Happy New Year!

What a weird year 2007 has been. This time last year, Jen and I were hanging out at our hotel in Gulf Shores, waiting to go to Lulu's for dinner (and then on to watch the anchor drop...very thematic). We went back to our respective schools a few days later...and then I wrote a ton, ate more Tesco couscous than could be good for me, vacationed in Spain, made it to Africa mere months before Jen (who actually spent a legitimate amount of time down there), showed my parents around Scotland, appeared in The Golden Hour Book (and attended a book premiere that had my name on the poster! ), came home, met some fun people, "networked", visited Vicksburg, got a temporary gig with Thicket, ran the Vulcan 10K, graduated in absentia, appeared in V (book #2 of the year!), met Randy Owen at his museum, got an internship with Southern Living, and appeared in Lipstick with a snake around my neck.

Strange...

I went through my pictures today to begin scrapbooking the last year, and ended up bringing 232 to Wolf to be printed. This was a sample. It's frightening how many pictures I took in Scotland.

Tonight, I'm ringing in the new year with Anna and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, which should be awesome. My sunglasses are ready to go, because, as I've been noting for months, nothing quite says "Christmas music" like "laser cannons". Afterwards, Mom's putting out a midnight breakfast, and then it's to bed for my last day before Real Work begins. Wednesday, I'm to be at SPC at 8 AM, chipper and ready to go. This isn't exactly a friendly hour, so I'm trying to convince my parents that horrible things won't befall me if I go running in the evening. Getting out of bed at 4:30 is never fun.

Still, that's better than 24 hours away. Happy New Year!

Betty Crocker has a bad day

While my mother and sister looked for breakfast recipes tonight, I came across the 1973 edition of Betty Crocker's Cookbook and found the following two nausea-inducing ideas. The first, from the "Molded Salads" chapter, just sounds wrong:


Lemon-Blue Cheese Ice

Stir 1 pint lemon sherbet to soften. Mix in 2 to 3 tablespoons finely crumbled blue cheese. Place in refrigerator tray. Freeze several hours or until firm.

To serve, spoon onto bibb lettuce; garnish with marinated artichoke hearts.

4 servings.


As I discovered by reading James Lileks' book, molded salads are almost always a bad idea (Triple Orange Ambrosia being the exception to the rule). In this cookbook, however, Betty proves that regular salads can be monstrosities as well. From "First Course Salads":


Celery Victor

1 bunch celery
1 can condensed beef broth
Italian salad dressing
Pimiento strips

Wash celery bunch; trim off root end but do not separate stalks. Remove coarse outer stalks and leaves, reserving leaves for garnish. Cut celery bunch crosswise once so bottom section is 5 inches long. (Refrigerate the top section for use at another time.) Cut bottom section into quarters; tie quarters with string.

Pour broth into skillet; add celery bundles. Cover; heat to boiling and cook about 15 minutes. Drain celery; place in shallow dish. Pour salad dressing over celery. Refrigerate 3 hours, turning bundles once or twice.

To serve, place a bundle cut side down on each plate; remove string. Garnish with pimiento strips and reserved celery leaves.

4 servings.


I only wish I could show you the picture. It's the saddest bunch of beef-and-Italian-dressing-soaked celery topped with pimiento strips I've ever seen.

Christmas Lights 2007

Click to Play

Christmas redux

Merry Christmas, everyone! It's been a good last few days - church, family, friends, ridiculous amounts of food, and...yeah, presents. Santa brought jewelry and the Chicago Manual of Style this year. I got my dog a stuffed squeaky moose, which she disemboweled in about ten minutes, and a rawhide candy cane-shaped bone, which she has just about consumed.

I got the Jeeves clock this year - if you haven't seen this yet, go to Voco.uk.com and check it out. It wakes you with tweeting birds, then "Good morning, madam..." in the voice of Stephen Fry. He then continues with about 50 phrases. So amusing, if slightly more confusing than my old digital alarm clock.

I registered for the Mercedes Half-marathon this afternoon, so now it's official - I have about six and a half weeks to prepare for the race. Something tells me I'm going to be seeing a lot of the lake next month...

...and I'm spent

I did it. It took a water bottle, copious use of the iPod, and some creative visualization, but I actually made the half-marathon mark today.

And in 1:58:00 to boot.

What everyone says is true - running is a mental game. Promising myself incentives ("You can have water when you reach five miles...") got me through the first part, but the last ten laps were willpower more than anything else, as I'd only planned to do ten miles today. To top it off, I started getting hazy somewhere around the seventh mile, but that cleared, fortunately. I can only imagine how bad it gets around twenty.

I'm a bit sore now, mostly in the usual spots, but as an annoying side effect, I've been flushed all day. The fun part came when I rested for a moment before walking home and caught up with the two high school girls who had been doing laps as well. I'd been lapping them for the better part of an hour, and so they asked me if I were training. I said yes and explained that I'd done thirty laps around the lake, and their eyes bugged.

Someone actually thinks I'm hard core. This never happens.

Midweek

You can tell it's almost Christmas. The traffic, particularly around the malls, verges on atrocious, especially around lunchtime (when we're all trying to get back to work, which is, unfortunately, next to a mall). The neighbors have flown back to Scotland. The lights are reaching critical mass; when Jen comes home, I'll have to do a 2007 edition of bad lighting displays, hopefully with a functional video camera this year. The office break room is stocked with dwindling supplies of chocolate goodies from corporate gift baskets. The parties are coming fast and furious.

Speaking of which, tomorrow night is the Executive Traveler Christmas party, and I'm making crabmeat dip for the second time in a week. It's a pretty simple recipe, and since some of my friends have dubbed it "crack dip" - it's white and addictive - I'm figuring it's a sure bet for tomorrow. Sad to say that my time in the ET building, which began way back in 2004, is nearing its end, at least for the time being (and how many times has that happened, now?), as my (paid!) internship with Southern Living begins on January 2. Happy New Year to me...

I'm not making this up

It's time for an installment of...


Things You Never Want to Hear Your Guest Conductor Say

"You're from Alabama. Sing with Southern vowels!"

"I may be a rookie choral conductor, but I need more 'S'."

"Get the first note and the last note. The ones in the middle don't matter. Just end in the same place."

"Don't give me early first consonants."

"Think of the interval as a seed stuck between your front teeth..."

"Stress all the notes the same."

"This is in English. The text is the most important thing."

"As I was having a smoke break..."

And finally:
[As the audience begins applauding, turns to choir and mouths] "What do I do now?"


Despite our week of grumbling, the concert actually went quite well.

It's a...placemat!

My diploma arrived in the mail today. My diploma certifying that I've earned a Master's degree, which is, in all probability, the last degree I'll ever receive...

...and it's laminated.

Honest to God, it's laminated. My parents keep threatening to switch it for my placemat. It's bad enough that the paper's yellowish and watermarked with the manufacturer, and that the thing's vertically aligned, but next to my Yale diploma - hell, next to my high school diploma - it looks cheap. Very cheap.

Accompanying the diploma-cum-placemat was a paper reminding me that for £20, I could have a nice version on parchment, in Latin, with a leather seal.

My parents independently decided that springing for this version would be a good idea.

I can haz Ricola?

Yes. Yes, I can. Staring down the barrel of three Messiah rehearsals in the next four days, I treated myself to a bag of Swiss goodness at lunch. They're sugar free, so I don't feel guilty.

Actually, my throat just feels tingly. Yum.

The concert Sunday night was a smash - after Saturday's 8-10 PM rehearsal, I was going to be upset if it had gone poorly - and so I'm looking forward to Messiah on Friday. The ASO's always good. Most of my choir has done Messiah for the last three or four years, so I don't feel quite so bad about not having the runs down pat. If I can keep healthy through Sunday, everything will be alright. Hence the Ricola.

My copy of V, the new Edinburgh Creative Writing anthology, arrived today. It's shiny and bound, and much thicker than The Golden Hour Book, but I love them both. If only my diploma would arrive, all would be well.

Time for more Ricola.

Lessons and Carols

For the first time in seven years or so, I managed to make it back to my elementary/middle school for Lessons and Carols, the annual event of singing, reading, and much Anglican pomp. It's always well done - the kids prepare months in advance, and the Ensemble is excellent (if I do say so, being an alumna and all). Today's program was no different; the choirs sang well, the recorder ensemble kept it in tune, and the kindergartners yawned and waved to their mothers, who pushed into the aisles to see the little darlings.

I sat beside the grandmother of a third grader, who had made it to the program for the first time. I managed to keep from chuckling during the kindergartners' "Baby Jesus", which comes complete with hand motions, and smiled at the grandmother. "They do that one almost every year," I explained.
"Did you?" she asked.
I ran the numbers. "Yes, about twenty years ago."

Before I headed down today, I realized that the current crop of eighth graders were three when I graduated - for the first time, there was no way any of the kids at Advent could have remembered me. Mine was the class of '98, scarily enough. I didn't go down for "O Holy Night", as there appeared to be no other alumni in attendance, but I managed to make it to the front of the church to say hello to Mr. Phillips, the choirmaster, before he left.

Seldom have I seen anyone's jaw drop like his did. It was terrific seeing him again, though sobering to realize that his older daughter, at whose christening I sang as a ten-year-old, is now 14. After some hugs and a few more hellos, I headed for the office to see my old headmistress.

"Is Mrs. Battles in?" I asked the receptionist.
I remembered her, but she gave me a suspicious look. "She's with someone. Can I help you?"
"Uh...no, that's alright. I'm an old alum, I just wanted to say hi..."
By this time, a few of the office ladies had moved into earshot. "What's your name?" the receptionist asked.
"Lauren Simpson."
"NO!"

What followed was two minutes of greetings, exclamations about how I'd grown up, and a wedding ring check by the headmistress. "We wanted a baby!" she protested. "Is there a serious boyfriend?"

