Celebrating Old School Style

At the Latke Fest 08 that I recently attended at Josh and Selene's apartment, I came to realize certain truths about parties you attend in your 20's versus parties you attend in your 30's. To wit:

Parties attended in 1998:
- Discussion of who has eating disorders
- Search for over-age friends to buy booze
- Discussion of living with parents
- Leaving early to hit another all night rager
- Complaints about crappy part-time job
- Survey of who's hooking up
- Relaying antics of siblings

Parties attended in 2008:
- Discussion of how easily weight is gained post 30
- Search for good merlot someone recommended
- Discussion of current mortgage interest rates
- Leaving early to attend family function
- Tips on parlaying current job into consulting gig
- Survey of who's getting married
- Relaying antics of offspring


The trick, I believe, is to enjoy your place in life no matter what it is.

On Faith

Faith is not something I often talk about. I'm the granddaughter of a Methodist minister, was raised Congregational and Episcopalian, spent 4 years at an Opus Dei Catholic School, socialize mostly with Atheists, Agnostics, and Jews, and thanks to the most recent wave of refugee resettlement in town, I work with a predominantly Muslim group of kids. I've seen quite a bit of religion and have never really taken to any of them.

When I was child, I remember talking often with God. God was like an imaginary friend - someone you just talked to that no one else could see. I didn't pray to God, I conversed. I talked about my day, had one way discussions on why world events were as they were, asked a couple of questions about Jesus, occasionally requested peace among family members. I played My Little Ponies with God sometimes. God was the only person I told about my secret metal box of treasures I kept in my closet in case the house burned down so I could grab it when I had to evacuate. I figured if anyone would remind me to take it, God would.

But I outgrew talking to God. At some point I started talking to myself instead. Not surprisingly, people react much more positively to children talking to themselves instead of "God". Too reminiscent of Joan of Arc, I guess. Also, God never talked back and I got a bit impatient with the one-sided nature of the relationship. God became this ridiculous part of my past - a figment of my imagination that I was foolish enough to believe in with my childhood naivete. By the time I was 15 I was a full fledged Atheist. The idea of a god or an afterlife seemed like the most ludicrous, arcane idea born of weak people who needed a fake higher cosmic being to give their lives meaning. I gave god away like everything else I'd outgrown.

I've been comfortable in my adult life vacillating between Atheism and Agnosticism. I've been confronted many times by people who believe that I must be without hope or inner peace as an Atheist, but I feel quite the contrary. When I, or others without organized religion, do good deeds, it's not because of Church doctrine or to get into an afterlife. It's a purely altruistic gesture. The more good I see done by Atheists, the more I can believe in the inherent goodness of humanity. I see people who choose a positive path because they want to, not out of fear of religious retribution. And that makes me happy and hopeful.

But I do miss the community that church provided. I miss singing on Sundays and smelling the lilies at Easter. I miss little kids dressed up for Christmas and bad pageants. I miss celebrating life with a room full of joyful people. I but I just can't consider myself Christian. I don't have those beliefs of the supernatural aspects in my heart and I would feel hypocritical and disrespectful to the congregation if I went to a service for the fun of it. I just don't believe in the idea of Jesus as anything other than a really good guy and grass roots organizer who made some pretty incredible changes in a corrupt society. And that supernatural belief in Jesus as the son of god seems to be a pretty fundamental Christian concept. It's non-negotiable to believers.

So today is the first day of Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, and in a few days Christmas will come. I tend to celebrate all equally since I have friends of those faiths. Truth be told, I love Hanukkah. It's such a wonderful concept and the candles and latkes can't be beat. But again, I'm not about to call myself Jewish because I enjoy the ceremony of the holidays.

But this Christmas Eve, I believe I will attend a service at the local Unitarian Universalist Church. I've done a lot of research and I think it will be a good fit for me. Many people I've met who share my views of religion feel quite at home as UUers, and I'm excited to see what it's all about. It may be great, it may be uncomfortable. I don't know. but I'm looking forward to finding out.

So to all of my friends and families, no matter what you celebrate at this time of year, have a very happy holiday season. I wish you all love, laughter and light.

Farewell my Fish

It's a sad day here. This morning, Thomas the betta passed away. I tried to give him an extravagantly large home, top of the line bloodworm food, a cat to sit on top of his tank, but ultimately it wasn't enough. I've had one of my turtles for 24 years, but I couldn't manage to keep a betta alive. Thomas, I failed you. And I'm sorry.

