In Which Our Heroine Confirms Her Brand Loyalty
Rowing, ah rowing. Bit of a passion of mine, which makes it highly weird that I really haven't been out this year. Until yesterday that is. Once a month in the summer my boat club hosts their "Harbor Rows" where you row down the Charles, through the locks, out into Boston Harbor down to the tea party ship, turn around and hang out by the USS Constitution for the 8am cannon fire, flag raising and playing of the national anthem. I have wanted to do this for so incredibly long I can't tell you. I think it was actually a big motivator behind joining this particular club.
First, I had to get a partner. The rule is you can't row it in a single for safety reasons - the locks, the swells in the harbor, that sort of thing. After Kit gave his usual no response response, I happened across the fact that Heike wanted to get back to rowing. We were a go! Bright and early (5:30. Um, well, we were scheduled for 5:30. I sort of mis-set the alarm clock and got there at ten to six. Bad me.) down to the boathouse, managing to snag my favorite Empacher double. But then alas alack it was taken away from me so that two guys who were heavier than Heike and I could row it. We had it pried out of our hands with the opportunity to row the shiny shiny new Filippi double. You know, try it out, put it through its paces.
Never again.
I have rowed, and in fact raced Filippi heavyweight doubles before and they were fine. Not great, but fine. But they've obviously done something in the new models which removes it from the category of fine and drops it to the category of "you've just got to be kidding me." They can be good boats, but from what I can figure out they're designed by little tiny Italians for little tiny Italians. If you're a lightweight, get a Filippi. If you're a big strong girl like me (or big strong guy), get thee an Empacher. This boat was so horrid that I had to swap out on the way back as the shin splints were that bad! No, and I mean no reach at the catch, so no real oomphage through the water, bad biomechanics therefore the shinsplints (no part of my body is sore today, so it wasn't a fitness issue, but my shins are still hobbling me seriously), and the gunnels were shaving the sides off my hips like a good parma ham. No no no no no. From now on, go Empacher for me or go home. I remember climbing into the Knauth down at the boathouse for the first time - it was like it had been custom designed for me. Ooo, the orgasmic bliss of that boat. Ok, so it has now been converted to a pair, but the other Empachers at the boathouse fit me just as well so it wasn't a one off. I think you can tell who the boat is deigned for in the mere length of the footstretchers. In the Filippi, even in the old one I was in danger of it slipping right off the end. Ditto in the new one. In the Empacher I've got bags of room. Case closed.
Boating nightmare aside, the harbor row was without question one of the coolest things I have ever done. It was all fabulous, much more fabulous than I had imagined except for what I thought would be the coolest part - the locks. I had expected much more swirling water and things. Frankly, it was so gentle you never would have even noticed what was going on apart from a quick glance at the tie ups on the side and going "Hey! Did the wall just move?" Good from a safety standpoint, and I'm certainly pro safety, but sometimes safe just isn't as exciting as you want it to be. I still had my wildlife siting of the day, but it was a very big jellyfish with an exceptionally long stingy tail which made me want to be extra certain that I didn't fall in. This was a whole new set of interesting issues I'd never thought aabout being in the harbour which apart from jellyfish included:
1) the fact that I've seen two con towers to submarines there in the past, and couldn't shake the feeling that at any minute we were about to start rising up into the air....
2) big signs by the coast guard cutters telling us not to come within 100 feet. The signs were posted by Homeland Security. It raised an interesting question - what exactly would they DO to us if say were were 75 feet from the cutter? Send another cutter after us? The wake alone would swamp us, and then we'd be jellyfish food. I know I'm a big girl, but these were big jellies.
3) the swells. They were mostly pretty gentle, but they took a little getting used to.
4) The wakes. Those harbor ferries throw up a pretty good one.
5) The cannon fire. Of course, we were there to see the cannon fire, but still an interesting thing to get used to. Don't get startled and let go of the oars.
6) The bridges on the way down. Rowing under the Zakim and the other bridges was pretty cool, but rowing under the Museum Way bridge until we knew for sure was a bit dicey. I think it is the first time I've ever been on the water and had to watch my head!
Love,
Anne
Monday, June 28, 2004
Thursday, June 10, 2004
In which our heroine gets all hot and wet and loves it
I've waited some long months now for this evening. Long, cold, in fact freezing cold months where I just held on to a determination that some day I would once again be gasping in the delerium of being all hot, wet and sticky.
Tonight was the night.