I had to let her down gently. And now, for the rest of the day, I'm going to be hearing a soft chorus of "Baby Jesus, baby Jesus..."

Georgia on my mind

It's always fun to go to Atlanta, especially when it's to do a bit of shopping. Mom and I headed over for a day of mall hopping at 6 AM, meaning I got up at 4:30 and acted surly for the first hour of the morning. Three hours later, having survived the continual construction on I-20 and the new construction on I-285, we hit Lenox Square and the fun began.

By 4 PM (EST), with our trunk loaded and soft drinks in hand, it was time to head home. We hadn't counted on the 285 traffic being horrible, however, and with the traffic volume, it took us 50 minutes to go 20 miles. We made it through, thank God, and after three hours of dodging semis, we made it home, where we enjoyed the first of our Neiman Marcus mini bundt cakes, Chocolate Champagne.

Yum. Five to go.

Not feeling the glee yet

Last night begins a two-week hell period for my choir, to be capped off by my church choir's morning "cantata" less than 48 hours after Messiah. We rehearsed with the two college choirs for the first time last night, and everything currently appears to be in a happy state of semi-chaos. The directors aren't breaking out in hives yet, so perhaps there's still hope for us.

Saturday, due to some scheduling conflicts, the dress rehearsal won't begin until 8 PM, to be concluded around 10. The concert is the next afternoon, after church and before church choir practice. Monday's a piano rehearsal for Messiah that will last the better part of three hours, and Tuesday and Thursday are orchestra rehearsals for Friday's concert.

All this is to say that I'm going to be very, very tired of the Alys Stephens Center by this time two weeks on.

Providence

There's a saying: God watches out for children and idiots. At 23, I'm not entirely certain which category I fall into, but in any case, my trip to Fort Payne couldn't have been any better if I'd planned it.

I got into town ahead of schedule, even driving at the speed limit. (I was keeping it on 70 - some Ricky Bobby wannabe had whizzed past me, followed five seconds later by a cop. Schadenfreude, indeed.) Once there, my first task was to find the newspaper office, which I proceeded to do. Eventually. As it turns out, having no sign is a big problem for ignorant out-of-towners, and I ended up asking directions at the Shell station, then driving down a single-track gravel road for half a mile before realizing I was going the wrong way.

I did find the paper in the end, and the publisher gave me a very nice interview. Afterwards, I decided to go downtown and check things out. I made a note of where the tourist information center was, then headed towards Fort Payne, cobbled-together Google map in hand, and tried to find the Alabama Museum.

Well, I drove right past that without even seeing it (which my map confirmed once I squinted at the microscopic streets), so I parked near the Depot Museum and began taking pictures. Since I was already at the museum, I figured I should check it out, and that's when the providential aspect of this trip began.

The museum's a tiny structure, a three-room deal packed with artifacts, costumes, and the neatest player piano I've ever seen. Once I explained why I had come - the all-black getup made me stick out just slightly - the lady heading it up was more than happy to show me around and explain the exhibits. She then insisted on introducing me to a woman I'd seen on my way in, who turned out to be the mayor's wife.

This is what I love about small towns. Emma, who could not have been nicer, insisted on taking me to City Hall and letting me meet her husband. She then drove me to the Alabama Museum, where who should we see in the gift shop but Randy Owen, the band's lead singer, signing autographs. I toured the museum, after which Randy told Emma he'd be eating at a little restaurant downtown in a few minutes, so she took me there for lunch.

Randy had recommended the spinach salad, but I had a sandwich instead. When he and his wife arrived, he looked at my plate and remarked that I hadn't tried the salad (which is the "Randy Special" on the menu.) I replied that my companion had, and Randy said it was difficult to get a good spinach salad. He then had me introduce myself to the cook, and while the bill was being paid, I sheepishly slipped over to the Owens' table and got an autograph. "Don't worry," his wife told me, "this happens all the time."

I had asked to be pointed in the right direction for DeSoto, but my guide would hear nothing of it and took me on the driving tour herself. "You'd never find it," she explained. "When I saw you, I thought, 'That girl's in over her head.'" True, and I was grateful for the tour - the roads are long, winding, and lonely, and the odds of my finding either of the waterfalls would have been slim.

I finally parted company with Emma around two (she was going to put up her tree), then drove back to town to take a few last photographs. While I was outside the restaurant, a group of folks on the sidewalk watched me, and as I walked past, one commented, "The lady in black." I turned and smiled. "Where you going?" he asked.

"Home."
"Where's that?"
"Birmingham."

"You don't sound like it."
Rather than launch into the details, I explained, "I studied in Scotland last year, and it messed me up."

"Oh, so did I!" the girl with him smiled.

She had been in Stirling. Small world after all. Very, very, small world.

On the road again

Tomorrow morning, I'm off on my second press-related trip, the first since 2005's glorious Nevis vacation. Where, you might ask?

Fort Payne.

I've lived in this state my entire life, and I've yet to make it to Fort Payne. It's in the northeastern corner of the state, a bit south of Lookout Mountain, and roughly an hour and a half away. I've been past it - we dropped Jen in Mentone for summer camp, and I've been to Chattanooga a few times - but I've not had an occasion to visit the former Sock Capital of the World.

This all changes tomorrow. If all goes according to plan, there will be sock factories. And the Alabama (the group, not the state) museum. And possibly the old depot museum. Maybe even DeSoto State Park, if I'm lucky and can convince someone to take me. I'm relying on the kindness of strangers for directions, as my map, at this point, is an overlaid string of cropped screenshots from Google Maps, which is only going to get me so far.

Tomorrow is the cap to a mixed week. Monday was fairly uneventful, Tuesday night held Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (the musical, and the Birmingham News' critic was dead wrong when he panned it, Wednesday was University of Edinburgh graduation - in absentia, that is - last night was spent with the first half of Cormac McCarthy's The Road, and today was divided between giving a last-minute phone interview on Birmingham politics and doing some last-minute planning for my spur-of-the-moment road trip. (I also finished The Road, which is quite good. I can see why it won the Pulitzer and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize.) This weekend promises to be fairly calm, which will be lovely, as next weekend begins the BCC concert series.

Series? Oh, yes.
Dec 8: Practice
Dec 9: "Christmas at the Alys Stephens Center", church choir practice
Dec 10: Practice
Dec 11: Practice
Dec 13: Practice
Dec 14: Practice
Dec 15: Messiah
Dec 17: Church Christmas program, both services

I love the singing, but sometimes I dread December. Everyone tries to cram something into the same three weeks.

Good times at Kinko's

With our winter concerts looming, I figured it was high time to have my nice Watkins Shaw Messiah score spiral bound and given black covers, as the orange covers just don't do it on stage. I left the house a bit early to run to Kinko's before work, and even thought to remove my paperclips before I brought the score inside.

That's when the fun began.

I should have known something was amiss when I stood at the counter, being eyeballed by this lunkhead in the back of the store, for three minutes before he finally sidled up and asked if I needed some help. "Yes," I replied, trying to limit my annoyance to a slightly curt edge in my voice, "I need to have this spiral bound and given black covers."

He looked at me as if I were speaking French. "Spiral bound?"

"Yes, my director said you could do it here."

The score lay on the desk between us, the illustration seeming to glare balefully at Lunkhead. He picked it up and walked off to talk to his supervisor about how one would accomplish this miraculous feat (cut the binding off and spiral-punch it), how much it would cost ($6 and change; I did the math while he still thought it was $5), and what size covers one would use (8.5 x 11, though the score is slightly narrower).

By this time, I had realized that Lunkhead was actually Trainee Lunkhead, who not only had the speed, grace, and intelligence of a turnip, but also had no idea what he was doing. While his bosses (yes, he needed two people to help him with this most difficult of projects) worked out the details, he began to enter the numbers at the register to put in my work order. At one point, he picked up the score, noted that the front and back covers were identical, and asked me how to tell which way it opened.

I demonstrated. What I didn't tell him was "Look, moron, in the English-speaking world, books tend to be left-bound," as I had by then spent ten minutes at the Kinko's counter and I was most definitely running late for work.

Finally, his immediate supervisor (Dawn, associate since 2006) came over to help him finish the work order. "Did you get her phone number?" she asked.

"No, I got her name," replied Lunkhead. He then tried to look me up in the system, but failed, either because A) it's been years since I've put in a work order at Kinko's, or B) he couldn't spell my name. You know, the name I'd already spelled for him.

At this point, Dawn said he'd have to create a new customer. "L-a-r-e-n?" he asked.

"L-a-u-r-e-n," I sighed, fighting the urge to leap the counter in my dress and knee-high boots and do it myself.

"L-a-r-e-n," he muttered under his breath as he entered my information. He then had to retype my phone number, as he neglected to add the area code first. You know, the default area code. I wasn't trying to make his life difficult with my British phone or anything.

Eventually, after fifteen friggin' minutes at the counter, he got me into the system and my poor score off to be butchered. At this point, Dawn, who had stood over him as he typed, told him to hold out his hands. She then proceeded to smack one and said, "This is for entering an order at the main register."

"So...I can pick it up this afternoon?" I asked. Dawn nodded, and I hastily made my exit before Lunkhead could come up with any further questions.

I'm all for trainees - I've been there, and I'll be there again - but God, why would you have a trainee on the front desk in on a weekday morning?

Postscript: I saw Lunkhead at the counter again that afternoon. He vaguely recalled something about the order when I told him what I needed, then produced my score, mercifully bound correctly. No one at that Kinko's will ever find me in the system again, however, as my name, according to Lunkhead, is Laruren.

Monday again?

As everyone's Google away message seemed to point out today*, the holiday weekend was over and Monday was upon us once again.

(*Okay, nearly everyone's. Some away messages were movie quotes, but you get the point.)

