Friday? Really?

Well, we survived the first week. As far as I know, no one cried in class.

Wednesday afternoon, as we were enjoying the brownies and champagne our fabulous peer advisers had provided as an End of Day One party, someone said that it felt like we'd just spent three days in school instead of one. Yesterday was also tough--four of our five classes met--but today was a two-class day, and things are beginning to feel slightly better. We've had all of our classes at least once (Contracts three times), class elections, library orientation, the first cold call, our first Bar Review, and an ice cream social. Tonight brings a potluck dinner; next Saturday will be our tubing excursion. The social calendar is, in a word, packed.

Apparently, one of the upperclassmen takes off time every weekend--from Friday at 5 p.m. to Sunday at 2 p.m.--but I'm settling for spending a few hours in front of the TV. I find that I've appreciated quality vegging more in the last two days than I have in a while.

School's great--the classes are interesting and the reading gets better after the Latin begins to make sense--but those who say that law school is like high school are on to something. We have lockers (mine's at the other end of the building from my first class), we pack lunches, and, for some of us, the book bags are coming out of storage. For me, it's the L. L. Bean, circa 2000, with--yes--the monogram. Sexy? No, but it's almost large enough to hold all my books and it's saving my back.

In other ways, though, this week at school has reminded me so much of undergrad. There's the question script--name, hometown, college, section, rinse, repeat--the activities fair next week, and the bowl of candy in the office. Sadly, my bursar billing privileges have gone by the wayside, but I'll say that the bookstore here is so much more efficient than the B&N at Yale ever was, and they sell bags of Haribo, besides.

Speaking of undergrad, 2013 arrives this weekend, and the grocery store was packed this afternoon. I saw just enough of the Bed, Bath, and Beyond to know I wanted absolutely no part of that store until at least Monday--releasing the frosh is never a simple affair--and even if the crowds hadn't been a giveaway, the three Penske trucks parked nearby spoke of nervous parents and clueless newbies. Here's to not living in the dorms!

Orientation, Day the Second

Orientation officially came to an end after lunch today, but the calendar remains full: tubing, softball, class elections, Bar Review, potluck, horse races, and skit writing, to name a few entries. It's a lot to digest, but at least there are no awkward sex ed meetings/role-playing sketches this time through.

Oh yeah, and classes begin tomorrow. There's always that.

The day begins at 8:50, which sounds early when considering the collegiate mindset. (My section in Edinburgh had class from 4 to 6, for instance, and complained bitterly when our lit class second semester met at 10 a.m., which was tantamount to meeting in the middle of the night for some folks.) I try to remind myself that I've spent most of the last year arriving at work (one job or another) at 7:30, and that this is actually sleeping in, but the undergrad in me is still a touch displeased. Still, the long lunch break will certainly come in handy as the semester progresses--having taken a look at the Legal Research syllabus, I'm foreseeing quality library time in the near future.

Incidentally, tomorrow will probably be the day when someone wins the Cold Call Pot. I'm thinking that this is probably the one time in our entire law school career when the whole section wants to be called on.

One for the folks in Birmingham...

Here's one way to start law school. Paraphrasing one of the speeches this morning:

"Members of your class have worked for NASA, DOJ, and other government agencies. You have been in the Peace Corps and Teach for America. Some of you are in the armed forces. We have teachers, a bartender, a minister--not the same person--and a tenured professor in philosophy..."

And then, after a bit...

"Members of the class have worked for National Geographic, Jane, and...since this is Virginia...Southern Living."

Cue laughter.

Hey, it's a talking point.

Last Weekend of Freedom

By this time next week, I expect to be knee-deep in casebooks, but for now, I'm still blissfully (almost) indolent. After reading my first assignment yesterday afternoon (Contracts looks like...fun? No, that's not the word...) and hanging out downtown last night, I slept in this morning, then hit the Saturday farmers' market at Jen's suggestion.

The bad: The farmers set up shop in the one free parking lot.

The good: Plenty of veggies (particularly tomatoes of all types) and potted plants, plus an odd assortment of other stalls--lamb and free-range eggs, organic cleaning agents, tacos, bagel sandwiches, Bosnian food, pottery, and half a dozen jewelry stands, to name a few. They're only open until noon, but it's worth rolling out of bed and taking a look.

One stall is run by a fellow who sells, among other things, raw cheese. Now, technically, you're not allowed to sell raw cheese in this state, so he advertises "free cheese" in exchange for a donation toward petitioning the legislature to change the rules. When I was there around 11, a woman asked him what cheeses were available. "None," he shrugged. "They're gone by 8:30."

Charlottesville folk are serious about their raw, organic, green, pesticide-free, recycled, free-range whatever.

On the way back, I learned a new way to the law school. It's really only about two miles or so from our apartment, making it technically walkable in case of ice storm and/or Cooper failure. (I mean, yes, it's more than walkable now--I did it yesterday--but with temperatures here in the 80s and humidity in the 90-95% range, I'd show up too gross for class.) Orientation begins Monday, and for the time being, however, I intend to take full advantage of the lax parking restrictions. What commuter lot?