Although the week started off cold and miserable again, the last two days have been building towards a thunderboomer. But not til the sun went down, I was sure of that. So I headed off for practice on the river, and between river water and good old fashioned sweating, my muscles got loosey goosey and I was glistening all over in a way that some would term "a healthy glow." I went back to work to finish some things up, then strapped on my clipless pedal shoes and hit the roads at speed. Still loose, filled with the energy that good exercise brings to your muscles, I sped out and noticed that it was coming. Just on the edge, but there were the sprinkles. The spatters. The rain was coming. And for the first time in achingly long, it wasn't cold rain that chilled to the bone. It was the sort of rain that was like riding in a warm bath, with the air still humid and the water invigorating. I wheeled across the Mass Ave bridge and noticed that the lightning was coming, but was over the harbour. Good views, but only minimal risk of electrocution, which is good for me. (Andrew remains convinced that I will be struck by lightning. I feel sure that he has a bet somewhere on it.) So I arrived home and burst through the door, lusting for some food and having that incredibly sexy feeling that I've heard Liz refer to as her "rowing goddess stance." I understood it at that moment. I was empowered and ready to take on the world.
Tel was home, and noticing my hunger for something good to put into my body, she presented me with a copy of the new book by her friend Steve Almond. It is called "Candy Freak" and is supposedly about one man's quest candy and the role it plays in his life. I say supposedly, as I will only start reading it tonight. Tel had been to the reading on Tuesday, but I'd been unable to go. Turns out she summed me up to him while he was inscribing it.
"She rows so she can eat candy." said Tel.
"Sounds like my kind of woman." said Steve.
The inscription reads as follows:
"Anne - strong women NEED candy! Freak on. Steve Almond."
Sounds like my kind of man.
I've waited some long months now for this evening. Long, cold, in fact freezing cold months where I just held on to a determination that some day I would once again be gasping in the delerium of being all hot, wet and sticky.
Tonight was the night.
Although the week started off cold and miserable again, the last two days have been building towards a thunderboomer. But not til the sun went down, I was sure of that. So I headed off for practice on the river, and between river water and good old fashioned sweating, my muscles got loosey goosey and I was glistening all over in a way that some would term "a healthy glow." I went back to work to finish some things up, then strapped on my clipless pedal shoes and hit the roads at speed. Still loose, filled with the energy that good exercise brings to your muscles, I sped out and noticed that it was coming. Just on the edge, but there were the sprinkles. The spatters. The rain was coming. And for the first time in achingly long, it wasn't cold rain that chilled to the bone. It was the sort of rain that was like riding in a warm bath, with the air still humid and the water invigorating. I wheeled across the Mass Ave bridge and noticed that the lightning was coming, but was over the harbour. Good views, but only minimal risk of electrocution, which is good for me. (Andrew remains convinced that I will be struck by lightning. I feel sure that he has a bet somewhere on it.) So I arrived home and burst through the door, lusting for some food and having that incredibly sexy feeling that I've heard Liz refer to as her "rowing goddess stance." I understood it at that moment. I was empowered and ready to take on the world.
Tel was home, and noticing my hunger for something good to put into my body, she presented me with a copy of the new book by her friend Steve Almond. It is called "Candy Freak" and is supposedly about one man's quest candy and the role it plays in his life. I say supposedly, as I will only start reading it tonight. Tel had been to the reading on Tuesday, but I'd been unable to go. Turns out she summed me up to him while he was inscribing it.
"She rows so she can eat candy." said Tel.
"Sounds like my kind of woman." said Steve.
The inscription reads as follows:
"Anne - strong women NEED candy! Freak on. Steve Almond."
Sounds like my kind of man.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
In Which Our Heroine Remembers Her Childhood
When I was growing up, I have distinct memories of the OPEC led gas crisis. Shortages, lines, everyone was concerned with mileage, mileage, mileage. Cars started to be engineered for better mileage, and we were taught in schools all about alternative energy sources, and the shortages of fossil fuels - pollution, the fact they were finite, and acid rain came up a lot for good measure as well. Which is why I'm baffled with all the problems in rolling out more hybrid cars.
