Quirkiness

I've been working this weekend, half hoping I would have the kind of terrible days that cause me to throw myself on my bed and cry when I got home--this to help validate the fact that I turned in my letter of resignation last week. So far, the days have been relatively easy, but there's always hope for tomorrow. I feel like I am being self-indulgent in quitting my job without plans to work anywhere else at the moment. On the other hand, I didn't fully realize how draining nursing school has been until the semester ended and I all but collapsed with exhaustion. I feel like I am convalescing from a long illness. I need time to relax and heal, to pay attention to my children, to focus on things at my house, to finish my bathroom, to throw a big party.

In order to be in compliance with my employer's policies, I must give 30 days notice when quitting--that is, if I ever want to work at this institution again, which I most likely will after graduation. My last day of work isn't until mid-June. I will miss my co-workers, but I will not miss the stress and frustration.

Anyway, I've been tagged by Zoe to list six quirky things about myself.

1. I don't understand raisins. Why not just eat dead flies?
2. I developed traumatic amnesia after watching the movie Trainspotting.
3. I love novels about the British navy.
4. I was once locked in the Buffalo Zoo after closing time. I escaped by climbing a fence.
5. I used to suffer from sleep paralysis, and had a number of out-of-body experiences associated with it.
6. Almost all plants put into my care will die.

The rules say to tag six more people, but I'll just tag whoever wants to participate.

Charles Lamb: unsung hottie of the Romantic Era

Charles Lamb, the 19^th century essayist once wrote, in “Readers Against the Grain,”

Rather than follow in the train of this insatiable monster of modern reading, I would forswear my spectacles, play at put, mend pens, kill fleas, stand on one leg, shell peas, or do whatsoever ignoble diversion you shall put me to. Alas! I am hurried on in the vortex. I die of new books or the everlasting talk about them...I will go and relieve myself with a page of honest John Bunyan or Tom Brown. Tom anybody will do, so long as they are not of this whiffling century.

My feelings exactly, although it's not Bunyan I relieve myself with, but Anthony Trollope and it's not this “whiffling century” I object to, but the last few whiffling decades, or at least, the books written in them that Everybody else is reading and discussing.

I took the above Lamb quote from the essay “The Unfuzzy Lamb” by Anne Fadiman in her new book, At Large and at Small. I was mildly excited to come across this essay on Charles Lamb because he has occupied a corner of my consciousness ever since college, where I was profoundly horrified by the story of how his sister Mary murdered their mother with a carving knife and how Charles subsequently cared for his mad sister for the rest of his life. Fadiman admits to having something of a crush on Lamb and this also interested me because developing crushes on long-dead characters from history is a behavior not unknown to me. Indeed, this portrait of Hawthorne still causes my heart to go pitter-pat.

For some reason, I'd imagined Charles Lamb to have spindly legs, a frizzy periwig and puffy, babyish features, but a quick google image search proves me wrong:

I can see why Anne Fadiman has a crush on him. I think I do too, now.

Of all the excellent essays in At Large and at Small, “The Unfuzzy Lamb” is my favorite. I was happy to learn that Lamb was a late bloomer, working obscurely as a clerk while writing his essays, which were not published until he was in his late forties. Lamb wrote his poems while clerking too. We are so obsessed with youth related to success in the arts, that if you haven't published a masterpiece by the age of 22, you're considered to have missed your chance to write anything of note at all. I am setting up Charles Lamb as the patron saint of people who need to work for a living while nurturing a desire to write.

I happened to be at the Alderman Library, selecting a book of Victorian ghost stories by Sheridan Le Fanu, when I noticed that Charles Lamb's books were shelved in the vicinity. After some deliberation, I chose Wit and Wisdom, attracted by its tiny size, the lovely binding, the handsome profile of Lamb, and the inscription “Eugenia from Papa Christmas 1892” in faded ink on the inside cover.

Wit and Wisdom turned out to be tiny snippets of Lamb's writing. I was instantly charmed. I know I read some Charles Lamb in college, I can remember the classroom, the teacher, my classmates, but alas, not whatever it was of his we read. The passage quoted above, from Fadiman's essay, showed me that Charles Lamb probably had committed many worthwhile thoughts to paper, and so far Wit and Wisdom has not disappointed, as example this passage from “Charles Lamb's Autobiography”

...Has been guilty of obtruding upon the public a tale, in prose, called “Rosamund Gray”' a dramatic sketch named “John Woodvil”' a “Farewell Ode to Tobacco,” with sundry other poems, and light prose matter, collected in two slight crown octavos, and pompously christened his works, though in fact they were his recreations; and his true works may be found on the shelves of Leadenhall Street, filling some hundred folios. He is also the true Elia, whose Essays are extant in a little volume. He died, 18--, much lamented.