We saw Jen off to Chicago this afternoon, back to her last round of papers for the quarter and then on to Colorado for the country's largest ski trip. Hundreds of college students will descend upon the slopes, and we're just hoping she makes it home with all her bones intact. Casts stopped being sexy in junior high, and besides, what would the Chi O dress Nazis think? Unless she could get it in cardinal, of course...

As for me, it was back to work, largely looking into LEED certification. The photo editor, on the other hand, was off to Hawaii. Some people's holiday weekends don't end after all.

Please, sir...

In spite of my suggestion that we see Beowulf, the girls and I went to see August Rush tonight. It's cute. It's incredibly sappy. It's entirely impossibly (telepathy-inducing rhapsody, anyone?) and completely predictable. It also has a few choke-up moments, so as a chick movie, it's not completely hopeless.

Nevertheless, something about the plot had been nagging me since August, also known as Evan, was first shown in the boys' home. When I saw Robin Williams, in a performance some have described as channeling Bono, playing a street musician and running a "home" for street musicians in training, it hit me: August Rush is nothing more than a retelling of Oliver Twist with a hefty dose of cellos and Irish rockers thrown in. Granted, the new ending is slightly happier, but that's Hollywood for you. And with a musical prodigy and the aforementioned telepathy-inducing rhapsody involved, how could you have an ending that is anything but happily contrived?

Bottom line: cute way to spend two hours, if you can suspend all disbelief and accept that the orphaned spawn of a cellist and an Irish rocker can learn to play any instrument - and write music - on sight. Dickens fans may gripe. And for all our sakes, I'm really glad Robin Williams' earrings aren't genuine.

Thanksgiving

Finally, it's here again - the holiday season officially kicks off today, and I'll stop bitching quite so vehemently about people who are already burning their Christmas lights. (I'm sorry, but burning lights before Thanksgiving, let alone December 1, makes the baby Jesus cry.)

It's good to be home for Thanksgiving this year. Not that last year was bad - I've never had a Thanksgiving with such an interesting turkey, a class reading, and so much alcohol consumption around me - but after my abysmal attempt at Cajun stuffing last Thanksgiving, it's very good to let my mother handle the cooking. I'll vacuum, rake, wipe plates, Throw The Ball, but God, let her do the cooking. Jen also made excellent hummus and pita chips last night, so at least there's hope for this family.

Speaking of which, everyone should be arriving in about two hours. My poor mother had to work both this morning and this evening, so we're having more of a Thanksgiving tea, if one judges solely by time slot. In any case, there will be crabmeat dip, and a turkey leg has been reserved for me. So excited.

This is great

Usually, when you see some new, random product for sale, it's something you don't need. But then, every once in a while, someone comes out with something so random, so perfect, you wonder why you didn't think of it first.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Snot Spot.Rather than blow your nose on your sleeve or your neighbor while running, now you can blow it on a fleece doohickey on your hand. Then you can take it home and wash it, because if you let it get crusty, that would just be gross.

I saw this at The Trak Shak yesterday and laughed. Then I almost bought one. Almost.

Hey, Christmas is coming...

The Game Weekend 2007

Click to Play

I had a fabulous, albeit whirlwind, trip to Yale this weekend. Having already secured housing with two (very awesome) senior friends of mine, I was thrilled to also receive temporary access to the building, allowing me to come and go without having to inconvenience anyone too much. (And a couple of dining hall meals was a much-appreciated boon as well!)

Thursday night kicked off with a Glee Club dinner, cooked in Calhoun's tiny, slightly disgusting, student kitchen. Candice being actually skilled at food preparation, she directed events and pulled off a nice pasta dinner with pumpkin soup and two kinds of sauce...and I, being less adept at food, went to Claire's for cake. I can buy dessert.

After dinner, Candice made sushi, and then there was time for television in the Dive before running off to see a bunch of friends. Having already seen Barbara, Rhonda, Jim, and the Master, I felt the weekend was going well already.

Friday morning was almost a disaster; I was supposed to meet one of my favorite professors for coffee, but neglected to put my alarm clock on Eastern Time. Fortunately, I realized my mistake as I was heading out the door, and so I ran off to our meeting instead of touring New Haven for my "free hour". After coffee, I had a chance to chat with Lisa and Master Schottenfeld's parents, then had lunch with Lisa and Eytan in the dining hall, where I also saw the Dean, Julie, and their new baby.

The afternoon was spent roaming New Haven, doing a bit of browsing and shopping, and then I had a wonderful phone call from Southern Living - I have an internship this January! I ran back to Davenport to tell everyone that I was to be gainfully employed for once, though Barbara noted that my Davenport hourly rate was higher than what I'll be receiving. Man, I miss undergraduate minimum wage!

Saturday night was devoted to the YGC-HGC concert. The Glee Club was incredible; they performed "Zephyr Rounds", a 13/8 piece, very well, and Casey's Yale song was also great. One bright spot was the prank: as the HGC ended their football medley, the stage went to black, and then the group was bathed in Yale blue. A second prank happened during our football medley, when a group ran to the front and told Harvard their number, instead of the usual "2", was "867-5309". Michael Dziuban's third "Eli Yale" verse - "Haaaaaarvard Suuuuuuucks" - nearly made Jeff lose it, and was quite a hit.

It was great to be back on stage, singing with the Glee Club once again, but one of my favorite moments of the evening happened after the reception, when a group of us who had been singing formed a circle and did the Thompson "Alleluia". Yes, it seemed mildly cultish, but the sheer power of the thing, a random assortment of alumni spontaneously singing such a beautiful song, was incredibly moving to me. I seem to remember now why I love the YGC.

I slept until eight the next morning, then packed, moved my stuff across the hall to Kristy's room, and headed out to The Tailgate. On the way, I discovered that Koffee, Too? was giving away travel mugs with purchase, and so I had a nice cup of cider on the bus ride down. Once there, I stopped by the Davenport U-Haul, then found friends (and freebies!) at the Alumni Village before heading to the YGC camp, where there was much BCY-ing before the schnapps ran out. Brad, who had hosted 15 HGC guys the night before, recalled coming home that morning and finding four of them passed out in his bed. Having consumed a cup of happy cocoa and filled my new mug with happy cider, I headed for The Game, and, thanks to Ann (and her Davenport pennant supply), managed to sneak into the student section.

Though the YPMB show was interesting - the dragon certainly beat Harvard's band's show, which featured John Harvard in kangaroo boots, cutting down Yale college flags (and they were too cheap to make 12! They put different flags on the front and back!) - I left after the third quarter, having seen the Saybrook Strip and been subjected to the Pierson College cheer. 30-0 depressed me, and Lisa had made a delicious spread of warm food and other goodies. As the other D'porters trickled in, the score updated hardly improved anyone's mood. We did finally score, but 37-6 has to be one of the worst Games I've ever seen. In any case, I saw lots of other '06ers, former Master's Aides, and Erin, who finally made it back to town. I tried to pet Wally afterwards, but he was more interested in the crackers on the sidewalk.

Moral of Saturday: Harvard sucks. Still, school on Monday...

I dined at the bar at Thai Pan Asian that night, as every restaurant in town was packed to the rafters, then showered and hit the futon for a few hours of sleep before my 6:05 AM flight from Tweed. Seven hours of traveling later, I arrived home with my luggage (thank God), had a bowl of my mother's homemade French onion soup, and went for what turned into my first 10-mile run.

I'm a bit sore now, and as I've been up for the last 17 hours, I think I'm going to bed. All in all, I couldn't have asked for a nicer weekend, and I learned the real meaning of The Game: the football's a diversion, but the real thrill of the weekend is seeing everyone again.

Field trip!

As of approximately 8:05 AM tomorrow, I'll be on my first plane of the day, bound for Tweed and good old Mother Yale.

Huzzah!

This weekend is shaping up to be one big party. Hanging out with friends, catching up with folks, singing with the YGC, eating free food, eating non-free but still tasty food, indulging at Tasti-D...oh yes, and one major football game. The Game, to be exact.

The only downside to this trip north is that I can't visit Mary at the convent, but perhaps I'll be able to see her again in a couple of years. That sounds horrible, but honestly, I don't have a real reason to visit New England any longer.

Oh yes, it will be cold, though not wet. God seems to be smiling upon Yale...

Small world

At a luncheon today, I met a professor and engaged in (approximately) the following conversation:

Him: Where are you from?
Me: Here.
Him: Where did you go to high school?
Me: ISS.
Him: Where do you live?
Me: Hoover.
Him: What part of Hoover?
Me: Green Valley.
Him: What street?
Me: [Give him a suspicious look]
Him: I only ask because I live around there.
Me: [Lighten up, name street]
Him: Me, too. Which end?
Me: Patton Chapel...
Him: I'm about a block and a half down. Hey, do you know [names my mother]'s house?
Me: [Laughing by now] She's my mother.
Him: Really? [Lowers his voice] Do you drive the green Beetle?

I've never been recognized by my car before. The only thing that comes close is the adorable preschooler at church who's in love with the car, to the point that she encouraged her mother to chase me one morning.

Revolution Number Nine

...or twenty, as the case may be. Either way, the (currently) mystical nine-mile mark has eluded me on my last two attempts.

In case it isn't patently obvious, I'm a Type A, probably with a good old-fashioned case of OCD. When I want something to happen, I generally make it happen. This can have either good or disastrous results, as those who hung out with me on Australia tour may recall.

I've been seriously trying to run for the last month. The 10K was over a week ago, my feet have healed significantly, and my arches no longer require five layers of padding in my new shoes. These are good things. The bad thing is that I saw how quickly the 10K training went, then looked ahead to the half-marathon in February and thought, "Hmm...I can add a mile a week."

Ha.

Eight was tough, but possible; I did it the day after Vulcan and limped my merry way home. Nine, as mentioned above, has presented something of a challenge.

