My brother has pissed me off by suggesting that my running days are over. That I can't handle it anymore. That my knees can't handle it anymore. Blah blah. In response I have decided to jog/walk/crawl, whatever it takes, another marathon.
I want a January marathon to mark my birthday. Top contenders are:
1) Miami Marathon - it's Miami, after all.
2) Carlsbad Marathon - San Diego is perfect weather and terrain.
3) Angel Marathon - Boulder City, NV (never been there - sounds cool).
4) Disney World Marathon - magic kingdom??
5) Ocala Marathon - again, Florida is great for running (crawling, too).
Anyone have an opinion on this? Oh and to be clear, I will stomp my brother on this issue. Nothing pisses me off more than people who don't believe in me.
Love,
Nina
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Three minute post
My flight boards in three minutes, so I have three minutes to tell you that my boss offered to write me a letter of recommendation and I now have until December to decide what to do.
This is welcome news.
Also, I am more confused than ever about what to do. But at least now I have more time to be confused.
Here is a picture for you:
That is me, Tex, and Tess in Iceland. Very overserved.
I love you because you are so beautiful, and I can't help myself.
This is welcome news.
Also, I am more confused than ever about what to do. But at least now I have more time to be confused.
Here is a picture for you:
That is me, Tex, and Tess in Iceland. Very overserved.
I love you because you are so beautiful, and I can't help myself.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Welcome to Latvia!
I was in the airport last week for six hours. And while I was there, I had a moment of pure ______________. It occurred to me that I had my passport and enough funds on my person to get out of the country. Options: Casablanca, Lima, Sydney, Riga, Hong Kong, Ulan Bator.
Seriously. I could have been gone. Just gone. Deferring problems so great and terrible that the very wizard himself would have fled the curtain and run screaming from the set. I could have been drinking fermented horse milk (and stuff like that). In Ulan Bator. (Latvia, I hear, is also an excellent option. Someday I will go).
I did not board a flight for some foreign land. I exited the airport and took my passport and my small accumulation of cash (some of which isn't even mine) and went... home.
Instead I am going to try to make my life work. Fix up the broken pieces and toss out that which cannot be fixed. All from right here: New York City.
Latvia will have to wait, but when I do make it there, I sincerely hope that I am wearing a set of raggedy overalls.
And how are you?
Love,
Nina
PS Photo from some recent decade when overalls were fashionable (at least among us Target dwellers). I still wear those sometimes...)
Seriously. I could have been gone. Just gone. Deferring problems so great and terrible that the very wizard himself would have fled the curtain and run screaming from the set. I could have been drinking fermented horse milk (and stuff like that). In Ulan Bator. (Latvia, I hear, is also an excellent option. Someday I will go).
I did not board a flight for some foreign land. I exited the airport and took my passport and my small accumulation of cash (some of which isn't even mine) and went... home.
Instead I am going to try to make my life work. Fix up the broken pieces and toss out that which cannot be fixed. All from right here: New York City.
Latvia will have to wait, but when I do make it there, I sincerely hope that I am wearing a set of raggedy overalls.
And how are you?
Love,
Nina
PS Photo from some recent decade when overalls were fashionable (at least among us Target dwellers). I still wear those sometimes...)
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Check, check
This is an empty post where I say little other than that I am grateful, incredibly grateful that anyone still reads this blog. I am also grateful that I am not feeling as terrible as I felt this time last year. Oh!
Yes, that is buttercream frosting. Good heavens.
Better, substantive post to come tomorrow. Meantime, have a cookie.
Love,
Nina
I also went to Chicago to visit my darling LAS. A few pictures from the trip:
Yes, that is buttercream frosting. Good heavens.
Better, substantive post to come tomorrow. Meantime, have a cookie.
Love,
Nina
Sunday, October 26, 2008
How 'bout
I haven't made the drawings yet. I am not yet organized. Rest assured that I am tucked into my new place and when I find myself able, I will write about the move process and talk more about what it is like to live here. Meanwhile, let me say only that I feel immensely better. (In case you missed it, I was feeling unwell, recently). In the interest of maintaining something like interest, I post herewith a picture of... well, it's not my neighborhood. But it's New York City, which is everyone's neighborhood if you know which way to turn your feet.
I am on the road tomorrow, but I will post from there.
I am on the road tomorrow, but I will post from there.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
And so
Thank you to everyone who once again guest posted. Thank you for all the kind and supportive emails that I never returned. Thank you for showing up and reading even though you knew every time you did, it would lower your general happiness level a full notch (sometimes two). (I have taken back the reigns of my internet diary, so if the posts of the last few weeks have provided any exceptions to the depressive, psychotic, bitter, wrathful standards I have built and upheld for over a year, you can exhale. If you're into that my brand of _____________, here's your home plate. Virtually speaking, anyway).