The Insight by Honda and the Prius by Toyota have been on the market here for a few years now. The Prius is in fact in its second incarnation - they re-did it to make it look a little sportier. Plus, there is now the Honda Civic hybrid, which you have to know how to spot (it is where the antenna is. Oh, and there is a logo on the back.) The Prius has a massive waiting list, and they're hard to get ahold of around here, although there are plenty of them around. There is a new one parked in the driveway around the corner from here, and I like to ogle it a lot. And I love Kit's Insight. (Love that car! I got to drive it twice. Happy happy memories. Zoom zoom zip zip, and the fuel economy!) Kit has been explaining stuff about hybrids to me via e-mail, and he is attempting to demonstrate how upping the mileage on his Insight to incredibly high levels doesn't save as much petrol as getting 11 mpg out of a Hummer instead of 9. I thought I grasped the concept, but I lost it. At any rate, this whole exchange was prompted by the Ford Escape hybrid, which isn't out yet, but was doing test drives around Manhattan on Monday. The figure I heard on Monday on the radio was that it got 30 mpg, and the one in the article I read was actually 38pmg. What I can't figure out is why, during the gas crisis, we already had cars making this kind of mileage, but how America abandoned them in favor of the SUV. I won't diatribe against SUVs here, there are plenty of other places to do that. Suffice it to say I don't like them, and when I had to drive one the other day I felt far less safe than ever before. Why has it taken so long for the hybrid to get to the market? The other hybrids have been there for so long! I'm not even explaining this well, I'm so confused.
I guess I'm confused about other stuff as well. Starting with the current govenment. I can't believe the stunts they're trying to pull over 9/11. If you question the administration at all, you're considered unpatriotic. And now that the stuff is exploding all over themselves and they're covered with muck, now they're trying a new tactic: blame the Clinton administration. You've just got to be kidding me.
There is knitting to be done, and I'm going to go sit and do it.
Love,
Anne
When I was growing up, I have distinct memories of the OPEC led gas crisis. Shortages, lines, everyone was concerned with mileage, mileage, mileage. Cars started to be engineered for better mileage, and we were taught in schools all about alternative energy sources, and the shortages of fossil fuels - pollution, the fact they were finite, and acid rain came up a lot for good measure as well. Which is why I'm baffled with all the problems in rolling out more hybrid cars.
The Insight by Honda and the Prius by Toyota have been on the market here for a few years now. The Prius is in fact in its second incarnation - they re-did it to make it look a little sportier. Plus, there is now the Honda Civic hybrid, which you have to know how to spot (it is where the antenna is. Oh, and there is a logo on the back.) The Prius has a massive waiting list, and they're hard to get ahold of around here, although there are plenty of them around. There is a new one parked in the driveway around the corner from here, and I like to ogle it a lot. And I love Kit's Insight. (Love that car! I got to drive it twice. Happy happy memories. Zoom zoom zip zip, and the fuel economy!) Kit has been explaining stuff about hybrids to me via e-mail, and he is attempting to demonstrate how upping the mileage on his Insight to incredibly high levels doesn't save as much petrol as getting 11 mpg out of a Hummer instead of 9. I thought I grasped the concept, but I lost it. At any rate, this whole exchange was prompted by the Ford Escape hybrid, which isn't out yet, but was doing test drives around Manhattan on Monday. The figure I heard on Monday on the radio was that it got 30 mpg, and the one in the article I read was actually 38pmg. What I can't figure out is why, during the gas crisis, we already had cars making this kind of mileage, but how America abandoned them in favor of the SUV. I won't diatribe against SUVs here, there are plenty of other places to do that. Suffice it to say I don't like them, and when I had to drive one the other day I felt far less safe than ever before. Why has it taken so long for the hybrid to get to the market? The other hybrids have been there for so long! I'm not even explaining this well, I'm so confused.
I guess I'm confused about other stuff as well. Starting with the current govenment. I can't believe the stunts they're trying to pull over 9/11. If you question the administration at all, you're considered unpatriotic. And now that the stuff is exploding all over themselves and they're covered with muck, now they're trying a new tactic: blame the Clinton administration. You've just got to be kidding me.
There is knitting to be done, and I'm going to go sit and do it.
Love,
Anne
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
In Which Our Heroine Re-Joins the Working Classes
I'm a renaissance woman, it turns out. First, I got myself one of them job things. I'm now a furniture mover for Gentle Giant movers. Scarily, I like it. It is the sort of job where if the people weren't so great, it would really suck, but the people are incredible. Even more, the money is astounding. I've got all the hours and overtime I could possibly want, and amazingly people tip movers pretty often. The tip thing is a bit wild. I had tips before at Burdick's - but they didn't count for much. On a spectacular day, they might be a dollar an hour for the hours you'd worked (which never added up to the full 40 anyway). Here, sometimes you don't get them, but I've been tipped up to an extra $100 a day.
