good job, I say. I didn't know Boston had such a thing, and I can't say he had done any sort of a good job. The sad part is that he doens't seem to be being replaced at all, much less by someone competent. Budget cuts, they're claiming. This is why the only cyclists in Boston seem to be couriers.
Another thing that is great about Cambridge is the bookstores. Harvard Square is reputed to have the highest bookstore density in the world. I believe it, and more importantly they are good bookstores. I can get lost in the Coop for hours, and the Harvard Bookstore (not affiliated with Harvard University) will take old books in good condition and pay you either 15% cover price in cash or 20% in store credit, which you can spend anywhere in the store. Including, I need hardly add, on the used books. This allowed me to clear some bookshelf space over the weekend and also to have some money to spend. I took the store credit. I know that I will spend the money there!
The one thing I know that I don't have to change, nor should I by moving to Cambridge is my loyalty to the Red Sox. We have 14 games left in the season, and are currently five games behind in the dreaded Yankees in the division, and a half game ahead in the Wild Card stakes. But seven of those 14 games are against lowly Tampa Bay. We're in with more than a shot, my friends. But I'm very worried about Nomar's flu.
My lemon tree is in bloom and so is my jasmine tree. Ah, how wonderful. My clothes dry outside in the joy of air drying, and the kitty has returned home from his summer holiday at Susan's. All is well and content here on Marie Ave, and I have far too much school work, private client work, writing work (already a week behind deadline, and it is my first deadline set!), and practice to do.
Contentedly, if busily yours,
Anne
Long time, no post. Life has been terribly busy of late. School, moving (still moving! There is still stuff at Liz's.) Work. Practice. More practice. Ab circuits. The whole nine yards. But in the midst of all this, slowly a routine is settling in of some fashion. And I've been enjoying being a Cantab. Working at Burdick's has meant some unusual hours for me, as I've been leaving work at 11;45 at night - far past my usual bedtime. This has, however, led to some interesting exposures. For starters, on Saturday nights I now cycle past the people lined up for the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I didn't know people still did that, but they do. In full regalia and camp. I guess they enjoy it. I can see where it would be fun to do again, but I can't see myself out there in bustier and boots throwing things. Maybe I'm just turning into an old fuddy duddy. Or maybe not, as I now cycle to school (across the bridge, which is an excellent adventure in and of itself) and get far too much joy out of being at the top of the ramp of the parking garage and just letting the brakes off to fly down the ramp. I think the biking is one of my most favorite things about Cambridge. Everyone bikes, it seems. Not just the students. As I pedal around, there are more people out of Harvard Square cycling than in it without question. And of course, being Cambridge there are cycle lanes and most drivers seem to know how to handle it. Those that don't I just assume are from Boston. That is an easy assumption to make, I must say. The second I cross over the river, it is driving and biking chaos. The Boston Bike Coordinator was fired over the weekend. Good job, I say. I didn't know Boston had such a thing, and I can't say he had done any sort of a good job. The sad part is that he doens't seem to be being replaced at all, much less by someone competent. Budget cuts, they're claiming. This is why the only cyclists in Boston seem to be couriers.
Another thing that is great about Cambridge is the bookstores. Harvard Square is reputed to have the highest bookstore density in the world. I believe it, and more importantly they are good bookstores. I can get lost in the Coop for hours, and the Harvard Bookstore (not affiliated with Harvard University) will take old books in good condition and pay you either 15% cover price in cash or 20% in store credit, which you can spend anywhere in the store. Including, I need hardly add, on the used books. This allowed me to clear some bookshelf space over the weekend and also to have some money to spend. I took the store credit. I know that I will spend the money there!
The one thing I know that I don't have to change, nor should I by moving to Cambridge is my loyalty to the Red Sox. We have 14 games left in the season, and are currently five games behind in the dreaded Yankees in the division, and a half game ahead in the Wild Card stakes. But seven of those 14 games are against lowly Tampa Bay. We're in with more than a shot, my friends. But I'm very worried about Nomar's flu.
My lemon tree is in bloom and so is my jasmine tree. Ah, how wonderful. My clothes dry outside in the joy of air drying, and the kitty has returned home from his summer holiday at Susan's. All is well and content here on Marie Ave, and I have far too much school work, private client work, writing work (already a week behind deadline, and it is my first deadline set!), and practice to do.
Contentedly, if busily yours,
Anne
Monday, August 25, 2003
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
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
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