Happy Days Are Here Again

Late this morning, I obsessively checked LawWeb for the umpteenth time, only to discover that my two-week "Well, maybe they're giving themselves a large window" vigil was at an end. The section list was up.

I soon learned that I was a member of section J, which meant little at the time but allowed me to grab my tote bag and head for the bookstore to complete my 1L Fall Term Library. (We're not sure how the sections are divided, but my guess involves a Sorting Hat.) Fortunately, the bookstore has the 1L buying spree down to a science, and once I told the clerk my section letter, she quickly walked me down the line, pulling copies while barely stopping to check the labels. $500 later, I left with three casebooks and assorted paperbacks. It could have been worse: some of the sections, in lieu of books, had copied packets to buy next door. Good times.

As I was contemplating my purchases, I decided to head for the lounge, where I noticed that the students milling about fell into one of two camps. In the first were the 1Ls, wearing jeans or shorts, t-shirts, and sandals, carrying bookstore bags and looking generally lost. In the second were the 2Ls, who sported business suits and briefcases, and sat around scarfing trail mix and drinking coffee between interviews. There was no mingling, but then I suppose the 2Ls had more important matters on their minds.

Shortly thereafter, I headed back to the apartment and returned to LawWeb, where I found the course listings and started looking for my section. I scrolled down, seeking out the Js, and then I found it: 8:50 a.m. class, five days a week.

First thought: Aw, crud.

Second thought: This is God's idea of a practical joke after the last year of 8 a.m. freshman English classes.

It turned out that my section isn't the only one thus scheduled, and no one seems to care for the arrangements. Still, I consoled myself over dinner with good company and delicious sweet potato fries. Let's hope the nine-mile walk this morning was good for something!

Virginia Vino

Basically, I've been in a holding pattern for the better part of the last two weeks. I'm here, I'm moved in, I've located the bank and grocery store(s), and I know where my school is located. All I need now is...work to do.

Dear God, that's a sad statement.

I've been checking the school website daily, hoping the section list will be released early, but so far my hopes have been crushed. Without books or assignments to keep me occupied, I've taken to going on excursions, hoping to see a bit more of the area than the walls of the apartment. Today, I retraced my steps to Barboursville, which I visited yesterday in my quest to find ruins, which had been alluded to by a sign on the way to the antiques shops in Ruckersville, a 20-minute drive up 29...

Suffice it to say I'm going to miss this free time by this time next week, but anyway, back to Barboursville. There's a nice vineyard located on the grounds of the old Barboursville plantation, and for $4, you get to sample 16 wines (and keep the glass! Cheap stemware!). Since I made the trek alone and on a largely empty stomach, I figured sampling all 16 wines might be a mistake, even though I knew enough to sniff, sip, and toss the rest of the wine into the bucket (thanks, Davenport Wine Tasting Night!), so I chose a few and ended up buying two bottles, then walked over to the ruins to take pictures. It wasn't Urquhart, but hey, I'll take what I can get (and, lest this factoid be overlooked, Thomas Jefferson designed the place. Did the man ever sleep?)

I ended up continuing the trek north, almost to Culpepper, and spent some quality time in yet another antiques shop (though I refrained from purchasing the 1938 Minute Tapioca recipe guide, which was largely unremarkable except for the inside back cover: paraphrasing, all tapioca is grown in far-away Java, but only Minute Tapioca is produced in America, in clean American factories, so you know it's pure!).

Oh yes, I also managed to cook a turkey breast (points deducted for presentation) and make mashed red potatoes, so the day hasn't been entirely wasted. Not sure what to do tomorrow--sections, please? Pretty please?

One last note: I managed to speak to Shotgun Man, the fellow hanging out in his yard with a firearm. He's trying to kill the groundhog that's been eating his flowers. That's one way to do it...

Wildlife

To kill time/improve physical fitness/see the area, I've been taking long walks in the last few days. Yesterday's was a nine-mile slog downtown, so I decided to give my legs a break and go for something shorter and greener this afternoon.

Unfortunately, the route into the country gets a tad crowded during rush hour, and since there's no proper sidewalk, you basically have to get onto the shoulder and pray. Still, it's lovely out there, I've been seeing wildlife (Deer! Groundhog!), and the terrain is nice and hilly.

And then there's the dude who lives about a quarter-mile down the road.

As I passed by this afternoon, headphones firmly in place, I chanced to look over and spotted him sitting in a lawn chair in his side yard, positioned directly in front of what appeared to be a barrel for leaf burning. Across his lap was a shotgun.

I seriously hope he was waiting to kill rabbits or something. In any case, I picked up my pace.

Charlottesville and Blender Cookery

Once upon a time, I used to blog about doing graduate work in Edinburgh. It was fun.

Then I left Scotland, returned to the States, and found myself unemployed. Unemployment isn't exactly a subject upon which one loves to dwell, and so I didn't blog as often. And then, miracle of miracles (and before the economy completely tanked), I became gainfully employed at a Real Company.