Fun with Coffee

It's early in the morning, I'm about to go into a Board meeting, and I haven't had coffee yet. I hurt. But, thanks to the good folks at ThinkGeek.com, at least I'm smiling. I give you good folks:

Weasel Coffee

Excerpt: There's a little animal in Vietnam which has magical properties. Locally, it's called a weasel (though technically, it's a type of civet, but let's call it a weasel like the locals) and it sure likes to eat the fruit of the coffee plant. But the seeds don't sit well in its tummy, so it vomits them up. And that's where the fun comes in - for local coffee folks gather up the beans and lightly roast them. The stomach acids seem to wear away the bitter taste of the coffee beans, and the resulting coffee is delicious and smooth.

Welcome Back to Reality

This morning I returned to work after a fabulous Thanksgiving and post Thanksgiving Chicago trip. For the record, I believe my niece is the current title holder for "World's Most Awesome Baby". Five days of non-work fun have left me exhausted and refreshed at the same time.

However, now back at work, I believe I myself am the current title holder of "World's Biggest Idiot". Let me explain. The morning began with me waking up for the first time in five days at 6:45am, as per my usual work schedule. It was tired, I was groggy, I was annoyed. But I was up. And I managed to get myself into the shower. While drying off from a shower that included several moments of trying to figure out exactly what I was doing in there (shampooing? washing? standing blankly and looking at the shower head?), I heard someone enter my apartment. Blind panic set in. What the hell was going on? As the steps came closer to the bathroom door, I weighed the pros and cons of jumping out my bathroom window naked. Pro - survival. Con - death by embarrassment. Then I heard a quick knock and a "good morning". Josh was there, kindly helping me drop my car off at the mechanic's today. Within a span of 7 hours, I had completely spaced on this agenda item. Crisis averted and eventually, car deposited.

Arriving at work 15 minutes late to find my executive director already in the building, I figured the day wasn't going in a positive direction. She informed me that we had finally gotten a call about our federal funding and we would be down $40,000. Poop. I sulked back to my office. What to do? When in time of crisis, go back to the basics. No coffee, no breakfast yet. Must fix these issues. So off to the kitchen. No coffee filters. Poop. Solution? Reworking a filter from another machine. Solved. Next up - breakfast. Two pieces of bread inserted into toaster. Solved. Back to my office to check email while food cooks. Checking email...checking email...checking email...what's that smell...checking email...no, seriously, what's that smell? Off to kitchen to investigate.

FIRE!!!!!! Room full of smoke, and FIRE! The toaster was on fire! Blow it out! Blow it out! It's not working! Unplug it! It's hot! It's STILL ON FIRE! Bowl by the sink - fill with water and douse flames! Done. No more fire. But lots of smoke. Open door to fan out smoke.

FIRE ALARM GOES OFF! Sirens - lights - fire marshals! Threats of sprinkler systems! Firemen arrive and turn off the alarm, after laughing profusely at me.

Back at my desk. To summarize, my first day back I not only didn't get the full federal grant amount we needed (a major failure) but I also set the toaster on fire and set off the alarm system, and had to get the fire department on site to turn it off. Since on Tuesdays we have homeschoolers using our building, I've had the fun task of explaining to 20 people why our building smells like smoke. Oh, and there are a whole slate of other people scheduled to come in today who will also, I'm sure, require the detailed story of how I became the world's biggest idiot on a Tuesday morning.

Confidential to J

I'm not in Chicago, I haven't had 2 bottles of champagne and a bad martini today and I still think you're awesome. Hope you're still smiling whilst you wash the dishes and blushing under those big sideburns. I've smiled every day for the last year.

Survival takes Precidence

It is officially winter in Vermont. Whether or not the calendar agrees, the temperature sure as heck does. It's cold, people. Really freaking cold. And I am under-dressed.

I have never been accused of being stylish in my life. But, for better or for worse, I do have my own style. It involves lots of skirts, brightly colored shoes, v-neck shirts, and cardigans. I'm not all together sure how this style evolved, but I feel comfortable in it and wear this uniform regularly. However, it's not what one would call "warm". To wit: it's is less than 20 degrees out these days in the sun and I do not own a hat.