My usual routine is to run the mile (mostly downhill) to the lake, then run laps as needed while dodging seniors, dogs, cars, angry geese, and the aforementioned geese's poo. The lake being 0.4 miles around, it's 2.5 laps to the mile, or twenty laps to eight miles, the bit I needed to tack on to make the weekly goal.

My first attempt on Sunday afternoon failed miserably. I managed about two miles before my sides began cramping, a bad experience but one that taught me a valuable lesson: never eat a bowl of chili and cornbread, no matter how good it is, and try to go for a long run. Determined not to let a little thing like chili stop me, I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and forced myself out of my nice, warm bed this morning for the second attempt.

The temperature was pleasantly crisp and the sun not yet up when I left the house, but sunrise over the lake dawned with lots of pink, fluffy clouds, and I started to settle in on my standard ten-minute pace as the geese waddled off for breakfast on the golf course. I pushed through six miles with no problem, trying to psych myself up for another 7.5 laps, and started ticking them off backwards: "7 to go...6.5...6 at the stop sign..."

After lap sixteen, with only four to go, the end in sight...well, there's no other way to put it: I crapped out. Exhausted and thirsty, sweatshirt around my waist, t-shirt soaked, I walked the remainder of the lap, hoping for a sudden burst of energy. As the seventeenth ended, I felt better, so I geared up and took off again.

I doubt it's a good thing when one feels weightless while running. Lap eighteen was the final straw, and I called it a morning before I did something silly, like collapse and be pecked to death by disgruntled European geese. I trudged the mile home wearing the wet sweatshirt for warmth, and briefly considered trying again Tuesday morning.

Then I thought better of it. The thing I have to remind myself sometimes is that I don't have to stick unbendingly to the plan if it means I'll kill myself in the process. This is the sort of thinking that leads to eating a pack of sugar-free gum a day and counting the calories, and believe me, that's not a happy place in which to find oneself.

I'm hoping to hit nine after I return from Yale this weekend - not ten, as I had planned, but perhaps nine. After a three-leg plane trip, I'll probably want the run. Then again, I'll actually bring water with me, for once...

Fun with sopranos

Thanks to Greg, who told me about this kid...

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8738136903695419006

All I can say is that he's going to be very sad when his voice drops, and even sadder ten years from now.

Duck problems

Today was a bit on the long, draining side, as I had my five Southern Progress intern interviews to get through. Most were quite pleasant, though one required a surprise edit test. Ah, the joys of editorial...

On my run this morning, I noticed something odd on the sidewalk around the lake, and so I stopped for a closer look after the next lap. Turns out that a pair of rather silly ducks have decided to build a nest, half-dozen eggs and all, in the middle of the sidewalk. This doesn't seem to be the most sensible choice; ducks tend to build in the saw grass (or whatever those prickly bushes are), where nothing can get to them, but this nest is exposed to every jogger and dog who passes by. Considering that I found a duck with its head chewed off only last week, I doubt these eggs are going to see hatching day.

Tonight, Sarah Louise hosted an impromptu House party, delicious cheese dip and all. This was followed by The Office, which I had yet to watch until tonight. Not bad at all.

Monday

Ugh.

Today was fairly non-thrilling - the most exciting thing I did all day was exchange the contents of my dresser for those of the cedar chest - and I was really looking forward to choir. Unfortunately, we switched into concert seating tonight, meaning our chairs were close and our seats were assigned.

As one of our leaders reminded us, when we're sitting next to new people, we feel this instinctive urge to prove that we can sing, and so we blast, thereby sending all nuances of tempo (and rhythm, and diction, and pitch) out the window. Sitting around new people, getting warmer by the minute, and still trying to sightread chunks of Messiah wasn't doing much for me, and apparently our sound was terribly off tonight. At one point, we were having issues with tempo, and several of us in the alto section, myself included, did the habitual thing - we tapped along, trying to keep a rhythm. The director then chewed us out for tapping (or, okay, stomping in places), and started freaking out because Messiah wasn't happening. We had all calmed down somewhat by the end of rehearsal, but this week's wasn't nearly as satisfying as last week's rehearsal. At least now I have the list of what movements we're singing, so I can sit at the piano and bang out notes until I have this sucker cold.

I can't help being one of the few people in the choir who's never sung Messiah. The Sing-In sight reading bonanza doesn't count.

Tomorrow, it's up bright and early for a good old-fashioned 6:30 AM run, then off to Southern Progress for my five internship interviews. Fingers crossed...

Long weekend

I'm not sure where this weekend went, but I know I spent a good deal of it running around or waiting to run around, and now I have sore feet. Lately, though, that's nothing new.

The exciting bit of news for me today was finding the results from Vulcan, as both their site and the BTC's have been down over the weekend. I knew I wasn't in the top 200 women, seeing as my name wasn't in the paper this morning, but I was 321st (of 897) in the women's category, and 30th (of 91) in the women 20-24 group. The good news is that I beat the 70-year-old woman's time. The less good, however, is that my 9:14 split isn't going to win prizes any time soon. That's okay - this race was about finishing, and I ran the 10K in 57:20, definitely a personal best for me. 1,074th of 1,989 isn't too bad for a beginner. Besides, the insanely fast Kenyans had this thing licked before we ever began.

To celebrate, Mom bought me a Vulcan windbreaker yesterday, which I assume is going to get quite a bit of mileage in the next few months, since it fits me better and draws fewer stares than does my Yale Archery jacket. The next big race is the Mercedes half-marathon in February, which is slightly more than double a 10K, and I've got less than 14 weeks to train.

I ran eight miles today. There was no commemorative jacket, but hey, Mercedes promises a finisher's medal that's shaped like a heavy version of the hood ornament. What more could a girl ask for? (Besides more blister pads, I mean...)

Halloween

This Halloween was quite different from last year's "Tuxedos and Blood" party, but hey, it was warm. I wore a coat over jeans and was actually warm outside. This hasn't happened for the last five years, and all things considered, it was a pleasant change of affairs.

Halloween actually began around 4 AM, when I got up to go run the course for Saturday with Rosanna's running group. Unlike most of the runners, I was able to go home afterwards, shower, and crash. Around 10:30, I got up and went to Homewood to pick up my runner's packet, and some random guy actually wished me luck. Aww...

The evening began with my friend Roy at Birmingham-Southern's Halloween party. Neither of us quite realized that the party was really only for kids, but that was alright; if we had been their age, it would have been awesome. As it was, we had fun watching the frat brothers get pied and the kids digging for bones, and then Chinese food sounded really good...

An hour and entirely too much dinner later, we drove over to Sarah Louise's apartment for "Non-scary Scary Movie Night", featuring Scream and The Craft. Besides two cheesy-wonderful movies, the seven of us gathered were also treated to Sarah Louise's amazing spread of goodies, including caramel apples, cider, homemade crayfish dip, and two kinds of popcorn with decorative rubber snakes inside the boxes. Not that I could eat much after dinner, but I tried...hey, "snake fighting" takes it out of you, right?

Prepping for Vulcan

With less than four days to go before the 10K, I'm going to run the course for the first time tomorrow morning.

At 5:30 AM.

At least Rosanna will be there to keep me going, and possibly keep me conscious.

In the meanwhile, I'm watching It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown for the umpteenth time and babying my feet, which are a little angry with me at the moment. I got a new pair of tennis shoes last Sunday. While it's possibly not the best idea to try to break in shoes before a race, the shoes have arch supports, which do wonders for my knees. Said arch supports also produce new blisters, however, so I've invested in several products and I'm keeping my fingers crossed...

Weekend happiness

Much goodness has happened in the last few days...

1) Sloss Fright Furnaces is fun, if slightly overpriced at $15 (plus $3 for parking, sheesh!). My friend Roy and I checked it out, and he led our group of us and four idiot girls from the sticks ("Oh my God, y'all, I'm seriously about to pee myself...") through the former blast furnace, where we used to have our May Festival back during grade school. Take away the games and the hot dogs, and Sloss is a decently freaky, possibly haunted, place. What was great was getting separated and cornered by the guy with the chainsaw, and after a few minutes of half-heartedly screaming in an effort to make him let me by, the following exchange occurred:

Him (growling): Are you lost?
Me: Uh, yes.
Him: [points with chainsaw] That way.
Me: Thanks.
Him: I'm going to kill you and poop in your mouth.
Me: You have a good one...

2) I saw Phantom of the Opera with another Phantom fan, Dennis, last night. As in 2000, when it last came through, Phantom was excellent; the set dressing was perfect, and the Phantom, who played Raoul last time, was spot-on. The only downer to the show was Christine - her voice is lovely, but her vowels were far too American.

3) I just discovered that BBC America, channel 100 on my parents' cable, has reruns of Bargain Hunt, Cash in the Attic, How Clean is Your House, and You Are What You Eat. I'm stoked.

4) Ran 7 miles for the first time yesterday, with a mile-long walk home. Then I took the dog for a mile walk, which made a nice afternoon touch. This morning, I tried the Lakeshore trail for the first time, and the five-mile round-trip run is quite nice. One week until Vulcan...

5) Tonight - pumpkin carving!

Mindless Fun

Thanks to MSN, I stumbled upon an amazing little site today. If you haven't seen it yet, go to The Institute of Official Cheer and take a look around. Then scroll halfway down the page to the "Gallery of Regrettable Food" and look for some of these gems:

For the aforementioned Jello-O entree, look at the left-hand side of this next picture...

Yes, that's meat in that gelatin, and man, if that isn't appetizing, I don't know what is. And what's more, the site's author has a book of these pictures, with commentary! Seriously, visit the site. It's awesome.

It's Sunday already?

This weekend has been a tad on the hectic side.

Thursday was my long day, but culminated in a private reception for the Pompeii exhibit at the Museum of Art. If you're in the Birmingham area between now and February, I highly recommend it - they even brought some of the original plaster casts of the body cavities.