Geographically speaking, we are at the airport waiting for a flight that takes off in three hours. You might remember that I was supposed to stay here until Wednesday and you might guess that it's odd for three people to sit around in an airport for three hours if they don't have to.
(Work on it for a minute. Have a inference or two and meet me a sentence later).
It has been almost twenty-four hours, actually, since we left. We spent the night at a hotel an hour away.
(Keep inferring. It was so much worse than you can possibly imagine. Imagine the epic worst way and then triple it or even quadruple it).
Having an internet diary that is run by your evil twin has a lot of drawbacks, but it has one indispensable advantage: because you don't know my name or theirs, I can describe everything that happened in the last 48 hours secure in the knowledge that I am slandering no one (because every word I say will be true) and also secure in the knowledge that I am exposing no one's identity. I'll be exposing you all to a complete guarantee that you'll be much less happy than you were before you started reading, but I leave it to your good judgment to decide whether to come back and find out why my dad's children are all refugees in airports for the better part of a weekend.
Love,
Nina
Geographically speaking, we are at the airport waiting for a flight that takes off in three hours. You might remember that I was supposed to stay here until Wednesday and you might guess that it's odd for three people to sit around in an airport for three hours if they don't have to.
(Work on it for a minute. Have a inference or two and meet me a sentence later).
It has been almost twenty-four hours, actually, since we left. We spent the night at a hotel an hour away.
(Keep inferring. It was so much worse than you can possibly imagine. Imagine the epic worst way and then triple it or even quadruple it).
Having an internet diary that is run by your evil twin has a lot of drawbacks, but it has one indispensable advantage: because you don't know my name or theirs, I can describe everything that happened in the last 48 hours secure in the knowledge that I am slandering no one (because every word I say will be true) and also secure in the knowledge that I am exposing no one's identity. I'll be exposing you all to a complete guarantee that you'll be much less happy than you were before you started reading, but I leave it to your good judgment to decide whether to come back and find out why my dad's children are all refugees in airports for the better part of a weekend.
Love,
Nina
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
COP
Change of plans:
Tomorrow, I fly to SC. And on Friday when I was originally supposed to come back to New York and fly to Africa, I am going to stay in SC and not fly to Africa. I am going to stay at my dad's for a while and then when it feels right for all concerned, I'll come back to NY.
I don't regret missing my trip to Africa or the money I will have lost. I do regret letting my friends down and that once again, the four of us will have planned a trip and not all made it. However, my step mother needs help taking care of my dad and I think I need more than the twelve hour visit I had alloted to say goodbye to him.
So that's the change of plan.
Tomorrow, I fly to SC. And on Friday when I was originally supposed to come back to New York and fly to Africa, I am going to stay in SC and not fly to Africa. I am going to stay at my dad's for a while and then when it feels right for all concerned, I'll come back to NY.
I don't regret missing my trip to Africa or the money I will have lost. I do regret letting my friends down and that once again, the four of us will have planned a trip and not all made it. However, my step mother needs help taking care of my dad and I think I need more than the twelve hour visit I had alloted to say goodbye to him.
So that's the change of plan.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sin of the week, 5/4/08
The worst thing I did this week was be culturally insensitive and not care at all about it.
One of my students asked me what I was doing for summer vacation, and I mentioned that I was going to Africa.
"Oh, that's great," she replied. "You must be going over there to do relief work. What a great idea!"
"Oh," I said. "Yeah, I guess it's great. Yeah."
"So, what kind of work will you be doing? The math teacher is going to dig a well in a village in Kenya. It's so awesome!" she said.
"Oh," I said. "I, um, I am going to be bringing clothing* over there for, um, the mountain people in Tanzania."
"Clothing?" she said.
"Yeah. The don't have enough warm clothing up there."
"Africa is really hot, right?"
"Well yeah, but the mountains are colder. And stuff."
My student then figured out that I am just a smarmy American tourist with sporting ambitions and relatively little interest in the welfare of African people. And I felt shabby.
Shabby is what I am.
Get ready for Monday. It's on its way.
*We leave our gear behind when climbing in impoverished countries. The local guides can use it and we can get more at home. (But I am still shabby).
One of my students asked me what I was doing for summer vacation, and I mentioned that I was going to Africa.
"Oh, that's great," she replied. "You must be going over there to do relief work. What a great idea!"
"Oh," I said. "Yeah, I guess it's great. Yeah."
"So, what kind of work will you be doing? The math teacher is going to dig a well in a village in Kenya. It's so awesome!" she said.
