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.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Quote of the Day
Today's Quote of the Day:
"Yet another Saturday night spent watching kitten videos on YouTube"
"Yet another Saturday night spent watching kitten videos on YouTube"
Friday, November 14, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
Insert Celebratory Title Here
While I'm sure there's nothing unique I can say about this historic and reaffirming landslide election, I feel I should say something. And that something is that for the first time in a long time, I'm proud of this country. I'm proud that so many disenfranchised people voted for the first time. I'm proud that all the kids I work with who are of very diverse backgrounds feel they have a future. I'm proud that my state was the first to go for Obama. I'm proud that former VT governor Howard Dean helped create the 50 state strategy. I'm proud that across the country, people put aside prejudice and instead chose hope. I'm proud that my niece will grow up in a world where anyone can be president. And I'll be even more proud when it's a woman standing in that oval office, which I never thought I'd see in my life time and now believe there's a good sporting chance of it.
Well done.
Well done.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Why I love our Country
In anticipation of tomorrow's historic election, I thought I'd share this tidbit from today's Burlington Free Press:
Now, I'm not sure I really need to get into the logistics of him having sex with a 14 year old when he was 26, or his three DUI convictions, or the fact that he lit himself on fire in a suicide attempt. All I can say is that I live in a state where this guy gets to run for state senate after getting 100 signatures on a petition. On one hand it terrifies me since more than one person, I'm sure, has voted for people they didn't know anything about, and on the other hand it reassures me that everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) has access to the government in Vermont.
Small state, big problems. God I hope people do a little research before going to the polls. And you are going to the polls tomorrow right? Right? Good. Do your part. Keep this guy out of office.
"BURLINGTON -- Larkin Forney's been a lot of things in his life -- sex offender, drunken driver, head injury victim, marijuana legalization advocate, prisoner.
This year, he has a new label: candidate for state Senate."Now, I'm not sure I really need to get into the logistics of him having sex with a 14 year old when he was 26, or his three DUI convictions, or the fact that he lit himself on fire in a suicide attempt. All I can say is that I live in a state where this guy gets to run for state senate after getting 100 signatures on a petition. On one hand it terrifies me since more than one person, I'm sure, has voted for people they didn't know anything about, and on the other hand it reassures me that everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) has access to the government in Vermont.
Small state, big problems. God I hope people do a little research before going to the polls. And you are going to the polls tomorrow right? Right? Good. Do your part. Keep this guy out of office.
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