On Friday, I had a meeting downtown at 8:30, then dashed home to go to Atlanta with my parents for the NATAS Silver Circle award dinner that night. Though we were in good time, most of our table (and the other guests) were delayed by the typical Atlanta Friday traffic, which sadly included a wreck that killed the driver and her two-year-old. On a much more pleasant note, Mom had her induction, the three-minute video went off without a hitch, and there was much dabbing at the eyes. Mom's was the only video to include congratulations from a governor, but the one that had the most laughs was for Bill Chapman of Turner, whose art department tweaked the old Batman cartoon intro to include his former blond mullet, then had "interview" clips with Harvey Birdman. Then again, almost everyone being inducted had a few laughs, as some of the wardrobe and hair decisions made in the '70s and '80s were scary at best. Think Anchorman, people.

Yesterday was the drive home, and then I went to Jen's birthday party at Sarah Louise's apartment last night, where it turned out that a second person was celebrating a birthday as well. Sarah Louise is the consummate hostess, and those of us chatting in the kitchen wondered how she got so many matching dishes and forks. The birthday cake had a spiderweb and spider on top, and party favors were served in "Boo Y'all!" cups. Adorable. Afterwards, we headed downtown for karaoke, which was fun but for the fact that Birmingham still permits smoking in bars. My shirt and purse are airing outside today, as I would really rather not take the shirt to the dry cleaners, and I had to shower when I came in at 1 AM, since I refuse to go to bed smelling like an ashtray.

Sunday school began the day today, and then I strapped on my new knee brace and went for another 10K jog around the lake. After the walk home, when I realized I was dehydrated and probably overheating, I downed a liter of water and a cup of shrimp and grits (don't knock it until you've tried it), then showered again to get the dried salt off and crashed for an hour and a half. I'm now going to attempt to write a piece on plum in women's fashion this fall. My family continues to mock me.

Insanity continues

Today, for the very first time, I ran 6.2 miles, mostly around the lake. Then I limped the mile uphill home for good measure. I'm now convinced that Tylenol and moleskin are two of mankind's greatest inventions, and that the 80 or so people who run the Badwater Ultramarathon are both incredibly tough and incredibly crazy. (Check it out.)

The afternoon was spent going to and from a brief meeting with the president of the local PRSA chapter, which is only a precursor to tomorrow's schedule:

10:00 Meeting at Gus Mayer for freelance piece
13:00 Lunch and potential job discussion
14:30 Meeting at O2 Ideas
18:00 Pompeii exhibit with a friend

And then Friday...

08:30 Meeting at Cox Radio
10:00 Leave for Atlanta and Mom's Silver Circle Award dinner

Somewhere between now and Monday, I'm hoping to write a piece and get in a few more runs. We shall see what, if anything, happens.

Possibly insane

It's official. I, the fat kid of the 40-minute mile, am registered for my very first 10K.

I really had no plans to do this, but after running with Rosanna and seeing what pacing is all about, I think this just might be possible. I've been slowing down this week (no mean feat with the dog on my arm), and I did 4.4 miles this morning without feeling like I wanted to collapse in the street. Fortunately for my training purposes, Star Lake's one mile away and nearly flat, so the worst bit of the run is that last mile home, which is mostly uphill. I love this neighborhood.

A 10K is 6.2 miles, so I have a little ways to go, but the race isn't until November 3, a whopping 17 days away. Still, Rosanna, who has been training properly, did her first 6-mile run this morning. Time to play catch-up...

Vicksburg

This weekend, I had the pleasure of heading out to Vicksburg with Rosanna, Sarah Louise, Sarah, and Jen. Rosanna's parents were kind enough to host me, and between them and Sarah Louise's parents, let's just say that the five of us ate very well. Thankfully, Rosanna's in training for the Vulcan 10K, and after a four-mile run, I felt slightly less guilty about potato casserole and lemon tart.

Vicksburg is a former port city known for being besieged by the Union, and its many antebellum homes are testament to its 19th-century prominence. As the Pilgrimage is currently ongoing, we were able to tour some of these homes. First up was Anchuca, now a B&B and restaurant, where we had a lovely luncheon (including a piece of "bonzo" cake split five ways) and walked around the grounds.

After lunch, we headed to Cedar Grove, a former plantation home that's now also a B&B and restaurant. For $6 each, we were given a print-out of the self tour, which was so poorly written that Jen, who works on the copy desk, threatened to pull out her red pen and send them the revised draft. Cedar Grove is actually quite nice, and still has a cannonball embedded in one wall from the siege.

We also had time to take in downtown Vicksburg's Homewood-esque row of shops, where Rosanna and Sarah Louise were accosted by nearly all the sales staff and forced to explain that they were only home for the weekend. Our shopping turned into the puppy tour of Vicksburg, however, as many of the stores we visited had at least one resident dog. A ceramics studio, for instance, had both a tiny dog that wanted no part of us and an overly friendly Husky who just wanted affection. One store did make me laugh - Crown to Heels is a boutique-cum-gown rental-cum-tanning salon owned by a longtime pageant contestant, and the store is decorated with her crowns, trophies, banners, and portraits. World peace, indeed.

Rosanna's parents have their own shuffleboard court, so we discovered the joys of cruise ship athletics and pushed the pucks around on Saturday night as we learned about the Gages' local problem wildlife - deer, raccoons, beavers, and an alligator, who, as her father later suggested, might be keeping the beaver population under control. After dinner, the girls graciously agreed to watch Hot Fuzz instead of Mansfield Park, which may have been a poor choice as all four of them fell asleep at one point during the movie and woke to the prolonged shootout and an understandable bit of confusion.

After an extravagant Sunday lunch, we headed back to Birmingham, and Rosanna came across a book on tape that she had yet to finish. With four hours ahead of us, we settled back with Lipstick Jungle, a steamy romp by the author of Sex and The City that made me laugh. One Amazon reviewer wished there were a rating below one star for this particular stinker, but still, the time passed quickly enough as we listened. Sadly, we were never able to finish it, though Rosanna did offer me the CDs...

No. I'm not that desperate to find out how Nico's tryst with the male model ended.

Movie night

Man, I miss college.

Birmingham-Southern offered a free movie night tonight for those students wishing to see The Kingdom, so thanks to my intrepid friend Roy, we got in on BSC's nickel. Aside from the kids chatting in the back row during the climax of the film, the evening was quite nice. The movie's great, much better than I'd thought it would be, as I tend to catch a glimpse of helicopters and run toward another selection. There's just enough violence without being gratuitous, and the ending is appropriate without being overly patriotic or sentimental. Certainly worth the money we paid for it, if not more...

It's always fun to rehash high school, now that we're safely past it, and Roy's stories are so much better than mine. At least we could agree that physics was a subject of some concern and that Mr. Fleming's just about the coolest guy ever.

Tomorrow begins Girls' Weekend in Vicksburg, and I am so psyched for a road trip. It's also Northwestern's homecoming weekend, and not only does Jen get to ride on a float, she gets to ride on a float in a parade led by Clinton Kelly of What Not to Wear fame. I wonder if the stuffed eagle ever arrived...

Job search, continued

No employment yet, but I've begun to make a few contacts. Southern Progress is even allowing me to apply for a January-start internship past the deadline, so there may be hope for me yet!

In the meanwhile, my official job title is Go-fer. At least I'm able to run errands and be somewhat productive. Today, I had an impromptu trip downtown to pick up a pair of my mother's shoes, since the person who dropped them off is running mad with a trunk show. Seeing as I still can't parallel park, going downtown is always an adventure.

And now, Gordon Ramsay is teaching this poor slob how to box and run a restaurant. I'm loving Kitchen Nightmares.

Columbus Day

Since I haven't had this holiday off since grade school, I completely forgot about Columbus Day until my dad told me we didn't have to play car shuffle last night. Of course, it's not exactly a holiday for me, seeing as I don't actually work, but but it's still nice to have someone else around the house besides the dog.

Speaking of whom, Callie is currently resting under the recliner, having realized that I've thrown her three new squeaky balls as much as I'm going to for the next few hours and that my laptop is inedible. She's quite content - she's had a morning walk, a three-mile promenade, a nap, a delicious snack of cardboard paper towel roll, part of my plum, bits of Raisin Nut Bran, and rice pudding. Amazing.

The thing you forget when you're not constantly around them is that dogs are the easiest creatures on the planet to please. The world may be going to hell, and all she wants is for me to toss a plastic ball down the backyard a few dozen times. At least something is simple.

Shiny things

I confess, I have a weakness for shiny things. It all began at the tender age of six, when, while vacationing at the Grand Canyon, my eye was taken by a ring that consisted of a steel band and a blue rock with wiggly eyes upon it. That thing was beautiful, no matter what my parents thought, and I wore it with pride for some time.

I like to think my tastes have matured somewhat since then, but like a moth to a bug zapper, I continue to find myself inevitably drawn toward jewelry counters wherever I go. Consequently, I've amassed a collection of accessories of varying quality from choir tour stops across the globe, from a gold and garnet necklace from Prague, to a particularly fetching pair of turquoise earrings with dangling gold feathers from the Little America Motel in Flagstaff, Arizona, to a dolphin-shaped bone pendant bought on the plane between Brisbane and Fiji (just so I'd have a souvenir). With quite a bit of assistance from my parents, I've also managed to pick up strands of black and white pearls, three opal necklaces, diamonds, emeralds, and one of my latest finds, a necklace and earrings in apatite, a blue-green stone usually reserved for industrial purposes.

What? It was fair trade...

While shoe shopping today, I wandered over to the jewelry counter at Gus Mayer - always a dangerous idea - and began idly examining the offerings displayed before me. A few seemed gaudy, and the Star of David necklace didn't seem appropriate, but then my eye lit on a pretty druzy with tourmaline beading, and I continued browsing. That's when I saw it: The Druzy.