Of course, the first rule of business as imparted to my generation is "Thou Shalt Not Blog About Thine Employer, Idiot," and since pretty much all I did was work (at two jobs!) or sing (in two choirs!), the blog fodder basically ran out. Couple that with an unreliable Internet connection, and I ended up with this, a blog that I haven't updated in nearly a year.

Long story short, I'm now in Charlottesville, about to begin law school. I have a shiny new student ID for my collection, which looks remarkably similar to the faculty ID I just removed from my wallet. I have exactly three course books--we don't learn our section-specific reading lists until Thursday--a lovely edition of Black's from my parents, and another gift of my father's, The Complete Idiot's Guide to The U.S. Constitution. At least it has friendly icons, which is more than I can say for the casebook beside it.

Orientation is still a week away, however, meaning I have plenty of time to get acquainted with the town that's striving for the coveted "Crunchiest City in America" title. After griping about Birmingham's flaws for the last two years--you've got to love a city in the top five for murders per capita--I've found Charlottesville adorable on first impression, from the downtown pedestrian mall to the abundance of fro-yo options (to offset the abundance of Five Guys, I assume). The only thing that's rather creepy about this place is its devotion to Thomas Jefferson. The man is practically deified in these parts, but hey, at least he showed interest in his university, which is more than I can say for Elihu Yale.

The aforementioned mall hosts "Fridays After Five" during the summer, a chance to come down, hear a concert, and shop late with thousands of your closest friends. Last week's gave us a heavy metal act, plus a woman on the side of the stage who was dancing like it was the Summer of Love. Hippies seem to abound, but someone has to keep the vendor of pro-marijuana t-shirts in business, right?

Anyway, we stumbled across a vintage shop while we were downtown, where I found a most amusing volume: The Blender Cookbook.

By way of explanation for this purchase, I've been a fan of Lileks.com for several years; I own four book by James Lileks, and I've subjected my friends and family to some of the more...interesting pictures in The Gallery of Regrettable Food. Basically, the site showed me how much fun it is to laugh at the culinary horrors produced during the golden age of Wonder Bread--the photography is bad, but the ingredients are often so much worse. (My last job gave me the opportunity to look through 1960s magazines, which just proved that no one working in the food industry prior to, oh, 1980 should be allowed within ten feet of a Jell-O mold.)

Anticipating what could be in store, I had to have The Blender Cookbook. Best $7 purchase in ages.

Published in 1961, this little volume--"an indispensable cookbook for every blender owner"--offers recipes ranging from breads to meatloaf, to horrors involving gelatin and tongue, simultaneously. It also offers "exceptionally fine black-and-white photographs" for a few of these dishes, like this one:



My apologies for the quality of the image--I don't have a scanner, and my camera hates me today--but that gelatinous mess garnished with citrus slices is, I kid you not, Green-Pea-Salmon Mousse. According to the caption, it "makes a colorful buffet dish to serve 12." Who are they kidding?

I'm not posting pictures of the Tongue-Vegetable Aspic.

My sister has warned me that I am not to attempt to re-create any of these concoctions in her blender. Apparently, she has something against Prune Flip. I can't imagine why.

Mid-week Snack

Few things so vastly improve a morning as a passing, "Hey, just so you know, there's food on the take table." One trump: the aforementioned food is candy from Kentucky, and is thus infused with bourbon.

One of our copy editors received a care package from the Bluegrass State today - a lovely assortment of five boxes of bourbon candies, bourbon cookies of some kind, and what appeared to be a bourbon fruit cake. She generously left them out to share, and the rest of us descended upon the stash. So what if it was only 11 a.m.? It was 5 o'clock in Edinburgh...

I understand the genesis of the bourbon ball; according to the Rebecca-Ruth legend, a fan told one of the ladies that he loved her chocolate and Kentucky bourbon, and so the two were mixed. (You can visit the factory in Franklin and...um...sample.) These weren't Rebecca-Ruth, but they were just as good. The chocolate balls I understand, and the bourbon fruit cake was, perhaps, a logical extension, but what amused me this morning were the two boxes of bourbon chocolate-covered cherries. (They weren't bad, but I wonder who came up with the notion.)

Following Gustav

Watching the hurricane coverage this morning, I'm relieved that so many people up and down the coast did the smart this this time and got the hell out of Dodge over the weekend. Yes, the surge is over the levee, but things seem to be holding for now...and fortunately for New Orleans, Gustav didn't make a direct hit. Of course, Fox just said they have two ships unaccounted for in the canal, which would be something of a concern.

My sincere hope is that the camera crews are getting combat pay for this. Geraldo just asked his cameraman to walk right up to the levee, then climb on top. One NBC reporter dragged his crew into the middle of the street and almost got blown away by hurricane winds. Someone yesterday said the media had to fill out release wavers to enter New Orleans, including next-of-kin information. You know, if the talent wants to be suicidal, that's their business, but Geraldo was saying things like, "Come on up here, right to the wall...I've got you...wow, look at the water surging over..."