I have more to write, but I'm working too hard.... updated soon.
Love,
Anne
I'm a renaissance woman, it turns out. First, I got myself one of them job things. I'm now a furniture mover for Gentle Giant movers. Scarily, I like it. It is the sort of job where if the people weren't so great, it would really suck, but the people are incredible. Even more, the money is astounding. I've got all the hours and overtime I could possibly want, and amazingly people tip movers pretty often. The tip thing is a bit wild. I had tips before at Burdick's - but they didn't count for much. On a spectacular day, they might be a dollar an hour for the hours you'd worked (which never added up to the full 40 anyway). Here, sometimes you don't get them, but I've been tipped up to an extra $100 a day.
I have more to write, but I'm working too hard.... updated soon.
Love,
Anne
Monday, March 08, 2004
In Which Our Heroine Waits for the Secret Service to Arrive at Her Door
Now, I know from my website tracker that there's someone at the Department of Justice who reads this weblog far more faithfully than I update it, but I think this time the Secret Service could be dispatched. No, I have not threatened the President. That's against my theories as a pacifist. But I did send Dubya an e-mail. I was provoked to do so by those truly appalling ads invoking 9/11 for him to get re-elected. The whole thing was just too much to take. I mean, he's toting it around as he champions his "leadership" in the days following, but I don't really remember him actually *doing* anything that made me feel inspired that someone was in charge. Al-Queda? Still going, last time I checked, despite lots of my hard earned tax dollars flowing towards his great plans. Civil liberties? Not so many as we used to have, thank you Mr. Ashcroft. (Ok, I admit, I consider John Ashcroft's acute pancreatitis to have similar origins as the guy who plays Jesus in Mel Gibson's new movie getting whacked not just once but twice by lightning during filming. Which just goes to prove that the difference between schadenfreude and religious belief is pretty much a question of interpretation.) Jobs? Nope. What does that have to do with security? I know I feel a lot less secure not having a job.
So anyway, I lost it. It just seemed like rubbing salt in very open national wounds to use those images in what is basically a job application to the American public. And I was mad enough to track down his e-mail (president@whitehouse.gov, should you wish to do the same thing) to drop him a note to say "I didn't like this and I wanted you to know it." Except I dont' think he got it. It bounced back to me saying there was too much mail in the queue. Maybe everyone else was just as incensed as I was, but sadly I doubt it.
To get this off my mind, Liz and I took advantage of our local art house theatre to see a combination of five academy nominated short films at one go. An incredible evening, if a bit schizophrenic. It started off with the incredibly powerful "The Red Jacket" (Die Rote Something in its original language), which is somewhat set in the middle of the Bosnian conflict. In showing just how powerful not seeing something can be, there is a moment where the main character is shot. You don't see the bullet wounding, or the victim as it happens, but that shot got fired and I swear to you my heart stopped, my breathing stopped, time just suspended. I was too horrified to even gasp. From that 15 minute film, it went into the Oscar winning animation short, which was hysterically funny. And all the while my mind was still reeling from the movie I'd just seen. Then another movie set in Llubjanka during the Bosnian conflict, only not quite as shocking (it wasn't meant to be), but still there were bombs going off, which makes the mind shift again. Then more animated comedy. Then another serious drama short, only this time in present day France. Another excellent film, but very taut psychologically. Euow. My mind is still mulling it all over. But the overwhelming thought is to do go watch it again while I can!
Love,
Anne
Now, I know from my website tracker that there's someone at the Department of Justice who reads this weblog far more faithfully than I update it, but I think this time the Secret Service could be dispatched. No, I have not threatened the President. That's against my theories as a pacifist. But I did send Dubya an e-mail. I was provoked to do so by those truly appalling ads invoking 9/11 for him to get re-elected. The whole thing was just too much to take. I mean, he's toting it around as he champions his "leadership" in the days following, but I don't really remember him actually *doing* anything that made me feel inspired that someone was in charge. Al-Queda? Still going, last time I checked, despite lots of my hard earned tax dollars flowing towards his great plans. Civil liberties? Not so many as we used to have, thank you Mr. Ashcroft. (Ok, I admit, I consider John Ashcroft's acute pancreatitis to have similar origins as the guy who plays Jesus in Mel Gibson's new movie getting whacked not just once but twice by lightning during filming. Which just goes to prove that the difference between schadenfreude and religious belief is pretty much a question of interpretation.) Jobs? Nope. What does that have to do with security? I know I feel a lot less secure not having a job.