For those who've devoted their brain cells to things that actually matter, take a geode, crack it open, and a druzy is the rough crystal-covered bit inside. They can form in any number of minerals, but The Druzy was a thin sliver in the middle of a turquoise-colored boulder opal, which was set with tiny diamonds all around it. In a word, gorgeous.

My mother, being the understanding sort, dutifully came over to look at my find, and the sales lady brought it out for our inspection. As it turns out, the sapphire-studded chain it was on was sold separately, but this was probably for the best, as The Druzy sold for a cool $7,500. It was the most expensive item in the case, she informed us (blame the diamonds), and while the price wasn't going down any time soon (I asked), she was still impressed that I'd known what a druzy was.

Still, damn.

As I've said, my mother is the understanding sort, and so we turned back to the case next to The Druzy, where the other two drusies were being displayed. Long story short, I walked out with the lovely first necklace I'd seen, while Mom got a nice orange druzy of her own. No, my new necklace isn't a $7,500 diamond-circled pendant, but it should look lovely for Mom's award ceremony in two weeks. That's why we were shoe shopping, after all.

Wireless

Finally, my parents decided to get wireless, thereby allowing me to use my computer as more than a typewriter-cum-Gameboy and my mother to work without feeling guilty about monopolizing the house's single Internet connection. The Bellsouth/AT&T/whatever-they're-calling-themselves-this-month man arrived this morning to install it, and Mom went off to teach, leaving me to learn the system.

Two minutes after I leave him with the computer and the sealed box containing the new router, he calls me back into the room and asks if we have DSL. "I don't know," I tell him, "I've been basically out of the house for the last five years. Why?"

He had discovered that our computer had Internet access, and wondered what the problem was. I then explained that we had a new component inside Box Number One, and he happily went about setting up our connection.

Ten minutes later, it was time to test a laptop.

Ever since I returned from Edinburgh, my computer had been giving me fits with connectivity issues. Essentially, it would find a network (usually our neighbors'), but would refuse to connect to the network, citing DNS errors or other such nonsense. I tried everything - typing odd strings at the command prompt (always fun), fixing proxy settings, removing firewalls - but still it refused to play nice. I even took the damn thing to the Geek Squad down at Best Buy, but it worked for them and I went home, several shades of red.

After the turncoat Vaio made me look like an idiot, I assumed our neighbors had changed their settings, effectively keeping me off, and waited until the new system went in to worry about my computer. Well, Bellsouth Man and I discovered that the Vaio still had no intention of connecting to the network today. He, too, tried a few things, but made no more headway than I had. Eventually, he gave up, so I said I would keep turning things off until it worked, and sat down to try the oh-so-reliable "monkeys with typewriters" method of computer repair.

A few minutes later, I went back to Best Buy with my tail between my legs.

"Hi," I told Jason the Geek Squad agent, "my computer hates me." I then explained that it refused to find the network, that I'd just returned from the world's most restrictive ResNet system, and that the Bellsouth man hadn't been able to figure it out.

"Sometimes I think they pay them too much at Bellsouth," he muttered, then magically removed my proxy settings - the thing I'd been trying to do for weeks - and gave me his number in case the computer still didn't work.

It does. I'm writing this at my kitchen table while Callie gives me the evil eye for not Throwing the Ball. Best of all, the Geek Squad didn't charge me a thing, again. I love those guys.

Alabama moment

As I was walking out of the mall today, a pickup truck pulled up to the curb and the woman in the passenger seat hailed me. She asked the location of a salon I'd not heard of around the mall, but since I've been gone for the last year, I told her I didn't know and pointed her toward the main doors and the directory.

Then I took a good look at the truck and heard the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies blaring in my head.

Her husband was driving. Between them was a small girl, perhaps five or six years old, and while no child that young should be in the front seat of a vehicle, especially not without chest restraints, the most surprising passenger was the obese woman riding in the bed of the truck. Sitting in a lawn chair, facing backwards, this woman had been given the seat usually reserved for dogs of dubious lineage, as Lord knows she'd never have fit in up front.

The woman asked me if they could park in the deck, and I nodded, then watched as they drove off, the bed sitter seemingly quite comfortable to be riding backwards in an old Ford.

Someone call Jeff Foxworthy. I feel a redneck moment coming on.

Weekend update

I know it's been a few days since I've updated this thing. I'm not lazy, I'm in a house with a single Internet-connected computer that has been turned into a mobile command center (don't ask) for the next week, meaning that my time online's a bit limited. Here, somewhat briefly, is the rundown of last weekend:

On Friday afternoon, I had a "networking" meeting with an old friend of my mother's, which went well until he stepped out of the office to find a book for me and the top button of my jacket decided to pop off. A black button on a predominantly blue Oriental rug is a difficult thing to spot, especially when one can't just get up and start crawling around for it, and by the time he escorted me from his office, I had given the thing up for lost. When the subject of Edinburgh came up, however, we returned to the office so I could give him a few notes (he's visiting in November), and when he turned to his computer, I noticed the button and snatched it off the rug, hopefully without attracting his notice.

Friday night combined several excellent things: Greek food, independent film, and a bunch of lovely ladies out on the town. Rosanna, whose social circle far surpasses mine at the moment, has graciously introduced me to several of her friends, and a few of us met on the southside at the Greek Orthodox Cathedral for the 35th annual Greek Food Festival. There was music and dancing, hundreds of people, and delicious Greek doughnuts, plus the rice pilaf I used to crave all year (until Zoe's Kitchen went in, that is). Afterwards, we carpooled downtown to the Alabama Theater for the opening film of the Sidewalk Moving Pictures Festival, The Ten, which was by turns hilarious, demeaning, and just plain stupid. Mocking trailers has never been quite so much fun.

On Saturday, I had dinner with an old friend, Roy, who can actually cook. Edgar's Bakery kindly supplied the dessert, as I cannot cook, but Edgar's has yet to fail me. We then went to the Alys for the ASO's "Music From the Danube" concert, two hours of Haydn, Beethoven, and a concerto featuring an amazing 26-year-old pianist and one very somber triangle player. Liszt's so-called "triangle concerto" does have an unusually prominent triangle part, and I have to say that the guy on triangle had the best job up there. Someday, I want to wear concert black and play the most mocked instrument known to man, save the cowbell...

Sunday, we sang both the 8 and 10:30 AM services, which isn't easy if one is accustomed to getting out of bed at 8 AM. We're also using a strange service format during the next month best described as the "Baptist Variety Hour", but there's no help for that. Sunday afternoon was devoted to napping to make up for the early service (it's the day of rest, after all), and then it was back to church for choir practice, then home for my dad's delicious homemade lasagna.

After a 2.5-mile run/walk this morning (you can't wear out a border collie), today was a day of errands for me while Mom holed up with the computer, a laptop editor, and the unenviable task of time coding tapes. I drove all around town for a few hours, then came home to find that my new choir dress had arrived. For a choir dress, it's not bad, but that's not saying much. It's also far too large, which, while better than the alternative, means I'll need to have some reconstructive work performed on it before December. (I also have to buy concert shoes tomorrow...note to self.) Tonight was BCC rehearsal, always a good two hours of singing, and as I was coming home this evening, I remembered why I missed my car so much while in Edinburgh: it's the only place I can sing along with "Con Te Partiro" without having blunt objects aimed at my head.

There's always a catch

Thanks to one of the PhD students for whom I proofread, I've received a couple of job requests since I've been back in the States, and have actually been able to complete one. The difficult part was figuring out how to work the payment. In the past, this was a simple matter of meeting up at the library, pocketing the cash, and having take-away without having to visit the Tesco cash machine. Seeing as we're now on different continents, however, I figured the hand-off wasn't going to work.

My next thought was the simple envelope method, having my client drop a £20 note in an envelope and mail it to me, but that had two minor complications: postage and currency conversion. The only place around that will exchange currency is a bank in downtown Birmingham, and I didn't want to drive all the way in for 20 quid.

After a quick chat with my bank manager, we decided to try the wire transfer method, which was guaranteed to work unless the British bank chose to do what they do best and give my international student a hard time. Everything worked, miraculously enough, and when I checked my account today, the cash was there, as was a $15 wire transfer fee.

D'oh.

I have another job coming up, and much as I hate doing it, I'm tacking a little extra onto my rate to cover the wire costs. Silly financial institutions.

My other forehead-smack-inducing moment of the day came from a little side project I'm doing, helping my mother time-stamp about two-dozen tapes. Having never done this before, and uncertain of what exactly she would want in a good clip, I fell back upon transcribing the tapes verbatim and making notations of when interviews begin and end.

Well, a five-minute interview window is nice, but doesn't help much in locating a single sound bite. I spent a good bit of the time I'd hoped to continue with the next tape fixing the previous two transcriptions, but at least there's a bright side to this - unlike the other transcriptions I've done, I can understand all the accents on these tapes. Hallelujah.

On happier notes, I signed my first contract for publication rights to a short story today (for V, the creative writing program's new anthology), I saw an old friend for a movie tonight, I've got a "networking" meeting tomorrow afternoon, and tomorrow night will be both the Greek Food Fest and the Sidewalk Film Fest. Opa, baby.

Just like British television

Having been forced to abandon Kitchen Criminals two weeks into the program, I was thrilled to discover a show with Gordon Ramsay on Fox: Kitchen Nightmares, an Americanized version of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, which somehow I never saw.