"Oh," I said. "I, um, I am going to be bringing clothing* over there for, um, the mountain people in Tanzania."
"Clothing?" she said.
"Yeah. The don't have enough warm clothing up there."
"Africa is really hot, right?"
"Well yeah, but the mountains are colder. And stuff."
My student then figured out that I am just a smarmy American tourist with sporting ambitions and relatively little interest in the welfare of African people. And I felt shabby.
Shabby is what I am.
Get ready for Monday. It's on its way.
*We leave our gear behind when climbing in impoverished countries. The local guides can use it and we can get more at home. (But I am still shabby).
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Flowers for you
Thanks to all of you who keep stopping by even though my blog has been so not interesting lately. Have some flowers.
And a picture of my dad, the medical unicorn.
I also took some good pictures of the family hanging out in the back yard around the fire pit. But all of them disclose the identities of not just me, but also my people. And they might not like that. So here is a picture of the rabbit ranch.
I will try to have a real post soon. Promise.
And a picture of my dad, the medical unicorn.
I also took some good pictures of the family hanging out in the back yard around the fire pit. But all of them disclose the identities of not just me, but also my people. And they might not like that. So here is a picture of the rabbit ranch.
I will try to have a real post soon. Promise.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
And it goes to zero
Two weeks ago, I sent an email to my dad listing the dates I would be available for a family vacation this summer. I also listed the dates that I had professional obligations that would bring me within driving distance of his place. Since I knew that their schedule was pretty packed this summer, I left told him that I would come back from Africa early if that's what it would take to make a family vacation possible.
For a few days I was puzzled that I didn't hear back from him. Since I copied his wife on the email, I figured there was no chance it had gone astray. After fours days and no reply, I started crying just a little bit. When I hit the seven day mark, I cried a whole lot, finalized my plans for Africa, and moved on.
My brother Buzz has never been thrilled with the idea of me going to Africa. He didn't love it the first time I did it, and now that I will be visiting the country right next door to Kenya, he is the opposite of happy. When I told him I had booked the trip and why, he told me that Dad had written an email in response to my email as part of a reply to some other email he had gotten from Leta. And had forgotten (somehow) to copy me. Or whatever. So my brother was the only person who knew that the only time it is convenient for my dad and his wife for us all to get together are the first two weeks of August, which is precisely when I will be in Africa. The rest of their summer is already wall to wall with plans.
So now there will be no family vacation and I will be going to Africa and my brother is the opposite of happy with me and who the hell knows how my dad feels about any of it? He knew the dates I was planning my trip back in January, so the fact that the only dates that he declared it ok for us to visit happen to be the only dates when I can't make it? What does that mean, exactly?
I am done. Done letting other people tell me what is important, done putting other people's feelings first, done bleeding money to see people who think they are doing me a favor. And I am most especially done letting my dad hurt me.
So if anyone notices my anxiety level flat-lining as if I were in a coma, please note that it is no accident. There really does reach a point where "it" goes well beyond not sweating the small stuff. I am sweating NO stuff.
Lalalalalalala.
Happy Tuesday.
For a few days I was puzzled that I didn't hear back from him. Since I copied his wife on the email, I figured there was no chance it had gone astray. After fours days and no reply, I started crying just a little bit. When I hit the seven day mark, I cried a whole lot, finalized my plans for Africa, and moved on.
My brother Buzz has never been thrilled with the idea of me going to Africa. He didn't love it the first time I did it, and now that I will be visiting the country right next door to Kenya, he is the opposite of happy. When I told him I had booked the trip and why, he told me that Dad had written an email in response to my email as part of a reply to some other email he had gotten from Leta. And had forgotten (somehow) to copy me. Or whatever. So my brother was the only person who knew that the only time it is convenient for my dad and his wife for us all to get together are the first two weeks of August, which is precisely when I will be in Africa. The rest of their summer is already wall to wall with plans.
So now there will be no family vacation and I will be going to Africa and my brother is the opposite of happy with me and who the hell knows how my dad feels about any of it? He knew the dates I was planning my trip back in January, so the fact that the only dates that he declared it ok for us to visit happen to be the only dates when I can't make it? What does that mean, exactly?
I am done. Done letting other people tell me what is important, done putting other people's feelings first, done bleeding money to see people who think they are doing me a favor. And I am most especially done letting my dad hurt me.
So if anyone notices my anxiety level flat-lining as if I were in a coma, please note that it is no accident. There really does reach a point where "it" goes well beyond not sweating the small stuff. I am sweating NO stuff.
Lalalalalalala.
Happy Tuesday.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Fissure
We had a particularly rough weekend over here, so while I clean up several messes, you can look at this picture I took of a glacier (or a fissure in a glacier) in Iceland.