So anyway, I lost it. It just seemed like rubbing salt in very open national wounds to use those images in what is basically a job application to the American public. And I was mad enough to track down his e-mail (president@whitehouse.gov, should you wish to do the same thing) to drop him a note to say "I didn't like this and I wanted you to know it." Except I dont' think he got it. It bounced back to me saying there was too much mail in the queue. Maybe everyone else was just as incensed as I was, but sadly I doubt it.
To get this off my mind, Liz and I took advantage of our local art house theatre to see a combination of five academy nominated short films at one go. An incredible evening, if a bit schizophrenic. It started off with the incredibly powerful "The Red Jacket" (Die Rote Something in its original language), which is somewhat set in the middle of the Bosnian conflict. In showing just how powerful not seeing something can be, there is a moment where the main character is shot. You don't see the bullet wounding, or the victim as it happens, but that shot got fired and I swear to you my heart stopped, my breathing stopped, time just suspended. I was too horrified to even gasp. From that 15 minute film, it went into the Oscar winning animation short, which was hysterically funny. And all the while my mind was still reeling from the movie I'd just seen. Then another movie set in Llubjanka during the Bosnian conflict, only not quite as shocking (it wasn't meant to be), but still there were bombs going off, which makes the mind shift again. Then more animated comedy. Then another serious drama short, only this time in present day France. Another excellent film, but very taut psychologically. Euow. My mind is still mulling it all over. But the overwhelming thought is to do go watch it again while I can!
Love,
Anne
Monday, March 01, 2004
Sunday, February 29, 2004
In Which Our Heroine Gets Through Feburary
January was bad. February was better, but between Valentine's Day (past) and Leap Year Day (tomorrow) it seems to be all about the romance. Valentine's Day, I won't go into. Everyone knows what that's about. In the States, it is just a time where if you're single the forces conspire against you to make you miserable. Leap Years Day rolls around every four years and is traditionally the day that women were "allowed" to propose to men. If the man said no, they were supposed to give you gloves to cover up the fact that there was no ring on your finger. Tomorrow is Leap Year Day. I have no one to propose to. Maybe that's why when I was listening to music the other day, my mind was in the right set to wonder about the obsessive nature of love. Or maybe I should say the obsessive nature of SOME loves.
Take, for example, the loves that seem to inspire a lot of music. There is a song that I used to like (it had a catchy tune) that talks about how it has been a year since the call telling her he didn't love her any more. She's been east, she's been west, but she's still not over him yet. The tune, it is still catchy, but I can't listen to the song without thinking "It has been a year, Julia. Get over it." It reminds me of the only time my heart was broken. I talked to a friend's mother, who gave some sound advice. "Whatever you do," she said as I lay there paralyzed and trashed and crumpled and unable to get out of bed, "whatEVER you do, do not, I reapeat to you, DO NOT under any circumstances listen to mushy love songs on the radio." She was right. She had the wisdom of years behind her, and she was right. I noticed later on. The songs are all either "wow I'm so wildly in love i can't stand to be apart from you for even a minute" which frankly I find this more than a bit obsessive and scary, and the "we've broken up, but I still love you and always will forever because you're so great." which I find even scarier. It was right around this time that my musical fascination with Kirsty MacColl began. She seems much more real. A sort of "love is great, it doesn't always work out, men can be horrid, but you know we women aren't entirely blameless." When friends break up or get dumped, I send them Kirsty MacColl's greatest hits collection. And when I have to deal with certain aspects of the dating world, that's the musical point I turn to. Of course, when I'm trying to stay a bit more positive I go straight for the Marisa Monte's "Balharinho Bom." It is all about love and sex, but it is all in Portugese, so I don't get too obsessive about the lyrics and the obsessiveness thereof. I just let the mood wash over me. But I digress.....