In a nutshell, the notorious f-bombing Chef Ramsay visits restaurants and whips them into shape over the course of a week. Tonight's was amazing - Dillion's, now Purnima, had three managers, about four menus, chefs who stored food on the floor, rotten meat, moldy vegetables, and a major roach infestation. Before we even got to the cringe-inducing basement, we were treated to seeing the general manager reclining on a booth, having his head rubbed by an attractive waitress. In a moment that oddly reminded me of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Ramsay found a meat fritter in his supposedly vegetarian appetizer platter, then discovered his beef was actually lamb. The chefs didn't speak any English, and the operations manager, who seemed to be the only member of the staff who was truly embarrassed, was having to make all the American dishes, as the Indian chefs had no clue what to do with them. Best of all was the general manager, who happened to be British; he and Ramsey sniped at each other all week, and eventually he quit in a huff, once his cell phone was taken away (he later sued Ramsay, trying to keep the episode off the air, and they've since gone into arbitration). Meanwhile, every third word out of Ramsay's mouth is being not only bleeped, but fuzzed over.

Man, I love British exports.

In other good news, World Market sells chocolate-covered digestives. Happy day!

Reality hits

In less than a week, I've lost two potential jobs. The first was simply rescinded, while the second - the job for which I've been applying since early August, the job for which I wrote a piece on chintz china, of all things - was offered to someone "slightly" more experienced. I only found this out by writing the contact person, who was out of the office all of last week, but at least I now know, and only two weeks after the final piece of my interview was turned in.

Essentially, I'm now back at Square 1.

Anyone in the YGC may remember Jeff going on about how singing will improve your mood, and how you should thus come to practice even when you're stressed and all six of your midterms are scheduled for the next day. He's right, with one caveat: before you go to practice, you should drive for a few miles with your stereo blasting, 'singing' Eminem standards at the top of your lungs, since you can't very well tell the person who told you Yale was "a strange choice" of university to go jump off a cliff. I swear, Eminem helps. (Speaking of which: when even your dental hygienist tells you that she'd be pissed if someone told her her university was a strange choice, you know you're justified in thinking unladylike thoughts.) Then you should go to practice, laugh with sane, employed, people, and sing Messiah, and you'll feel better.

I'm still riding the Concert Chorale high right about now, and my dad left an encouraging note on the fridge before retiring, but not too far under the surface, I'm a seething mixture of pissed and relieved. Hell yes, I'm pissed - I did everything I could for this job, and if I'd turned them down before they turned me down, I might have had a $30,000/year job with benefits right now. On the other hand, I don't have to make up crap about ugly china any more. At least now Cindy, the lovely lady who does my nails and understands my low tolerance for estrogen over-exposure, won't have to worry about my sanity in the face of so many ruffles and flowers. Seriously, I was ready to whore myself, to the point that I was willing to wax poetic about chintz, and that's just sad.

Listen to me, people. If anyone ever tries to convince you chintz is the most gorgeous thing to happen to pottery since glaze was invented, send her my way and I'll whack her a good one.

In the meanwhile, back to the drawing board.

Saturday

The weekend got off to a rollicking good start, once Mom and I finished cleaning the umpteen new windows my parents had installed on Thursday and Friday. Fortunately, the new windows are double-paned (filled with argon so they don't fog) and all the sashes are in the gap, so it was a simple matter of spraying, wiping, and thinking unkind thoughts about the stubborn streaks of glue. We also discovered that nothing bonds quite as well to glass as long-hold hairspray.

Last night, I went to Rosanna's for dinner and margaritas (thanks to her brother-in-law's recipe), which was most enjoyable. It's always fun meeting new people, though none of us knows any eligible single men.

Still, I'm not desperate enough for GoodGenes.com. Some dating services are just elitist.

Fun with food

This one is for Ian, who can't be bothered to stay up until 4 AM to read my posts in a timely fashion. Tsk. :)

My culinary ability isn't quite high enough for Master Chef, but at least my parents no longer think I'm a good candidate for Kitchen Criminals.

I have made dinner.

By myself.

Yes, it all came from boxes, but I managed to pull off fajitas, Mexican corn, and sesame rice (it was either that or couscous) without starting a grease fire or giving my father heart palpitations, and that has to count for something.

Happily, my friend Rosanna has invited me over for dinner on Saturday night, and as Rosanna really can cook, I'm very much looking forward to the event.

On the topic of food, my dog has some of the strangest eating habits I've ever seen. Unlike every other dog I've known, Callie seldom begs at the table, but will happily shred a cardboard paper towel roll for you while you eat. All bets are off when it comes to ice cream, however - she circles the table, whoring herself with love and soulful eyes to whomever will lower a half-eaten stick in her direction. She also ate all my carrots two nights ago, and ever since I gave her a taste of a plum, she waits at my feet for a bite or six every time I get one out.

Library work

My plan for the day was to find cheap plastic storage bins and repack all my books, which were mouldering in cardboard boxes in the garage. It seemed, however, that everyone was out to thwart me.

I began by calling Target and Wal-Mart to see whose bins were cheaper. My first call was to Target, and after ten minutes of holding, I got to talk to Idiot Woman.

"Hi," I said, beginning to weary of repeating myself to various Target personnel. "I'm looking for clear plastic storage bins in the 10 to 15 gallon range. How much are yours?"
"10 to 15 gallon?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Umm...how many quarts is that?"

The folks at Wal-Mart were slightly more knowledgeable, and as their product was cheaper, I bought myself half a dozen 56-quart bins (that's 14 gallons, Idiot Woman) and headed home, looking forward to an afternoon of killing my lower lumbar region.

Then I noticed the yellow indicator on my dashboard. The one telling me to check my engine.

Suffice it to say that I didn't start packing books until close to 5 PM, as I spent the afternoon sitting in the lounge at the Volkswagen dealership while the mechanics replaced a corroded valve. The nice guy who ran my diagnostics threw in some new hoses, gratis, while he was at it, so the afternoon wasn't a complete waste.

After dinner, I got through the first few cartons and the contents of my bedside chest, then realized I had been hopelessly optimistic with my six-bin estimate and returned to Wal-Mart for another six. The garage is now stacked with nine new plastic bins, most full of my books from high school, college, and grad school, while two are holding my sister's old course packets and French novels (which are mercifully small - thanks, Larouse) and the last is now the repository for my mother's old promo tapes, audition tapes, and other material in casette formats I've never seen before. Only a few will play on a standard VCR. As for the rest, I've no real idea what's on them, but since they date from the early eighties, my guess would be big hair and shoulder pads.

(Love you, Mom. Just not the polka-dot dress.)

Adventures in Middle America

Last Saturday, the family piled into the car at 6 AM to drive my sister back to Evanston for her senior year at Northwestern. Approximately 13 hours later, after braving Chicago's lovely Dan Ryan Expressway and a mess of Chicagoans who apparently learned to drive by watching monster truck rallies, we drove through Skokie - probably home to more bagel shops than anywhere else outside of New York - and into scenic Evanston, which is much less ghetto than either New Haven or the south side of Edinburgh. That said, the drive into Evanston is pretty miserable, as Illinois, like Indiana, is basically one large cornfield. I swear, if I never see a mile-long field of brown corn stalks again, it'll be too soon.

Illinois is the self-proclaimed "Land of Lincoln", and the guy's everywhere, along with the names of Chicago's versions of New Haven's Harkness family - Jen recognized several names at the Field Museum from buildings around campus. There seemed to be only one name being tossed about this weekend, however, and that belonged to O. J. Simpson. The Juice is back for another round of celebrity justice. I can hardly wait, but just so I don't get too excited and have a heart attack in the interim, Fox News has been filling me in on his every move since this little story broke. If O. J. visits the bathroom, Fox will probably run an update on the ticker. This is news, people.

After we managed to tear ourselves away from the updates coming out of Las Vegas, the move-in was largely uneventful, aside from the necessary schlepping of bags, purchasing of bins and cleaning supplies, and cleaning of the results of the summer's sloppiness, like the dried food down the front of the dishwasher. Evanston even cooperated on the weather front, and we were blessed with sunny, relatively cool days. The poor frosh moving in today, by contrast, were greeted with temperatures in the mid-eighties. Have fun, kids.

As we had a free day on Monday, we took the El into Chicago, a process made more arduous than necessary because of the improvements being made to the red line, and took in the Field Museum and Sue, the most complete T. Rex skeleton found to date. Let's just say she had a killer smile. The Field was lovely, and afterwards, we hopped back on the train for a trip to the other end of Michigan Avenue, where they keep all the shops. Unexpectedly, we made it out of Neiman Marcus without dropping a dime, which pleased my father to no end - I'm sorry, but $450 corduroy pants are beyond ridiculous - and having seen our fill, we descended to the red line once again.

This was when the fun started.

The train, for unknown reasons, came only after a 25-minute wait, and when it arrived, we were packed in and grateful for deodorant. One by one, we managed to find seats, and gradually the car cleared enough for us to really notice the other passengers, like the loud wino. One guy, who sported a baseball cap with a large '$', had burned fingers and kept rubbing his nose as he talked and gesticulated to his companion a few seats up, and my father quickly pegged him as a crackhead. He called for his friend to join him, and, trying to ignore this guy, I gave his friend only a passing glance.

On second look, I realized she was male. His biceps, prominent under his green knit shrug, gave him away.

The crackhead and the cross-dresser began a loud, profanity-laced conversation that made my mother cringe, and after discussing their various acquaintances, like a guy named Rat and some other guy who was still in prison, the crackhead mentioned a Kim.

"Oh, I know all the Kims around," the cross-dresser informed him. "My boyfriend's wife's name is Kim. He has her name tattooed all over his body."

It was at this point that I, as well as half the car, nearly lost it. As we approached a stop, however, they stood to leave, and the crackhead announced to the people in front of him, "I'm getting off! Are you all getting off? I need to get off!" When the train stopped, they pushed their way through, shouting unnecessarily, and the rest of the car cracked up. We told the doctor who sat down in front of us about the spectacle we thought he had missed, and he nodded; this was nothing new to him.

"We're from out of town," we explained, "and this doesn't usually happen."
"You from Iowa?" he asked.
"Alabama.
He snorted. "Welcome to the real world."