I'll mega-post later tonight.
I'll mega-post later tonight.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Dark and Stormy Week - 2/17-2/23
This week is officially and belatedly declared Dark and Stormy Week, 2008 at Reader.
Why?
Because, I, Nina, writer of reader, have been feeling dark and stormy for three days straight and can foresee without obvious unreason a further three more posts (or four) of dark and stormy (read: depressive and scary) content.
Work is kicking my ass, I am broke (because of um, a paperwork mix up at a certain place I will not mention - not because I bought a helicopter) and I am filmy and agitated because I don't have time to work out and I don't like my hair and suddenly, for no reason I can discern, my fingernails are growing so fast that I have to cut them every day to avoid embarrassing typographical errors. This has to mean I have some kind of rare, painful and humiliating cancer. Doesn't it?
Yeah. I thought so too.
Also I am wearing out the seat of my pajamas by working from home and never getting dressed. People, pajamas should not wear out in the ass first. Right? Right???
Also there is still the faint odor of onions in this apartment since, uh, there was in fact an onion on the premises as of yesterday. I am therefore vaguely gagging at any and every moment. Dammit.
If I can get the, um, avalanche of work done, I'll post something bright and sunshiny later. But if not, not.
Oh and tomorrow I will do as I promised and post about my one and only diagnosed psychiatric disorder: fear of heights. (I am over it but the story of how I got over it is dark and stormy in keeping with the theme of the week - and also, according to me, amusing.
See you then.
Oh hey! Before I go, have another unrelated photograph. This time of, um... oh, some guy Mischa and I got hammered with in Aguas Calientes. Oh and there was dancing. That was fun.
Why?
Because, I, Nina, writer of reader, have been feeling dark and stormy for three days straight and can foresee without obvious unreason a further three more posts (or four) of dark and stormy (read: depressive and scary) content.
Work is kicking my ass, I am broke (because of um, a paperwork mix up at a certain place I will not mention - not because I bought a helicopter) and I am filmy and agitated because I don't have time to work out and I don't like my hair and suddenly, for no reason I can discern, my fingernails are growing so fast that I have to cut them every day to avoid embarrassing typographical errors. This has to mean I have some kind of rare, painful and humiliating cancer. Doesn't it?
Yeah. I thought so too.
Also I am wearing out the seat of my pajamas by working from home and never getting dressed. People, pajamas should not wear out in the ass first. Right? Right???
Also there is still the faint odor of onions in this apartment since, uh, there was in fact an onion on the premises as of yesterday. I am therefore vaguely gagging at any and every moment. Dammit.
If I can get the, um, avalanche of work done, I'll post something bright and sunshiny later. But if not, not.
Oh and tomorrow I will do as I promised and post about my one and only diagnosed psychiatric disorder: fear of heights. (I am over it but the story of how I got over it is dark and stormy in keeping with the theme of the week - and also, according to me, amusing.
See you then.
Oh hey! Before I go, have another unrelated photograph. This time of, um... oh, some guy Mischa and I got hammered with in Aguas Calientes. Oh and there was dancing. That was fun.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
10 minutes or less
Today I must write my blog post in ten minutes or less because I have a student conference at 3pm and another five before 5pm. I also have thirty papers to grade that are late getting back and I have a snotty email from someone asking for a list of something. I forget what. Friggin gainful employment. I do not like it.
So today instead of writing anything useful I'll just tell you that I threw a hissy fit this afternoon when I ordered a chicken sandwich with lettuce, no tomato - and walked away with a tuna sandwich LOADED WITH RAW ONIONS* and tomatoes, with no lettuce on the opposite kind of bread I ordered. The hissy fit involved violence and I will not describe it to you because it's embarrassingly childish. Hint: I am no longer out of cat food.
Oh and here's a picture of something that has no relevance at all, just because whatever. I took it in Peru.
See you tomorrow.
* I will DIE with a smile before I will eat bananas or raw onions. Call me a spoiled brat if you want but I GAG when I so much as SMELL these items.
So today instead of writing anything useful I'll just tell you that I threw a hissy fit this afternoon when I ordered a chicken sandwich with lettuce, no tomato - and walked away with a tuna sandwich LOADED WITH RAW ONIONS* and tomatoes, with no lettuce on the opposite kind of bread I ordered. The hissy fit involved violence and I will not describe it to you because it's embarrassingly childish. Hint: I am no longer out of cat food.
Oh and here's a picture of something that has no relevance at all, just because whatever. I took it in Peru.
See you tomorrow.
* I will DIE with a smile before I will eat bananas or raw onions. Call me a spoiled brat if you want but I GAG when I so much as SMELL these items.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
You girls break my cab!
