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.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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.
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, November 26, 2007
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.
(*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.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Game Weekend 2007
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.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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...
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...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 12, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, November 11, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
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.
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, November 05, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, November 04, 2007
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...)
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...)
Thursday, November 01, 2007
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?
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?
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