Carless in Charlottesville

My title is a tiny bit misleading. I was carless for only about 24 hours. It would be fun to try and go longer than that.

Anyway.

Sunday night, I, my two daughters plus one cello piled into my reliable Toyota van after the CHS orchestra concert, and when I turned the key, nothing happened except a rapid series of clicking sounds. It was after 9:00 pm, the other parents were hustling their own teens (plus basses, cellos and other instruments) into their own cars and driving away hurriedly into the night. Stranded! My cell phone had just enough battery in it to place a single call to my husband, who, with a kind neighbor, came to rescue us. We have just one car. In the past, we've owned two cars, but the second car would always sit in the driveway, unused 98% of the time, so we downsized to one car.

My car's breaking down coincided with Jon and our two boys leaving for a small vacation with some of Jon's friends. My daughters and I had planned a girls' night out, and lack of a car did not stop us. Our original plan had been to go to the Gap and buy flip flops and probably get dinner somewhere, but we changed our plans to accommodate our carless state and walked to the downtown mall instead.

First we stopped into the new clothing store at the east end of the mall. Mazzi? Something like that. The woman working there showed us these amazing silk wraps from India that you can drape and tie in different ways to make many different styles of dresses and tops. We were sold and bought two--a mini, for making tops--and a medium length for dresses.

We strolled the mall, trying to decide where to eat dinner and opted for Bijou. Unfortunately, once we'd been seated and given menus, we were ignored so pointedly it was almost an insult. Drama Queen noticed a man who had arrived after us, being served his drinks and no one had even taken our drink order, so we walked out and ate at Eppie's instead which was fast and tasty. After dinner we window shopped, especially at Antics, one of my favorite stores on the mall, and later went to Splendora's for dessert where Drama Queen, always original, paired cucumber flavored and blood orange flavored gelato. Miss G and I were more conventional, choosing chocolate hazelnut and Mexican coffee.

We walked home in the chilly, darkening night and, since lack of a car prevented us from renting a movie, we watched Lady Jane, which I happen to own and which is one of my favorite movies. We played with our new silk wraps, concluding that the woman at the shop must have superpowers because she was so much more skillful at draping them than we were. Still, I'm sure we'll master it.

This morning my car was ready. Turns out it just needed a battery. I took the #3 bus downtown and managed to catch the trolley just as it was pulling out of downtown station. The trolley took me to within a block of C'ville Imports where I collected my car and I am once again burdened with two tons of baggage wherever I go. Not really, I have enough imagination and energy to walk places or use public transportation even when I do have a working car, but not having a car at all is freeing in a way. Your horizons are shrunk, as far as where and how far you can travel, but by the same token, you have an excuse not to go to places you don't want to. For example, I know I had a lot more fun downtown last night than I would have if we had driven up to Fashion Square.

Now, with dextrose!

I love old magazines. I love them for their unashamed sexism, the awful recipes, the repulsive food pictures, the fashions, the home decorating and design articles.


I love this ad from a 1936 Better Homes and Gardens. (Click to enlarge it for full enjoyment.) Here's the copy:

Dextrose is sugar, the normal sugar of the human body. From Dextrose comes the energy we need to breathe, to walk, to talk...yes, even to think. Dextrose banishes fatigue, balances the wear and repair of the body. In Dextrose is glowing, radiant warmth and food-energy. And of greatest importance, Dextrose is instantly digested--in fact, it is immediately absorbed by the bloodstream without need of digestive effort. Kre-mel is rich in Dextrose!

Old magazines also focus a lot on how "digestible" foods are, not something you hear much of today. Who wants to try some Kre-mel? It's only $.05 for four servings! And it's America's most healthful and delicious dessert. I bet I could find a dusty box of it at Stoney's. Or Reid's.

Speaking of Dextrose, I need my morning fix, liberally laced with caffeine, of course. Can you imagine this ad for Coffee:

It's rich in trimethylxanthine! Trimethylxanthine is nature's get-up-and-go. From trimethylxanthine comes the energy we need to walk, to talk, to write long and incoherent blog posts...yes, even to think! Trimethylxanthine banishes fatigue. In trimethylxanthine is glowing, radiant energy, happiness and Adenosine-antagonist. Trimethylxanthine is a completely natural substance that mimics a substance your body makes itself, Adenosine. Trimethylxanthine binds to your brain's Adenosine receptors and tricks your brain into feeling alert and awake when actually, you've had just two hours of sleep! Drink coffee! It's rich in trimethylxanthine!

Speaking of sexism, can we talk about Hilary Clinton for a minute? I do not like Hilary Clinton. At the same time, I am offended by some of the blatant sexism aimed at her, and which, undoubtedly, would be aimed at any woman running for president. That Neanderthal screaming, "Iron my shirt!" comes to mind, although, clearly, he is not a representative of the typical American male. Or is he?