I got an email from "anonymous" yesterday.
Dear Nina,
LESS JESUS. MORE ROCK CLIMBING.
Thanks,
Anon.
Anonymous, you make a valid point. The blog was better when I wrote more about doing things rather than thinking real hard about things. (My life was better, too).
So anonymous, I hear and I obey and report that Bibi, Sri, Mischa and I booked a trip to Tanzania today. The itinerary includes a 5 day safari, a 7 day ascent of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and 5 days at the beach in Zanzibar.
Of course, the centerpiece of the trip is the climb.
Some quick facts about Kili:
1) the summit is 19340 feet above sea level
2) the climb takes 5-8 days depending on the route
3) you camp on the way (no showers or hot water)
4) the route includes 5 climate changes - which means lots of gear
5) 14,000 people per year attempt the climb
6) 60% do not make it to the summit
7) altitude sickness is the primary reason people do not summit
We started our quest for mountaineering greatness by having a whole bunch of beers and a little bit of cake.
Then we demonstrated yoga poses for each other in the taxi on the way home. (Please note: taxi drivers do not like this at all).
I have added to my already copious sidebar a record of my training, which I will update every day until we depart. As you can see, I have done absolutely nothing but resist two cookies (the cake probably puts me back down at at zero, but I ain't changin' it. Those cookies looked good).
PS Nobody tell my brother that I am deliberately going to the country that is next door to Kenya on one side and Rwanda on the other. Thank you.
Dear Nina,
LESS JESUS. MORE ROCK CLIMBING.
Thanks,
Anon.
Anonymous, you make a valid point. The blog was better when I wrote more about doing things rather than thinking real hard about things. (My life was better, too).
So anonymous, I hear and I obey and report that Bibi, Sri, Mischa and I booked a trip to Tanzania today. The itinerary includes a 5 day safari, a 7 day ascent of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and 5 days at the beach in Zanzibar.
Of course, the centerpiece of the trip is the climb.
Some quick facts about Kili:
1) the summit is 19340 feet above sea level
2) the climb takes 5-8 days depending on the route
3) you camp on the way (no showers or hot water)
4) the route includes 5 climate changes - which means lots of gear
5) 14,000 people per year attempt the climb
6) 60% do not make it to the summit
7) altitude sickness is the primary reason people do not summit
We started our quest for mountaineering greatness by having a whole bunch of beers and a little bit of cake.
Then we demonstrated yoga poses for each other in the taxi on the way home. (Please note: taxi drivers do not like this at all).
I have added to my already copious sidebar a record of my training, which I will update every day until we depart. As you can see, I have done absolutely nothing but resist two cookies (the cake probably puts me back down at at zero, but I ain't changin' it. Those cookies looked good).
PS Nobody tell my brother that I am deliberately going to the country that is next door to Kenya on one side and Rwanda on the other. Thank you.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Did I miss anything?
In RDU airport, powering through all the emails, I get this one:
Hi Ma'am,
I didn't make it to orientation. Did I miss anything?
Love,
Kerri
My response:
Hi Kerri!
First of all, I want you to know I love you too. I always have. Your love for me and my love for you are like children frolicking together in a sun-drenched meadow. I am relieved to know you feel the same way.
As for orientation, you missed keg party and a rousing game of strip poker. Then you missed a spirited, joyous gang bang with a band of convicts escaped from cell block E of the local penitentiary. (The federal one, so you know they were quality, indeed).
You also missed important instructions on how not to fail my class flat on your ignorant, teenaged ass, but I'm sure you'll get by. How you'll get over missing the drunken card game and the gang bang, I don't know.
But I am here for you.
Love always,
Nina (Bitchy English Teacher)
Hi Ma'am,
I didn't make it to orientation. Did I miss anything?
Love,
Kerri
My response:
Hi Kerri!
First of all, I want you to know I love you too. I always have. Your love for me and my love for you are like children frolicking together in a sun-drenched meadow. I am relieved to know you feel the same way.
As for orientation, you missed keg party and a rousing game of strip poker. Then you missed a spirited, joyous gang bang with a band of convicts escaped from cell block E of the local penitentiary. (The federal one, so you know they were quality, indeed).
You also missed important instructions on how not to fail my class flat on your ignorant, teenaged ass, but I'm sure you'll get by. How you'll get over missing the drunken card game and the gang bang, I don't know.
But I am here for you.
Love always,
Nina (Bitchy English Teacher)
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Sin of the week, 1/20/08
Buckle-up. You are going to love this.
My flight on Thursday morning was full, very full. Since I took the bus to the airport, I just barely made the check-in cut off, and I was waiting at the gate when I realized that the flight was overbooked and I had no seat assignment.