I've been in love twice. Both times it didn't work. The amazing thing is that I've said the words "I love you" to two men, but they weren't the men I loved. Actually, in thinking about it, I did tell one of the loved men that I loved him once. As I recall, I kind of murmured it, and yet he heard it. I know he heard it because he got up out of bed and left and came back that afternoon to dump me. The dumping didn't take, but I had learned my lesson. Keep your declarations of love to where it doesn't matter. Except that it does matter. That became obvious with the next guy. He was big on the love thing. I wasn't there, but I convinced myself that instead I wasn't there *yet.* The first time he said it, he didn't say it. We were having a picnic, and he had made sandwiches. There were stickers on the baggies around the sandwiches, and he went to great lengths to make sure that I got the right sandwich, and the sticker was there for me to read. There was a little puppet saying "I love you." I admit, I just leaned sharply to the left and dodged that bullet. The next time he tried, we were goofing around about something silly I had done, and he said "Yes, you're a goof, but still I love you." This time, you could hear the whooshing sound that bullet made as I leaned to the right - it was that close. The next time, the pressure was applied directly. I drove him to the airport. He got out, all suited and booted for his business trip, kissed me goodbye and uttered those infamous three little words. The words lay there. He flew away. I drove back to my sister in laws (it was her car). There were a couple of postcards protesting love (it was a week long business trip) that arrived a few days later and when he came back, the pressure was on. I held out as long as I could, but I caved. And I have to say that when I said it, I firmly believed it. The belief though, wasn't enough. It turned out not to be true. Even when i look back on teh relationship, it is mostly just a blur. And of the four bits that aren't a blur, three aren't even great. I just don't even miss any part of him at all, but I did tell him I loved him., and I really tried to convince myself that that statement was true. There's something really sad about that. Actually, there's a lot sad about that. It confirmed my belief to never, ever ever say those words if I didn't mean them.
The first guy I loved tap danced across my heart in golf spikes, then came back seven years later, tried to make amends, but unfortunately backslid and did an encore of that tap number. I find it easiest to just realize that I still love him, but just can't be anywhere near him as while we've tried to talk about it, it is obvious he doesn't understand the pain he's caused, which means to me that having done it twice, he will do it again.
The second time I fell in love was far bigger and harder than the first. It was the same instant "I knew in the first minutes" sort of lightning bolt thing, and I found out later it apparently was for him too. We should have stuck there. But instead, I left for South America, where my horomone condition kicked into high gear about three weeks before coming home. By the time I got home, I was no longer myself. Too much adrenaline 24/7 just left me wondering "Hey, this guy seems pretty great. How about I'm actually nice to him once in a while?" It affected everything. Credit to him, he hung in a good long while. Longer than I would have. But at any rate, I wasn't the girl he fell in love with (heck, I wasn't the girl I fell in love with!) and it didn't work out. We talk now occasionally, but I think he's rightly on guard. It is all a shame, but life trundles on. Of course, as we all know, I'm now happily medicated and back to my old self, but he and I haven't really talked about it. I don't think we're back talking *that* much yet. It is far more superficial. No Marisa Monte there!
The thing is, for both these men, while I can't be near the one, and the other makes me sad to think about where our relationship could have gone if I was healthy (although interestingly, I'm very much in the present when I talk to him now), and I didn't really tell either one I loved them (I was too much not myself to tell the second one. I couldn't trust my own emotions then.), I don't regret either relationship. They were what they were, and I learned a lot. But I still can't understand the obsessive mentality of it all. I would have done anything for these men to protect them or keep them from hurt or harm. But I feel the same way about my friends. I realize that all kinds of things are going to happen to them, and many (most, really) are going to have nothing to do with me, or nothing I could do. This whole obsessive thing still doesn't raise any bells with me. They're men. I don't regret them. I still love them. But theyr'e not perfect, and neither am I. I still can't listen to the drippy love songs, though.
Still, no one to propose to tomorrow. My hands will never even get gloves.
Love,
Anne
January was bad. February was better, but between Valentine's Day (past) and Leap Year Day (tomorrow) it seems to be all about the romance. Valentine's Day, I won't go into. Everyone knows what that's about. In the States, it is just a time where if you're single the forces conspire against you to make you miserable. Leap Years Day rolls around every four years and is traditionally the day that women were "allowed" to propose to men. If the man said no, they were supposed to give you gloves to cover up the fact that there was no ring on your finger. Tomorrow is Leap Year Day. I have no one to propose to. Maybe that's why when I was listening to music the other day, my mind was in the right set to wonder about the obsessive nature of love. Or maybe I should say the obsessive nature of SOME loves.