On the other hand, I don't like the notion that women, as feminists, must vote for Clinton. Once upon a time, some women voted the way their husbands told them to. Some probably still do. Should we now vote the way some women's groups are telling us to? Is that any different?

I read on Jennifer's Charlottesville about women who are boycotting Obama, and who claim they have "millions" of followers.

Their message is menacing. Are we supposed to believe "millions" of women are supposedly going to boycott Obama because he is a man? Millions? I doubt it. And what are we, as women, supposed to take from that message? That if we vote for a man over a women we are betraying our sex? That you should betray your own convictions in order to vote for someone who shares your sex?

Obama, meanwhile, is in trouble for calling a reporter "sweetie." I saw a clip of the incident, and he is being dismissive, I have to admit it. I also have to admit he looks sexy while doing it. Isn't that awful? But it's true, he's totally sexy during the "sweetie" incident, which no doubt illustrates a paradox about women and their attraction to their man-oppressors* which my brain, as yet free of trimethylxanthine can not articulate.

*I meant men as oppressors in general, not Obama specifically as an oppressor, which he is not.

A walk down Avon St.

$6 was all the cash I had in the world, and I spent $4.50 of it on strawberries at the City Market.
Here are some pictures from my walk up Avon St. on my way to the market. I'm not a good photographer but Avon St. is the sort of street that looks ugly when you're driving down it, but if you take the time to walk, you see some hidden beauties.

A new picket fence.
Spiderwort and a red fire hydrant.
An old house getting a facelift.

Pretty porch.


Rainbow of houses on Hinton St.

An old garage.


A new hair salon.


Roses over an iron fence.

Pink and green.

Back home--my own irises and speedwell.

Tornado?

Last night I was sprawled in an armchair, lazily catching up on the Sunday New York Times, periodically bellowing at my children to turn on the TV to see if the Office was on. No one would oblige me, so I turned on the TV myself, and instead of seeing Dwight and Michael, I heard Eric Pritchett's panicked voice talking about a tornado warning.

We don't get many tornadoes here in Virginia, although we get even fewer tornadoes in Buffalo, where I grew up. My only experience with tornadoes is my mother's story about how she was visiting someone in Indiana or Illinois, or somewhere, and saw a tiny tornado carry off somebody's rosebush.

The TV warned us repeatedly to "get LOW and stay LOW"--not very catchy, I must say. Couldn't someone have come up with an easy tornado rhyme?

How LOW can you go? This storm is gonna BLOW.
To the basement we go. We need to stay LOW.
When the tornado is acomin' to the basement go runnin'.

My house, with its outdoor-only access basement, is particularly unsuited for tornado survival. How, pray, am I supposed to round up four children, two dogs, and a bunny and take them out into a storm and around the side of the house, and unlock the padlock and usher everybody inside before an approaching tornado obliterates us? The animals are particularly problematic. The bunny would have to travel by Black Bag, which he does not like, and I envisioned the dogs attacking the bunny in the bag while we huddled in the basement. I also saw myself tugging uselessly on two leashes, trying to get two panicked dogs into a basement they are both afraid of.

My daughter Miss G made a case for all of us hiding in the closet instead. This is the closet.

Can you imagine six people, two large dogs and a bunny squeezed in here? I told Miss G that she could go into the closet, but the rest of us would take our chances with the basement.

This is me, awaiting death as predicted by the NBC 29 Storm Team.


Jon, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. We had NO idea where he had got to. He was not in the house, he was not on the porch. He was gone and the Storm Team's hysterical reporting had worked my younger children into a state of high anxiety. The bunny's cage was moved away from the window and piled with blankets. Mr. McP had the dog leashes. I had the key to the basement wound around my wrist on a string. I think my time would have been better spent reading the hysterical commentary on the storm coverage over at Cvillain.

It was all so exciting, I was half disappointed when they canceled the tornado warning for Charlottesville. Just at that moment, Jon came breezing into the house. He'd been at the neighbor's looking at possible doors for our new bathroom.

Continuing education

People. Repeat after me: The pedestrian always has the right of way. The pedestrian always has the right of way. The pedestrian always has the right of way.
And to the BMW driver in the Feast! parking lot, THE PEDESTRIAN ALWAYS HAS THE FUCKING RIGHT OF WAY.

That also goes out to the woman with the "Save Tibet" license plate in the Barracks Road Shopping Center last week. Yes, run people down with your SUV after buying Chinese-made merchandise, and give angry looks and wave your arms and roll down your window in order to berate the pedestrian you nearly crushed but by all means, save Tibet. With your fucking license plate.

Something completely different. Look what I found under my bed.