Sure, Geraldo. Sure.

A Little Part of Me Dies

The following took place at FYE this afternoon, during a brief stop before heading to choir practice.

Me: Hi. Do you have a recording of Carmina Burana?
Male Clerk: Who?
Me: Carmina Burana. It's a big work. The recording I'm really looking for is by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra...
MC: Hang on, she'll help you. Hey! (Waves over Female Clerk, who steps behind the counter and opens her software)
FC: What are you looking for?
Me: Carmina Burana.
FC: Who's that?
Me: It's a...it's a piece called Carmina Burana. I looked in the Classical section, but I couldn't find anything.
FC: Spell that.
Me: C-A-R-M-I-N-A. Burana. Just check "Carmina".
FC: (Checks computer) Car-mihna Burana?
Me: Sure.
FC: Nope. Nothing.
Me: No version?
FC: None. Want me to order it?

I'm downloading it from Amazon as I type this, and for only $4. iTunes listed some 25 or so recordings. What is wrong with this picture?

Dog-sitting

Since Friday night, I've been the single parent of a border collie. There now remains no doubt in my mind that I am, as yet, unprepared for children. Seriously.

Don't get me wrong - I love this dog. She's great. She's just relentless.

When Cal was a puppy, she never stopped - never. She was probably the one dog I'd ever known who refused to nap. If you tried to sleep on the couch, she'd attack your head.

She's nearly two now, and has mellowed somewhat, but she's rather like a toddler - opinionated and just smart enough to cause trouble. The moment the floor creaks in the morning, she's awake and barking to be let out of her bed. She then likes to go for a walk (or a run, and boy, have my arms forgotten what it's like to run a border collie), followed by some quality ball time. We love our squeaky orange ball more than life. Of course, she's noticed the tennis ball on the front steps, and has realized that if I let her out to do her business, she can grab the tennis ball and make me play with her. (Hey, ever try to corral a displeased border collie?) Once I tell her it's the last throw, she refuses to return, but stands on the other end of the yard, watching. I then have to go to her, but while I'm reaching for the ball, she runs the other way and waits until I throw it. She's realized that I will simply pick her up around the middle and carry her inside if she gives me much trouble, but she's still pretty crafty for a dog.

In any case, we've played ball three times today, and she's giving me the Look.

Well, it's the only way I get any peace around here.

Scottish Fourth of July, Year the Second

Last year, seeing as it would have been silly to fly home for the Fourth, I celebrated it with my friends in Edinburgh. There's nothing quite like celebrating one's country's independence on formerly enemy soil.

Yesterday, my parents' neighbors, the Scottish ex-pats, had a backyard cookout and invited us to come over and hang out. With six Scots, two Brits, and eight Americans, the odds were fairly well matched - my sister's flag-topped trifle had to compete with star-shaped shortbread, and the chicken shared grill space with salmon. There was no haggis, but then again, I'm not sure how one would attempt to grill a haggis. Between the themed bouquet and the baby's red-white-and-blue dress, however, the afternoon was festive, and our neighbor's parents, wrapping up their five-week holiday, seemed to enjoy themselves.

As the afternoon was winding down, I opened the cooler in search of a diet soda, and felt my jaw drop. A familiar logo graced a bottlecap before me, and I pulled a bottle of Strongbow from the cooler, not believing my eyes. "Where did you get this?" I asked, hoping that the cider, unlike the annual haggis, wasn't a suitcase import. After almost a year of turning to Woodchuck for my cider fix, I couldn't believe I was holding a bottle of my favorite British beverage.

Well, it hadn't been sneaked out of the country, but they had purchased it in Florida, where the beer laws are significantly friendlier than they are here. Needless to say, I drank it, missing the Pear Tree and Three Sisters, and Teviot's 95p half-pints.

After the "Green Card Day" celebrations (our neighbor's co-workers had jokingly removed his name from the time off list for the Fourth), Jen and I headed downtown for Thunder on the Mountain, Birmingham's annual fireworks extravaganza. We called a couple of friends en route, and managed to snag Anna, who was heading home to her apartment at the time. She just so happened to be located on a hill with a fantastic view of the city, so when the fireworks began, the three of us and her friend piled into her SUV, drove to a clear spot, cranked the synchronized patriotic music, and enjoyed the pretty lights. Best of all, we didn't get stuck trying to drive out of UAB with 10,000 of our closest friends. Freedom from insane traffic? I'll take it.

Evanston weekend

It's a long, long way to Chicago, my friends, and it's a heck of a lot longer in the back of a rented Envoy.

Not that I have anything against the Envoy, aside from my mother's claims that the thing pulled left (I wouldn't know, personally, as I was ineligible to drive it), but 13 hours of anything gets old after a while. Fortunately, I had Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell to sustain me - all 850 or so pages of it - for which I'm exceedingly grateful. I can't believe it's taken me this long to read the darn thing, but I'm so glad I did. (Hey, something good came out of our Unclaimed Baggage Center trip after all!)