Take, for example, the loves that seem to inspire a lot of music. There is a song that I used to like (it had a catchy tune) that talks about how it has been a year since the call telling her he didn't love her any more. She's been east, she's been west, but she's still not over him yet. The tune, it is still catchy, but I can't listen to the song without thinking "It has been a year, Julia. Get over it." It reminds me of the only time my heart was broken. I talked to a friend's mother, who gave some sound advice. "Whatever you do," she said as I lay there paralyzed and trashed and crumpled and unable to get out of bed, "whatEVER you do, do not, I reapeat to you, DO NOT under any circumstances listen to mushy love songs on the radio." She was right. She had the wisdom of years behind her, and she was right. I noticed later on. The songs are all either "wow I'm so wildly in love i can't stand to be apart from you for even a minute" which frankly I find this more than a bit obsessive and scary, and the "we've broken up, but I still love you and always will forever because you're so great." which I find even scarier. It was right around this time that my musical fascination with Kirsty MacColl began. She seems much more real. A sort of "love is great, it doesn't always work out, men can be horrid, but you know we women aren't entirely blameless." When friends break up or get dumped, I send them Kirsty MacColl's greatest hits collection. And when I have to deal with certain aspects of the dating world, that's the musical point I turn to. Of course, when I'm trying to stay a bit more positive I go straight for the Marisa Monte's "Balharinho Bom." It is all about love and sex, but it is all in Portugese, so I don't get too obsessive about the lyrics and the obsessiveness thereof. I just let the mood wash over me. But I digress.....
I've been in love twice. Both times it didn't work. The amazing thing is that I've said the words "I love you" to two men, but they weren't the men I loved. Actually, in thinking about it, I did tell one of the loved men that I loved him once. As I recall, I kind of murmured it, and yet he heard it. I know he heard it because he got up out of bed and left and came back that afternoon to dump me. The dumping didn't take, but I had learned my lesson. Keep your declarations of love to where it doesn't matter. Except that it does matter. That became obvious with the next guy. He was big on the love thing. I wasn't there, but I convinced myself that instead I wasn't there *yet.* The first time he said it, he didn't say it. We were having a picnic, and he had made sandwiches. There were stickers on the baggies around the sandwiches, and he went to great lengths to make sure that I got the right sandwich, and the sticker was there for me to read. There was a little puppet saying "I love you." I admit, I just leaned sharply to the left and dodged that bullet. The next time he tried, we were goofing around about something silly I had done, and he said "Yes, you're a goof, but still I love you." This time, you could hear the whooshing sound that bullet made as I leaned to the right - it was that close. The next time, the pressure was applied directly. I drove him to the airport. He got out, all suited and booted for his business trip, kissed me goodbye and uttered those infamous three little words. The words lay there. He flew away. I drove back to my sister in laws (it was her car). There were a couple of postcards protesting love (it was a week long business trip) that arrived a few days later and when he came back, the pressure was on. I held out as long as I could, but I caved. And I have to say that when I said it, I firmly believed it. The belief though, wasn't enough. It turned out not to be true. Even when i look back on teh relationship, it is mostly just a blur. And of the four bits that aren't a blur, three aren't even great. I just don't even miss any part of him at all, but I did tell him I loved him., and I really tried to convince myself that that statement was true. There's something really sad about that. Actually, there's a lot sad about that. It confirmed my belief to never, ever ever say those words if I didn't mean them.
The first guy I loved tap danced across my heart in golf spikes, then came back seven years later, tried to make amends, but unfortunately backslid and did an encore of that tap number. I find it easiest to just realize that I still love him, but just can't be anywhere near him as while we've tried to talk about it, it is obvious he doesn't understand the pain he's caused, which means to me that having done it twice, he will do it again.
The second time I fell in love was far bigger and harder than the first. It was the same instant "I knew in the first minutes" sort of lightning bolt thing, and I found out later it apparently was for him too. We should have stuck there. But instead, I left for South America, where my horomone condition kicked into high gear about three weeks before coming home. By the time I got home, I was no longer myself. Too much adrenaline 24/7 just left me wondering "Hey, this guy seems pretty great. How about I'm actually nice to him once in a while?" It affected everything. Credit to him, he hung in a good long while. Longer than I would have. But at any rate, I wasn't the girl he fell in love with (heck, I wasn't the girl I fell in love with!) and it didn't work out. We talk now occasionally, but I think he's rightly on guard. It is all a shame, but life trundles on. Of course, as we all know, I'm now happily medicated and back to my old self, but he and I haven't really talked about it. I don't think we're back talking *that* much yet. It is far more superficial. No Marisa Monte there!
