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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
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.
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.
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