Years ago I should have learned my lesson. One of my first experiences in Burlington involved my ex-boyfriend bringing me up here for First Night in 1999. I'm a Massachusetts native and unaccustomed to walking around in extreme temperatures. There we have the good sense to stay inside when it's cold. But not up here. I distinctly remember one moment as Jessie and I walked out of Memorial Auditorium mid day having picked up special event tickets, and a woman accosted me. I was wearing my traditional garb of the day: long black skirt, black doc martens, v-neck sweater, and olive green wool Burberry dress coat I purchased in London. Note, I had no scarf, hat, or mittens. I owned none of these. The aforementioned woman stopped me in the snow and cried "Cover up your naked chest, young lady! You'll catch your death out here!" I took her to be a nutcase. Little did I know that I would agree with her 100% mere hours from then. While previously it had been just over 32 degrees during the day, the temperature plunged to 5 below once the sun set. Have I mentioned I had no scarf, hat or mittens? While we traipsed from event to event, my ears, eyes, hands and feet began to sting with a ferocity I hadn't previously experienced. By 9:30 I started to cry. I could no longer feel most of my body. Jessie quickly pulled me into a store on Church Street to warm me, but my face and hands were bright red and weren't warming up. We had, much to my chagrin, parked on the waterfront to watch the fireworks and anyone native to this area will understand that the temperature by the lake is not only colder, but amplified by a wind chill that will strip the flesh from your bones. And I had to walk the 8 blocks to get back to the car with ginger steps and tears still streaming from my eyes. Poor Jessie. He didn't realize until that moment what a flatlander I really was. Back at his parents house I soaked in a warm bath for hours while his mother, a biology teacher, checked my limbs for signs of frostbite. I narrowly escaped.

It's 9 years later and I still live here while Jessie has smartly moved to Cambridge MA. While I do own a set of fleece mittens and several scarfs, I haven't mastered the art of dressing for the weather. As I mentioned, I still do not own a hat. As Josh will sadly tell you, this is because I can't find one that doesn't make my head look misshapen. Fashion over function. However, I'm reaching the point of desperation. On my way to chorus rehearsal on Saturday, there was a good inch of snow on the ground outside my house. This seems like it would trigger some sort of "hey, I should wear socks" response in any intelligent person. Instead, I wore a summer dress (with cardigan, thank you very much) and slip on polka dot sneakers I just bought. I stood out there, brushing the snow off of my car in my tiny sneakers like an idiot. I was cold. Very cold. And stupid. Very stupid. I was only one at rehearsal not covered from head to toe. And when I returned and began to walk to Josh's, I realized I was coveting the clothing of other girls I would usually laugh at. A woman walked by me with fleece lined jeans, snow boots, a gigantic ski hat, mittens the size of oven mitts, and a down filled jacket that made her look like a purple snow man. But she looked warm. And I envied her. And at that moment, I realized I had learned nothing from the last 9 years. It's winter, it's cold, and I'm under dressed. But I swear that from this moment on, I will wear weather appropriate attire. As long as it doesn't make my head look like a potato.

The Wrong Side of Right

I have a downstairs neighbor. Her name is Chris and she is a native Vermonter who recently attended law school in Boston only to return to Burlington, as all good native Vermonters do. She has a job at a respectable law firm a few blocks from our house. She drives a well cared for SUV. I assume she has the oil changed regularly. From what I've seen of her apartment, she shops at Pottery Barn except for the few personalized items from her childhood she has carefully placed about the living room to give it "character". She rides her bicycle seriously, or at least seriously enough to have bike shorts, a helmet, and a strap on water bottle. Her bike is neither blue, nor Polish, nor does it sport the words "The Bluebird Express" across the frame. This fascinates me.

As far as I can tell, when Chris walks into Pottery Barn, her first instinct is to purchase items, not study them so that they can be reproduced in brighter colors later on. When her pepper mill breaks, her first thought is most likely not "I hope I can find a new one in the shape of a person". She has dinner dates with men who wear flannel shirts and drive subarus with ski racks. They do not huddle on a couch watching the second season of Connections over a plate of vegan nachos. She also does not, I imagine, own any clothing she has hand sewed. In her free time, she does not obsessively photograph her kitchen. She did not buy an orchid so that she could cast one of the blossoms in resin to wear as a pendant. Her umbrella is not striped, nor painted, nor large. It is black and it fits in her purse. She does not wear polka dot shoes. She also most likely does not have pets with people names and she doesn't have a turtle she's had since she was six that is named after someone of the wrong sex. She is, in other words, a complete enigma to me.