Why Chicago? Well, Evanston, actually - Northwestern's main campus is north of the city in a (mostly) charming suburb of ridiculous mansions. Jen got her first post-name letters this weekend, and so the three of us, plus some close family friends, made the trek from Birmingham to watch her walk.

I've got to hand it to my sister and her class - their patience knows no bounds. The first part of commencement happened Friday night at the stadium, when the undergrads and postgrads were officially graduated by the president, who wore Richard Levin-esque bling. This took roughly two hours, including a speech by Richard Daley that read more like a re-election bid (ass that he is, he still got a hood from Northwestern this weekend), and was followed by what can only be described as a reenactment of the Fall of Saigon as thousands of tired, damp graduates and their families tried to cram onto buses. It took us an hour to get seats, but we wrapped up the evening with a deep-dish dinner.

What made the day better, at least for my father, was his brief elevator conversation with Stacy London of What Not to Wear fame. Her sister graduated this weekend as well. In any case, Stacy had nothing to say about Dad's attire.

Saturday, we climbed aboard the buses yet again for Part Deux, the Weinberg graduation ceremony, in which Jen would actually walk and receive her diploma. As it turned out, what the graduates received was only a Northwestern-stamped box - their diplomas were held hostage until they turned their robes in, and even then, everyone who had received honors was informed that the modified diplomas would be in the mail. Sheesh.

As exciting as it was to see my sister and her friends walk - well, what I saw through the viewfinder was pretty exciting - the rest of the ceremony was just this side of torturous. Oh, their speaker was lovely - she's an English professor, and I'm sorry I couldn't have had a class with her - but Weinberg is the largest college at Northwestern, and better than 1,000 names were read during the ceremony. Three hours later, we collected Jen, her to-be-modified diploma, and her Stole of Gratitude, and boarded the buses, this time without the nagging suspicion that there was supposed to be a helicopter present.

Having recovered from graduation, we took Jen out to dinner, and everyone felt much better. I just pitied the poor graduates - at least I had a book to read during the second hour, and the lady in front of me had a crossword. The kids in purple had nothing to do but sit there and listen to their classmates' names get butchered in novel ways.

(All gripes aside, congratulations, Jen, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Mwah!)

Driving home today, I realized that the very sight of distant mountains in Kentucky lifted my spirits. Odd as it sounds, I find the wide, flat expanses of Illinois and Indiana depressing. Give me something to look at besides corn, please. Just a hint that the landscape varies will do.

And for the record, tea at the Ritz makes everything better, especially when taken with a glass of champagne.

Week in review

Last week was a week of assembly – putting together a flat-packed bookcase without annoying my neighbors (easier said than done), buying hanging baskets for the patio (keeping the plants alive has proven something of a challenge, however), cleaning up my crates of books, throwing away the last of the cardboard boxes, and, hours before my party Saturday evening, scouring every store I had yet to visit (and a few I had) for a patio table. I finally found one at Hobby Lobby – one within price range, unlike those $250 “sale” tables at Hollywood Pools, sheesh – and bought candles to put outside, in case the night turned cooler. Suffice it to say the candles came inside when they began melting in the heat, and the patio table has yet to be used. So it goes. Other than that, it was great to finally be able to host a get-together without inconveniencing my folks.

This was a weekend of culture, high and low. On Friday, a friend and I went to Jesus Christ Superstar (since he had free tickets, conveniently enough). I was expecting Phantom-esque spectacle. What I got was a version of the Passion, if it had been staged by Pink Floyd and a bunch of dirty hippies, and a very conflicted Mary Magdalene in a low-cut red dress. Jesus seemed a touch old for the role (maybe he was just vocally tired from the tour), but Judas, who used to sing in Living Colour, was pretty sweet. “Isn’t the music great?” my mother asked when I told her I’d seen it. Then she paused, adding, “Well, it’s great if you’re from my generation.”

Tonight, making a last-minute decision to not watch the Law & Order mini-marathon, I went to see Kung-Fu Panda. It’s pretty cute – there are certainly moments, though Jack Black’s “awesome” comments kept reminding me of Tenacious D & the Pick of Destiny. Best line? “We do not wash our pits in the Pool of Sacred Tears.” Priceless.

Aside from my…ahem, cultural pursuits, I tried Pilates tonight at the Rec. I’m feeling alright at the moment, aside from a cramped neck, but I’m foreseeing pain in the morning…

Bambi?

Driving home tonight, I decided to give my car's engine a quick trip past 40 mph and opted for the 280-to-459 route home. Slightly longer, perhaps, but it more than made up for any extra mileage with a lack of traffic lights.

Just as I was approaching the Acton Road exit, I happened to notice something, and glanced at the side of the road. There, caught like the proverbial deer, was...well, a deer, either a doe or a young buck. This is the first live one I've seen along 459, though I've seen the, erm, aftermath up at the Summit exit.

I'm still trying to figure out where they hide all day.

Apartment

After 24 years and 23 days, I have finally moved out of my parents' house.