Three people volunteered to stay behind, but they needed a fourth. No one was volunteering. Boarding started.
So what did I do?
I walked up to the desk and said, "Ma'am, I need to be on this flight. Am I the only person without a seat assignment?"
"No," she said. "But you are the only person checked in without one." This confused me.
"Look," I said. "I need to be on this flight. It's an emergency."
She looked askance at me.
"I need to be on this flight because I have a sick relative. My, uh, father, in fact, is very sick. I can't miss this flight."
** I'll give y'all a moment to gasp and clutch the sides of your head in abject horror.**
"If you'll wait just a second," she said, "I can get you a seat."
And she did. I don't know if lying to her about what was recently true but is now no longer true had any effect, but gosh, do I feel dirty. Slimy pond scummy silty muck dirty, even.
Can anyone top that?
My flight on Thursday morning was full, very full. Since I took the bus to the airport, I just barely made the check-in cut off, and I was waiting at the gate when I realized that the flight was overbooked and I had no seat assignment.
Three people volunteered to stay behind, but they needed a fourth. No one was volunteering. Boarding started.
So what did I do?
I walked up to the desk and said, "Ma'am, I need to be on this flight. Am I the only person without a seat assignment?"
"No," she said. "But you are the only person checked in without one." This confused me.
"Look," I said. "I need to be on this flight. It's an emergency."
She looked askance at me.
"I need to be on this flight because I have a sick relative. My, uh, father, in fact, is very sick. I can't miss this flight."
** I'll give y'all a moment to gasp and clutch the sides of your head in abject horror.**
"If you'll wait just a second," she said, "I can get you a seat."
And she did. I don't know if lying to her about what was recently true but is now no longer true had any effect, but gosh, do I feel dirty. Slimy pond scummy silty muck dirty, even.
Can anyone top that?
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tower of Power *updated*
*Several offensive typos fixed. Offensive typos happen because Nina is writing from her hotel room right before checkout. She is not to be rushed. (Apparently). *
I write this morning from the fourteenth floor of a hotel in downtown Raleigh. I arrived here last night after a good day's work at Sweet Little College, where I attended a certification meeting (don't ask) and "oriented" about thirty of my eighty students (ie, the ones who felt it important enough to show up).
Following the meeting, I took my state employee ID card and checked into a very nice downtown hotel for the very low price of $53.44. Then I took a shower, put on my favorite (non-corduroy) pants, applied a sweater to the upper regions of myself, and turned my attention to my head.
Did it need a hair dryer and good combing? Yes? I accomplished it.
Did the eyes need some smoky liner and perhaps inky black mascara? Yes? Done!
And lipgloss? Eh. Chapstick and a good pinch will do.
I applied shoes to my feet, tucked my wallet and my ID into my back pocket, and ascended to the twenty-second floor to find Roman, my (fake travel boyfriend and) favorite bartender ever, awaiting me.
Roman is thirty six years old, about six feet tall and upwards of three and fifty pounds. He is blond and blue-eyed and has a booming, melodious, cheerful voice. He has two master's degrees, one in philosophy and the other in literature. He has a cardboard box of excellent bar-reading materials available for anyone who has left her copy of Pride & Prejudice at the airport. He makes Nina's martinis very sweet because he knows she doesn't really like them as much as she thinks she does. He brings her peanut butter sandwiches if she is hungry and doesn't want to eat a big fancy thing on the big fancy menu. He keeps her water glass full and he prevents the Powerful Business Men from trying to talk to her by placing his substantial person directly in their path and glaring derisively at their puny, pale, scuzzy, married selves as if to say "Thou shalt not molesteth my Nina! She is reading."
Of course, if Nina does not feel like reading, Roman is happy to talk about books, movies, music, sports, sixteenth century French philosophy, or whatever Emily Dickinson might have meant by calling a "daisy" a "marauder". He is also good at politics, religion, science, crafts, and interior design. While he is entertaining her, he will serve drinks and food to the Powerful Business Men, but he will also wordlessly communicate to Nina, by a subtle play of words and looks and gestures, that he worships and adores her and would do absolutely anything to merit even the appearance of a real date. He knows he cannot have one because Nina live hundreds of miles away. He also wonders, she is sure, whether his substantialness has anything to do with her refusal, but he does not bring it up, and of course, neither does she. *
Does this make her a bad person? Basking in the affection of one lonely Roman bartender who is content to fix her weak drinks and peanut butter sandwiches and defend her from marauding, married, sleezers so she can read her books in peace?
*I, who have spent many a day with a tape measure in one hand and a Twinkie in the other, have NO right to say one single word in judgment of anyone who has food issues. So I don't. (He makes excellent sandwiches).