It is an odd sensation to be faced with someone who makes entirely different decisions for no other reason than personal taste. Her life looks just as bewildering to me as mine must look to her and so we part ways - one upstairs, one downstairs, both left scratching their heads in puzzlement.

Quote of the Day

Today's Quote of the Day:

"Yet another Saturday night spent watching kitten videos on YouTube"

The Difference Between Near and Far

I've been thinking a lot lately about why people give. As a nonprofit fundraiser/grant writer/outcomes director/program manager, why people give has a direct correlation to my livelihood. But it interests me beyond that level. I think fundamentally people give because it makes them feel good. Some may give out of guilt, some may give out of loyalty, some may give out of a sense of obligation. But over all, I think giving your money, your time, or your belongings to others in need makes you feel good. And people like to feel good.

And this brings me to what I've been thinking the most about: why some people choose to give overseas and why some give locally. Because I work in the trenches, so to speak, I'm predisposed to assume everyone would choose to give in their community, or at least their country. But I think it's emotionally easier to give to people of another culture. When you don't know them or their society on a personal level, you get to view their behavior as neutral. All woman can be victims. All children can be hungry. All people can be universally good and just at the whim of fortune. You don't usually have the knowledge to examine whether someone in an African country is the equivalent of welfare mom who may be milking the system. You don't have to know that the farmer receiving subsidy may be an asshole. You don't have to care what his view of gay marriage is. If he's a bigot, you can write it off as a cultural difference.

But locally it's harder to make those sweeping generalizations. When someone gives to a homeless shelter, it's much harder to see the recipients as neutral. All of a sudden each recipient becomes a complex individual with potential mental illness or drug addiction. Giving gets harder when you know enough to judge the people you give to. And nonprofits are reduced to giving out rosy pictures of redemption instead of truthfully representing the day to day crap that most of us wade through.

I guess the best news is that unless your job, like mine, is to decipher what campaign will be most likely to tug on heart and purse strings, why people give is moot. Because people do give. Whether or not it's easier to give to the fluffy puppy rescue organization than to the needle exchange, people still give. And thank god for it.

And fundraising will make you feel like quite the shit peddling social pariah if you let it get to you.

Burlington is my Other Boyfriend

I love my neighborhood. While baking a carrot cake tonight, I realized I was woefully out of confectioner's sugar which is integral to the cream cheese frosting making process. Luckily, a block from my house is the Willard Street Market. You all know these corner markets. They're gas station convenience stores without the gas. They all have approximately three isles of miscellaneous goods and a wall of refrigerated beer and overpriced milk and OJ. This is just such a market. And I love it.

Why, you ask, would a dumpy corner market have my undying affection? It's a true statement that it's ugly. It has the full retinue of 70's faux wood paneling, fake IDs stuffed under the glass counter, 40 year old linoleum tiled floors, yellow tinged overhead lighting, and at least a $1.50 added to every item's price. In fact I was horrified the first time I walked through the aging glass doors. But I've grown to adore this bodega. Not only is it extremely convenient when I haven't had anything beyond filtered water in my apartment for days and I passed hungry a week ago, but it has gems hidden its run down isles. Search hard enough and you find Annie's organic mac and cheese. And what's that in the cooler? Oh yes, it's Tropicana. No concentrate here.

But the true wonder of the Willard Street market is its chief night cashier. I have no idea what her name is, but she saw 60 years old a long time ago and judging from my knowledge of the refugee population and her accent, she's Bosnian. She knows precisely three things that I've experienced: "hello", "goodbye" and how to count American money. She watches exclusively foreign soap operas on the discreetly placed tv behind the counter. She doesn't greet you when you walk in, but she sure as heck knows exactly where you are in her store. She doesn't call me "hon", she doesn't ask me how my day was, she doesn't smile. She does her job with the bare minimum contact required and I find that very refreshing in this overly pleasant town. Sometimes you just want to buy a pound of sugar without discussing your life story. Sometimes you just want that silent acknowledgment that this is just a business transaction and I'm coming back no matter what the customer service is like. And she obliges. And I love it, even if I had to pay an extra $1.50 to get it.

While One Rises, Another Falls

I'm sad to report that Michael Crichton lost his long running battle with cancer yesterday. The Andromeda Strain was a formative part of my childhood, as was Jurassic Park, and I can thank both for my love of good sci fi and my unending interest in microbiology.