Well, almost. I've left my baseball card collection in my closet, and a globe with "USSR" splayed across one hemisphere, and a rabbit tam, and a couple of other odds and ends, but 99% of my belongings, plus a few items I've, ahem, borrowed for the next few days are now in an apartment two miles down the road.

I've got to say, it's damned strange to be here. I'm in a two bed/one bath unit, so I have a bedroom, plus a "study", which is mostly holding Tupperware boxes filled with my accumulated library at the moment. That, and my desk, and a clothes hamper. I've yet to hang my diplomas, and I forgot to bring a lightbulb for the one lamp I have for the study, but my tackboard is up and better organized than it's been in ages, and the cable includes BBC America, so all is well for the time being.

I'm sore in places I'd truly forgotten about, like the little muscles in the forearms and lower legs. I've acquired an interesting set of bruises that coordinates well with the fading welts from my allergy test last Wednesday. (As it turns out, I'm allergic to all tree and grass pollen, all molds, almonds, cats, and - big surprise - dogs. The border collie still jumps on my bed, since I've somewhat acclimated to having her around. While I'm glad to have had the test, since the doctor can now begin the allergy shots, I'm a tad annoyed at how long it's taken the welts to go away. Being pasty doesn't help matters, I suppose.)

This weekend has been anything but restful. Since I built up a few hours at work earlier in the week, I was able to take Friday afternoon off to sign the papers and begin moving my stuff. My mother being in Virginia with my sister, I was able to borrow the Mercedes to ferry boxes, since my Cooper holds exactly two full-sized people and Brandon. (Sorry for sticking you in the back seat, Brandon.) The car's cute, but instead of a trunk, it offers a subtle nod to the idea that trunks usually come standard on vehicles, much like its subtle nod to the idea of back seats. Anyway, I made four trips over to my new place, during which time I grew to loathe the idea of being on the third floor.

There are 33 stairs between the sidewalk and my floor. I have no idea how many times I've walked them this weekend. I do know, however, that I have way too much crap for one person, and that 63 pairs of shoes may be slightly excessive. (I can't help it that my foot stopped growing early, can I?)

Once the initial schlepping was past, I hurried over early Saturday morning - 6:30, to be exact - so the Rooms to Go crew could move in my living room and bedroom. I still have no idea how those poor guys managed to get everything up here, but they deserve more than whatever they're making for being put through my move-in. That finished, I returned home, and my dad and I met a friend with a truck, who had graciously offered to come by and help me lug my furniture. As it turned out, "my furniture" included the aforementioned desk and its bookshelf, a tall chest, a hope chest, a wicker chest, and God knows how many boxes of books (I'd count them, but as I said, I don't have a lightbulb in here at the moment.) He and my dad did most of the heavy lifting - I make Dad nervous - and then I was left alone to begin the unpacking and the assembling of end tables.

Sunday, I slept in until 8, then began ferrying my clothes over. This took two trips in the Mercedes. The shoes took a separate trip, and they more than filled the trunk. So I like boots. Sue me.

By today, I'd completed most of the heavy moving (with the exception of the last remaining box of books), and so Mom took me to Target to complete my list - "little things" like pillows, cleaners, and groceries. We went to Pier 1 to find a couple of lamps for my living room, then wandered next door to Kirkland's and found a boxed set for my dresser for under $30. Once I dropped Mom off, I braved Wal-Mart in search of a co-ax cable and candles, and managed to get several of my Scotland pictures blown up and framed. I did receive bad news, however - two pictures I bought in Scotland, matted but unframed, are 9x9 and 10x12. Anyone know where to buy oddly-shaped frames?

I have yet to complete the unpacking, or to hang my tapestry and sword, but the air conditioning is functional and the dining room is scheduled to arrive next Saturday. In the meantime, I'm thinking it'll be nice to give my new bed a try. God knows I could use the rest before work tomorrow.

Columbia, etc.

It's been a weird few days over here in Columbia.

I had to drive through construction zones on two state borders to get here. Then I drove into North Carolina on back roads yesterday, killing time by hunting for antiques shops.

I've spoken with artists and experienced the drama of Baxter Village's resident street smoker first-hand. I have found a store that sells Doggles, and bought a sterling silver and lapis necklace for $20 at a musty shop in Fort Mill.

I have eaten meals at all three restaurants around my hotel - Cracker Barrel, Fuddrucker's, and the local Tex-Mex joint - and discovered I wasn't crazy about any of them. The waitress at Cracker Barrel shared my affinity for Sudoku, and the one at the Tex-Mex place kept calling me "sweetheart". Once, she touched my shoulder, and I was only slightly creeped out.

I have discovered that a little book of Sudoku is the greatest cure for boredom when dining alone. It works equally well as a soporific at night.

I have learned that a king-sized bed is sinfully large when you're in it alone, and that I never manage to cover more than two-thirds of it at one time.