I write this morning from the fourteenth floor of a hotel in downtown Raleigh. I arrived here last night after a good day's work at Sweet Little College, where I attended a certification meeting (don't ask) and "oriented" about thirty of my eighty students (ie, the ones who felt it important enough to show up).
Following the meeting, I took my state employee ID card and checked into a very nice downtown hotel for the very low price of $53.44. Then I took a shower, put on my favorite (non-corduroy) pants, applied a sweater to the upper regions of myself, and turned my attention to my head.
Did it need a hair dryer and good combing? Yes? I accomplished it.
Did the eyes need some smoky liner and perhaps inky black mascara? Yes? Done!
And lipgloss? Eh. Chapstick and a good pinch will do.
I applied shoes to my feet, tucked my wallet and my ID into my back pocket, and ascended to the twenty-second floor to find Roman, my (fake travel boyfriend and) favorite bartender ever, awaiting me.
Roman is thirty six years old, about six feet tall and upwards of three and fifty pounds. He is blond and blue-eyed and has a booming, melodious, cheerful voice. He has two master's degrees, one in philosophy and the other in literature. He has a cardboard box of excellent bar-reading materials available for anyone who has left her copy of Pride & Prejudice at the airport. He makes Nina's martinis very sweet because he knows she doesn't really like them as much as she thinks she does. He brings her peanut butter sandwiches if she is hungry and doesn't want to eat a big fancy thing on the big fancy menu. He keeps her water glass full and he prevents the Powerful Business Men from trying to talk to her by placing his substantial person directly in their path and glaring derisively at their puny, pale, scuzzy, married selves as if to say "Thou shalt not molesteth my Nina! She is reading."
Of course, if Nina does not feel like reading, Roman is happy to talk about books, movies, music, sports, sixteenth century French philosophy, or whatever Emily Dickinson might have meant by calling a "daisy" a "marauder". He is also good at politics, religion, science, crafts, and interior design. While he is entertaining her, he will serve drinks and food to the Powerful Business Men, but he will also wordlessly communicate to Nina, by a subtle play of words and looks and gestures, that he worships and adores her and would do absolutely anything to merit even the appearance of a real date. He knows he cannot have one because Nina live hundreds of miles away. He also wonders, she is sure, whether his substantialness has anything to do with her refusal, but he does not bring it up, and of course, neither does she. *
Does this make her a bad person? Basking in the affection of one lonely Roman bartender who is content to fix her weak drinks and peanut butter sandwiches and defend her from marauding, married, sleezers so she can read her books in peace?
*I, who have spent many a day with a tape measure in one hand and a Twinkie in the other, have NO right to say one single word in judgment of anyone who has food issues. So I don't. (He makes excellent sandwiches).
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I am schlub ** updated **
Is that a word?
Never mind. I declare it so.
Just guess who rented a car on Travelocity and paid for it with a debit card? And guess who had NO IDEA that you CAN'T DO THAT?
(Does anyone know why it's such an ever-loving tragedy to NOT want to charge your rental car to a credit card? I paid for the car, duh, with real money. Why is that so alarming?)
So yeah, you can't do that. The rental car agent took one look at the card that had ALREADY BEEN CHARGED and told me he needed to charge me again, but then he could credit the amount back plus some other arbitrary amount he was going to charge on there later when the car came back.
Well, OK. Do I happen to have a credit card? Well yeah. My debit card.
No, a CREDIT CARD.
CREDIT! CARD!
This rental agent and I? We were just not understanding each other.
But I had to go to work and I had been up since 3:30 in the morning so I could make my flight (remind me to tell you how I triumphed over evil by taking the bus** to the airport - thereby NOT spending $65 for a twenty minute car ride) and I was tired of all the banter I got out my card and gave it to the kid, praying it was still valid. I have not used it in years. (Sometimes a company will close your account because you have displeased them by not making them any money).
It worked. And now I am off to work at Sweet Little College before checking into a hotel for the night so I can flirt with my bartender (fake travel boyfriend) who I met last time I ran this caper. His name is Roman. He loves me, even if I am a schlub. So at least this day has some kind of promise of ending well, even if it started as a logistical CREDIT! CARD! nightmare.
Have a good day.
** Offensive, sloppy typo corrected. Gracias, Utenzi.
Never mind. I declare it so.
Just guess who rented a car on Travelocity and paid for it with a debit card? And guess who had NO IDEA that you CAN'T DO THAT?
(Does anyone know why it's such an ever-loving tragedy to NOT want to charge your rental car to a credit card? I paid for the car, duh, with real money. Why is that so alarming?)