Nothing quite topped Kim, the boyfriend's wife, but the fun only increased that evening, as our hotel, which hadn't been sure what was going on all weekend, had to move my parents and me into a new room for our final night. Unfortunately, this room only had a single king bed, and as the hotel has no cots - contrary to what one desk clerk told us - we were forced to share. The last time I shared a bed with my parents, I was about seven and we three all fit on a standard full-sized mattress. Three adults on a king is something else entirely - my mother likened us to the Three Stooges - but as we rose at 4 AM to leave Chicago, at least the night was short.

Back on the Dan Ryan by 5:30, I realized why my parents had insisted on leaving at an ungodly hour: Chicago traffic never stops, and the rush was already beginning as we heading around the city. Once past the worst of it, my mother and I slept, waking in time for breakfast at a McDonald's somewhere in corn country, and from then on I could only sleep sporadically on the 12-hour trip home. During periods of consciousness, I was treated to some of I-57 and I-24's great roadside attractions: the largest cross in the country, the Quilting Museum, a restaurant that still advertised a "hicken sandwich" three days after we saw it for the first time, a Shell station-cum-Christmas shop, and a little place called Joe Bob's Flower Farm. I got to hear Paul Harvey not once, but twice today; of special note were the man who robbed a bank but left his resume behind, and the married couple who were talking to each other under pseudonyms online and only realized the other was cheating when they arranged to meet (they're now seeking a divorce). Still, nothing today was quite as funny as the sign we passed as we entered Kentucky, which informed us that Kentucky is the "Birthplace of Abraham Lincoln".

A bit of snarkiness, perhaps, but take that, Illinois.

Heading north

After finally making it to Tuscaloosa in a context other than the state French convention (always a blast...yeah, nothing says 'fun' like watching unsubtitled French movies at Alabama's student center at 11 PM), I'm off to Chicago today with the family to move my sister back into her Evanston apartment. She's going to be a senior. This is slightly frightening, as I distinctly remember being a senior...

Excuse my moment of nostalgia.

Still, there's 12 hours of Interstate fun ahead, which is why I'm writing a blog post at 5:20 AM. I've been up since 4:30, and for those who may never have attempted to put on eye makup at that hour, let's just say it ain't pretty.

Perhaps, by the time I return on Tuesday, I'll have another job offer. In any case, the puppy will be less traumatized than she was when we picked her up from her stay at the vet's, as she's spending the weekend with our neighbors, who are among her favorite people, and their giant ottoman-sized golden retriever.

Employable after all

Out of the blue, I had a job offer today.

I'm still waiting to hear from the folks I've been working with for the last month, but now I have an offer on the table.

My degrees may be worth something after all. Huzzah!

I also attended my first practice with the Birmingham Concert Chorale last night, and I must say that it feels wonderful to be back in a large choir again. Sitting next to a music major, sight-reading Brahms' Requiem, faking the German, trying to keep up on the runs in Messiah...man, I've missed this. One of the altos saw the Glee Club when they performed at ISS last winter and said they gave a great concert, which also made my evening.

Little of this, little of that

The past few days have been a mishmash of getting reacclimated, getting reacquainted, and attempting to get employed.

Last night was a lot of fun - my sister and our friends Anna and Sarah went out to Surin West, easily the best Thai restaurant in Birmingham, then on to ArtWalk. After cruising the Morris Avenue area for twenty minutes in an attempt to find two parking spaces, which was further complicated by the fact that I still can't parallel park, we finally found a lot and managed to stumble into the event. I'd never been down before, but ArtWalk's a neat sort of street party; stores in the new "loft district" open and allow artists to display their wares (and munchies), while musicians play on the sidewalk. We had a good time and ran into several people we knew, then headed to O'Henry's for some late-night coffee. The highlight of the evening was finding a new store, What's on Second, that sold orange shag carpeting, old campaign buttons, and a fetal pig. Go figure.

While out with the girls, I ran the question past them that I've run past people on three continents this week: does the following sound bizarre?

During an interview with X Corporation, my interviewer was examining my resume, then looked up at me and said - I'm not kidding - "Yale...that's a strange choice."

Huh? How do you answer that one?

Long story short, the consensus has been that said interviewer asks some fairly strange questions.

In other news, I spent the morning writing a sample piece on china I would never, ever buy. Ever. Hell, I'm now convinced, is patterned in chintz.

Home again

I returned from Gulf Shores yesterday afternoon with a baggie of sand dollars and other shells, a work wardrobe, and a mild sunburn. I was anticipating the last to be much worse than it is, but a little itchiness is much better than the full-on white-girl-goes-to-Caribbean-and-broils look I sported two summers ago. Still, it amazes me that I was able to get pink cheeks even with SPF-enhanced moisturizer, SPF 60 sport sunblock, sunglasses, and a large, floppy hat.

6 AM is definitely the best time to go to the beach during the late summer. We saw a school of stingrays along the shore every morning, and the temperature was humane, besides. Plus, the jellyfish tended to stay out until lunchtime.

Now back in Birmingham, I have a list of tasks to complete: call my eye surgeon, call the dentist, renew my gym membership, finish sorting the detritus of a year in Edinburgh that's scattered about my room...

In other news, this blog was a year old yesterday. I have never kept a journal of any sort for this long.

Life with puppy

Callie (my dog, Ian) is now just over a year old, and is turning out to be a ball-crazy border collie. I've discovered that, to Callie at least, I have one purpose in life: to Throw The Ball.

We have a yellow spiky football that we adore. The sole purpose of consciousness is to retrieve the ball or to tug on it. Either works, really.

I was trying to check my e-mail today when I felt a head insert itself under my arm, slipping into prime petting position. Fair enough, I thought, giving the dog a rub, then felt her slip away. A moment later, something fell into my lap, and I looked down to find the yellow football waiting for me. Callie stood at the ready, looking at me as if she had just given me the greatest gift the universe has ever known, and stepped back, waiting for the toss. I threw it, she retrieved it, and the cycle continued for several minutes. Eventually, I told her I didn't want to play any more, then turned from her sorrowful eyes to the MSN homepage.

A moment later, a piece of wet fleece landed in my lap, and I turned to see Callie's hopeful eyes and the other end of the fleece, which she was holding in her mouth.

The dog doesn't sleep. This might be a problem...

Home again

I was slightly too warm in bed this morning, so my first thought was to open the window and let in a little breeze.

Then I saw the condensation on the window, quickly remembered where I was, and nixed the idea.

I'd forgotten what a hothouse Birmingham is this time of year. It's been a rough summer over here, too, though in exactly the opposite way to what's been plaguing Britain. We've had little rain - the grass isn't happy, and the country club has posted big signs saying they water with well water, as residents are now only allowed to water two days a week - and the temperature was into triple digits for a few days before I arrived. Now that the rain has begun to return, stepping outside feels like walking into the tropical plants building at your local botanical gardens, all of about 95 degrees with 90 percent humidity.

At least you never have to steam your clothes.

It's currently 7:30 AM. My body's still wondering which time zone it's supposed to be in, and why the sun is rising so late and setting so early. I'm also hurting in muscles I'd forgotten about in my arms and back, as I've spent the last two days either hauling luggage or unpacking it. My troubles began at the airport, when the nice man behind the Continental counter informed me that my bag was overweight.

I asked if I could just pay the overweight charge.

No, he informed me, my bag was 32 kg, which was legally too heavy for them to carry.

Thanks to a bit of adjustment, I left my two 70-lb bags with the airliner and carried my 40-lb backpack onto the plane. The clerk, being a nice guy and accepting my "I just got out of Uni" excuse, didn't charge me extra.

When I got to Newark, I had to reclaim my bags and go through Customs. This was a pain for several reasons, most notably because Jersey charges $3 to rent a cart, and there was no way I was parting with cash for one of those. I ran over and into people, but I made it through Customs and on to Nashville, and my luggage, magically enough, made it. Wonders never cease.

I also had a Chick-fil-A nugget stop at glorious Exit 351 (Athens) at 9:30 PM on the way home, because my mother is awesome like that.

My interview was at 9 AM the next day, but surprisingly, I had no problem rising at 6 to prepare. The interview itself seemed to go well - I was with the interviewer for an hour and a half, and I'm being brought back next week to meet more people - and then it was off to the DMV to become legally licensed once again. I ran into my grandmother, of all people, in the line, and had to yell her name to get her attention; she was too busy telling the woman behind her about her granddaughter, who was home from Scotland, to notice me. She then told me that her dog had to have fluid taken out of its neck. Good times.

Following this, it was off to Brio for lunch, but first I met my mother and sister at their usual Brookwood hangout, the shoe department at Gus Mayer. My former bosses there are awesome, and since Mom realized I'd been in my three-inch heels all day and was not the happiest camper about that, she insisted we buy a pair of flats for me before lunch. Breaking my new shoes in, I followed them across the street, then indulged in lobster bisque and a Bellini (heaven) before heading home to begin the unpacking process. I managed to get the contents of my two suitcases onto my bed before it was time to get coat hangers and drive to Mountain Brook for my pedicure.

We're going to the beach tomorrow, my mother explained. I need a pedicure.

I wasn't going to say no.

Due to a little confusion, my pedicure turned into a mani/pedi, and my nails are now this burgundy shade better known as "Frostbite". I told Cyndy that they would match my skin tone well after my first day at the Gulf. We shall see.

Dinner was barbeque - one of my mom's coworkers has an enormous smoker and makes briskets for people. He's amazing - and then I began to put the mess into my closet and unpack the other two suitcases in my room. Around 10:30, back and knees aching, I'd had enough and crawled into bed.

It's off now to take the dog for a walk, finish filling out my application form, and go to a choir audition this afternoon. In the meanwhile, thank God for air conditioning.