I've been slightly grossed out by the Best Western cleaning staff, which has managed to overlook the short and curly someone left on my shower wall for the last three days. There's no way in hell I'm picking it off. I'll remove my hair from a tub, but not someone else's.

I ate a chocolate truffle with Balsamic vinegar, and liked it. I saw bottled Tennent's for the first time since leaving Scotland. I also saw an old red phone box strategically placed outside a pub that was flying all the flags of the British Isles, plus, for some odd reason, Australia's.

I have been beaten by a cheeseburger. The sandwich in question was a Main Street Jr. at Ida Roselle's Restaurant in Fort Mill. It was juicy and delicious, but enormous. "This is huge," I told the waitress. "How big is the Main Street burger?" "About a pound," she told me, taking the unfinished half of my lunch away.

I have discovered that three days is about all I can take of road food before I begin to feel gross. The best meal of the trip came today at lunch, at Enzo's in Winnsboro. If you're ever in the neighborhood and want some good Italian or barbeque, stop by. Try the fried mozzarella with pesto and the chocolate chip cannoli.

I have learned how wonderful Hertz Neverlost can be, but that it's not infallible. I've learned shortcuts the system hasn't quite figured out yet, and driven past my destination just to see where the road went. I ended up with a bottle of cold peach cider because the strawberry signs I was following ended at a U-Pick place that only allows picking on the weekends.

I have nearly memorized the order of the songs on the mix CDs in my rental car. I can sing along - harmonies included - with a good portion of Avenue Q. This I do frequently, though I try to tone it down in heavy traffic and at stoplights.

I figure that God has a reason for making me drive home through spring monsoons. I just haven't guessed it yet.

I've discovered that a black Mazda 6 with New York plates is an empowering vehicle. People expect you to be an asshole and to drive like one, and so they let you into traffic without a fuss. Then again, maybe South Carolinians are just nice to outsiders like that.

Last, but not least: I now have two vacuum cleaners in the trunk of my rental car. As I was killing time before dinner tonight, I happened to pass by a Tuesday Morning, which just happened to have a Bissell vacuum at half price. I bought one, plus a French press, and called my mother to tell her about all the money I'd saved. She then had me go back and buy one for my sister, which meant another conversation with the scattered clerk whose ex-husband, the druggie, was only caught when he took money out of an out-of-the-way ATM five times, and whose Bissell works like a charm, and who took all day to put it together in the first place. She also sprays Lysol in her hair in lieu of hairspray.

I'm coming home tomorrow. Let the rain begin!

A most excellent birthday weekend

My travel plans worked out last week, allowing me to come home Friday night in time for my birthday. Not that I have anything against Frankfort or the Derby, but I didn't particularly want to spend the weekend alone in a hotel. That's just depressing.

For a couple of hours, however, I thought I might not make it. I knew we were due for some thunderstorms, but I had no idea how intense the band was, nor how quickly it would hit. I had left Danville by 10:30, cleared 127 and the Cumberland Parkway, and gassed up before turning back onto I-65 for the straight shot home, and then it began to rain. Less than an hour later, roughly 20 miles from the Tennessee line, I pulled off at a Wendy's for lunch and managed to get inside just before the deluge. Lightning struck near the building, making the restaurant's power blink and my cell phone go haywire. When the manager turned the TV back on (who knew Wendy's was investing in flat screens?), she turned it to the Weather Channel, and we began to hear reports of how bad this system had been: tornadoes in Oklahoma and Arkansas, wind damage, hail...the list went on of thing one would rather not drive through. As soon as the rain lightened past flood conditions, I sprinted back to my rental car and tried to make tracks south, hoping to outrun the weather heading east. Of course, I was stalled getting back to the Interstate because half the traffic lights were out and everyone had to play chicken at lunchtime, and once I did get back on, the rain returned with a vengeance. Two or three times before I reached Nashville, the rain was so bad that everyone around, including the semis, slowed to under 40 mph and drove with hazards on. Driving through 20 miles of roadwork did nothing to improve my nerves, but everything cleared north of Nashville, and the skies were beautifully blue in Birmingham. Go figure.

Of course, what was lovely about coming home sans wet rental car was finding my new MINI in the driveway. Since Jen's taking the Beetle to grad school, my folks found a great car for me. It's adorable, it sips gas, and it has all the bells and whistles - the auctioneer who bought it knew what he was doing! The only downside for the time being is that I'll have to take it to Atlanta to get it serviced properly, but that's not for another 10,000 miles or so.

The weekend only got better from there. I did have to get up for a 9 a.m. Requiem rehearsal - which meant driving through the mess I'd skirted the day before, plus fog - but my mother made breakfast (including mimosas, maybe not the best thing to drink before rehearsal!), I unwrapped a new necklace to wear, and Coke always helps when you don't really want to be conscious. It's been two years since I last sang the piece, and I was surprised how much I still have memorized, including those awkward tenor lines for which the altos were recruited in high school. Thanks, Dr. Thomas!

When I came home, Mom declared we were going to get a new GPS (since I could never make my TomTom work again), then go furniture shopping, even though I don't technically have an apartment yet. First, we drove down to Alabaster to check out this warehouse...