The thing is, for both these men, while I can't be near the one, and the other makes me sad to think about where our relationship could have gone if I was healthy (although interestingly, I'm very much in the present when I talk to him now), and I didn't really tell either one I loved them (I was too much not myself to tell the second one. I couldn't trust my own emotions then.), I don't regret either relationship. They were what they were, and I learned a lot. But I still can't understand the obsessive mentality of it all. I would have done anything for these men to protect them or keep them from hurt or harm. But I feel the same way about my friends. I realize that all kinds of things are going to happen to them, and many (most, really) are going to have nothing to do with me, or nothing I could do. This whole obsessive thing still doesn't raise any bells with me. They're men. I don't regret them. I still love them. But theyr'e not perfect, and neither am I. I still can't listen to the drippy love songs, though.
Still, no one to propose to tomorrow. My hands will never even get gloves.
Love,
Anne
Saturday, February 14, 2004
In which our Heroine keeps plugging away
As if death and flying trips halfway around the world weren't enough, they all caught up with me and I caught "viral syndrome" which seems to be what the Emergency Room is non-committally calling the flu these days. Whatever it was, it was truly horrid, and even more problematic was the fact that I needed to get to hospital and everyone was busy and couldn't take me. And my roommate was in Canada, so I was stuck on my own until I was told (by a friend who wanted to help, but was holed up with the same flu) that taxicabs take credit cards. I've never been that ill in the back of a cab even back in those college days when I on a tear I'd have to come home from night clubs. But Alex met me at the ER while I was sort of slumped over a registration desk and was a good little doobie while I mostly just laid there and moaned and slept. The nice doctors and nurses pumped me full of fluids and drugs and sent me home. Alex was a little skeptical, and I was too delerious to notice, but I got home, slept and when I finally woke the next morning I was far far far better. I was down to being ill the way normal people are ill, and without it interfering with my other medications.
It laid me out for a week, and then training had to commence as it was far too late. I have to say, it is pretty weak stuff at the moment. But fundraising is heartwarming and going well enough. There is something to be said for the fact that none of these people knew Jock, but they're all willing to contribute. Somehow this makes me feel better.
I did do the maths, though. I raised more money for charity last year than I earned. I wish I could say the same thing while having earned more. Somehow asked me how this made me feel, and after thinking about it for a second the asnwer came out: poor but socially worthy. There are worse ways to be.
It is Valentine's Eve. And theres all kinds of people coming to me for advice on romance. Not that I know what to say. One has her husband having affairs, another is about to leave her live in boyfriend, another can't sort out a chap and has declared "this isn't as fun as it was." Makes me almost glad to be single.
Almost.
Yours in remembrance of Valentine's past,
Anne
As if death and flying trips halfway around the world weren't enough, they all caught up with me and I caught "viral syndrome" which seems to be what the Emergency Room is non-committally calling the flu these days. Whatever it was, it was truly horrid, and even more problematic was the fact that I needed to get to hospital and everyone was busy and couldn't take me. And my roommate was in Canada, so I was stuck on my own until I was told (by a friend who wanted to help, but was holed up with the same flu) that taxicabs take credit cards. I've never been that ill in the back of a cab even back in those college days when I on a tear I'd have to come home from night clubs. But Alex met me at the ER while I was sort of slumped over a registration desk and was a good little doobie while I mostly just laid there and moaned and slept. The nice doctors and nurses pumped me full of fluids and drugs and sent me home. Alex was a little skeptical, and I was too delerious to notice, but I got home, slept and when I finally woke the next morning I was far far far better. I was down to being ill the way normal people are ill, and without it interfering with my other medications.
It laid me out for a week, and then training had to commence as it was far too late. I have to say, it is pretty weak stuff at the moment. But fundraising is heartwarming and going well enough. There is something to be said for the fact that none of these people knew Jock, but they're all willing to contribute. Somehow this makes me feel better.
I did do the maths, though. I raised more money for charity last year than I earned. I wish I could say the same thing while having earned more. Somehow asked me how this made me feel, and after thinking about it for a second the asnwer came out: poor but socially worthy. There are worse ways to be.
It is Valentine's Eve. And theres all kinds of people coming to me for advice on romance. Not that I know what to say. One has her husband having affairs, another is about to leave her live in boyfriend, another can't sort out a chap and has declared "this isn't as fun as it was." Makes me almost glad to be single.
Almost.
Yours in remembrance of Valentine's past,
Anne
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
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
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
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
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