Note to self: never, ever go furniture shopping at a place that bills itself as "Between: Alabama Thrift Store and Save-O-Lot" [sic]. Not only was their location sketchy to the nth, they couldn't even spell their neighbor's name correctly. Their brochure was a study in how to butcher English. I swear, I see fewer mistakes in my ESL clients' papers, and they've got a legitimate excuse to make errors. Pathetic.

We quickly turned around and headed back to Rooms To Go, picked out my rooms, did some shopping for Jen's apartment, and headed home. (We bought yesterday...my mother doesn't mess around.) I vegged for the rest of the afternoon, including a most lovely nap, and then it was off to a very late dinner at Hot and Hot Fish Club. I hadn't yet been, but the chef worked with Frank Stitt, and it shows. Great restaurant, if way out of my usual price range. (Shrimp and grits...yum.)

Yesterday, we had orchestra practice at 3 p.m., then a concert at 7. I've never quite done the Requiem twice in one day, but whatever. It was a benefit concert.

Frankfort day

The longer I walked around Frankfort yesterday, the sadder I was to be missing the Derby celebrations on Saturday. This town goes nuts for it - from Derby hats to mint julep cups, the Governor's breakfast, and free 7 a.m. libations, Frankfort becomes one big party for "the most exciting two minutes in sports." I'm sure it's even nuttier elsewhere in Kentucky, but the fever doesn't quite reach Birmingham - which is probably good for me, as I don't look so great in hats.

Having only one full day in Frankfort, I resolved to cram as much into it as I possibly could. Beginning at 7 a.m., I did the following:

1) Breakfast at a downtown diner that reminded me the Yankee Doodle, minus the attitude.

2) Got the car and drove out to Switzer Covered Bridge, which would be lovely if not for the graffiti.

3) Drove back to town and finally found a parking place outside the New Capitol. Why was it so crowded on a Thursday morning, you ask? As it turns out, all the baby lawyers were being sworn in yesterday. "I just passed the bar!" the guy before me in the security line gleefully announced.

4) Headed up the road to Rebecca-Ruth Candy for a 9:30 a.m. tour and sample of the bourbon balls.

5) Drove north to Buffalo Trace for an 11 a.m. tour of the distillery. Now, I find the production end intriguing - I had the chance to see a couple of distilleries in Scotland last year - but I can't handle the finished product. Whiskey gives me a monstrous headache (and I'm not talking about a hangover - one taste of Johnny Red started the pounding). It's come to the point now where the smell can send up warning signals, so when we spent a good ten minutes inside one of the warehouses...yeah. At the end, the guide offered the three of us on the tour samples of Rain vodka and Buffalo Trace. The lady and I demurred from the bourbon initially, she because of some remnants of bourbon-inspired sickness in her misspent youth, me for the headache reason, but eventually we both tried it. I took a tiny sip, strongly recalled other whiskies of my past, and set it aside. "What happened?" my guide sadly asked. I had to explain that it was very nice, but that I simply couldn't handle it. Rain's not bad, though.

6) After the tour, I called a fellow I'd met at the wine bar the night before who works at the Salato Wildlife Education Center, and he arranged for his boss to show me around. Salato's neat - they have lots of hands-on exhibits, as the hordes of grade-school munchkins were demonstrating, and they keep animals out back. My favorites had to be the bears - sort of like big, deadly puppies, my guide and I concluded - and the wildcats. UK's mascot, Blue, lives there, as does a companion. They were curled up, dozing in the sun, when we walked by, looking for all the world like slightly overgrown housecats. Adorable.

7) By this time, it was past 1 p.m., so I headed back downtown for a quick lunch before touring the Old Capitol. Our guide was very nice, but the poor thing couldn't quite pronounce "yeoman" or "Marquis de Lafayette".

8) I thought I would check out a tea room before they closed, so I drove a few miles back out of town. They had, in fact, closed, but still got me a pot of tea. The place was cute, but had an overabundance of doilies.

9) Thirst quenched, I drove back to Frankfort and browsed the shops for a bit. By now, it was close to 4 p.m., my feet ached, and I was beat. I crashed in my room with one of A&E's crime shows in the background, then got up and did a bit of editing for a friend before heading out for dinner.

10) I had hit the best restaurant in town Wednesday night, so I was at a loss for dinner. I didn't want to eat in the hotel - it's sad to do that, and anyway, the prices were ridiculous - so I drove out to a seafood place on the river. At the wine bar, one of the restaurant's employees had warned me against it, but I was curious. Let's just say he was right. I don't want to sound snobby, but those were the most obviously pre-frozen shrimp I've ever eaten, including the ones I've defrosted myself.

11) Hunger satisfied but nose going nuts with its reintroduction to oak pollen, I took the long route home, then holed up with my computer and began making notes on Frankfort before finding my emergency pack of antihistamines and going to bed.

It's off for a brief stop in Danville this morning, then home, hopefully before the rental car place closes...