So yeah, you can't do that. The rental car agent took one look at the card that had ALREADY BEEN CHARGED and told me he needed to charge me again, but then he could credit the amount back plus some other arbitrary amount he was going to charge on there later when the car came back.
Well, OK. Do I happen to have a credit card? Well yeah. My debit card.
No, a CREDIT CARD.
CREDIT! CARD!
This rental agent and I? We were just not understanding each other.
But I had to go to work and I had been up since 3:30 in the morning so I could make my flight (remind me to tell you how I triumphed over evil by taking the bus** to the airport - thereby NOT spending $65 for a twenty minute car ride) and I was tired of all the banter I got out my card and gave it to the kid, praying it was still valid. I have not used it in years. (Sometimes a company will close your account because you have displeased them by not making them any money).
It worked. And now I am off to work at Sweet Little College before checking into a hotel for the night so I can flirt with my bartender (fake travel boyfriend) who I met last time I ran this caper. His name is Roman. He loves me, even if I am a schlub. So at least this day has some kind of promise of ending well, even if it started as a logistical CREDIT! CARD! nightmare.
Have a good day.
** Offensive, sloppy typo corrected. Gracias, Utenzi.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Ram Cat and the Shady Lady
In New York City, prices for things like facials and massages run anywhere from $125 and up. When you are just visiting Seneca, SC, you can get a massage AND a facial for $125 including tip and tax, so even while spending money frivolously, you feel you are saving it. What to do with all that savings? Well, spend it, of course. On other people's discarded dishtowels.
Right around the corner from the day spa, there is a small business district called Ram Cat Alley.* Leta and I make a ritual of spending the morning at the day spa and the afternoon at Ram Cat. Circa 1930, aka the Shady Lady Place, (called so because the people who eat there are the opposite of shady - white gloves, adorable hats, patent leather handbags) serves an excellent post spa lunch, and as you may have guessed, the term "shady lady" refers only to those of us who stumble in after having our eyebrows waxed, our faces masked and our bodies pounded for two hours. We are so relaxed we can hardly order lunch. And yet we do, and we eat, so we can get to the best part of the day, which is Lost and Found.
If you click that link, you will see that we are not, in fact, raiding the lost mitten and scarf bin at the restaurant; Lost and Found is an antiques dealer adjacent to Circa 1930. In addition to serving up beautiful old furniture and tableware at bargain prices (for those of us accustomed to Northeast price tags) they also stock an enormous selection of antique table clothes, table runners, pillow shams, quilts, handkerchiefs, and best of all, dishtowels.
I know. When you picture other people's old dishtowels, you picture a striped bar cloth from Williams Sonoma that someone recently used to mop up cat vomit. No. What I am writing of is 19th Century German homespun - which, if you have never experienced it - is 100% linen and sturdy and beautiful and please forgive me but it is OLD and obviously well loved by its maker and its previous owner and when you see it there, nestled up next to the French lace and the odd Williams Sonoma cat rag, you simply have to rescue it from such a cruel fate.
In similar fashion, you rescue the perfectly useless two-hundred year old handkerchief. Why do you buy someone else's abandoned snot rag? You do it because it is almost entirely made of lace and it only cost $2.
When you find yet another snot rag I mean handkerchief that some sturdy and careworn woman out in the prairie BOTHERED TO CROCHET A BORDER FOR, what are you to do? You buy it, of course.
Oh, and that more recently mass produced linen dish cloth with the geraniums on it? Why should it suffer obscurity at Lost and Found just because it was not made by an overworked mother of ten in a lush German valley? Don't be so mean. It's only $5.
If you think these pictures are under-whelming, I agree. They do not capture even 1% of the magic. If you think I am off my nut for loving these items and purchasing them, consider the number of items you've purchased whose luster and magic fades the moment you sign the credit card slip - and remember that every time I reach into the cabinet and pull out that homespun, I feel actual real live happiness. And so when the time comes to visit Ram Cat and Lost and Found, I do not hold back. This last time, it was a handkerchief run. Next time, who knows?
* In Ram Cat Alley suggests a violence to cats that I don't altogether approve, but it's a great place for lunch and antique shopping with Leta, so we let it pass.
Right around the corner from the day spa, there is a small business district called Ram Cat Alley.* Leta and I make a ritual of spending the morning at the day spa and the afternoon at Ram Cat. Circa 1930, aka the Shady Lady Place, (called so because the people who eat there are the opposite of shady - white gloves, adorable hats, patent leather handbags) serves an excellent post spa lunch, and as you may have guessed, the term "shady lady" refers only to those of us who stumble in after having our eyebrows waxed, our faces masked and our bodies pounded for two hours. We are so relaxed we can hardly order lunch. And yet we do, and we eat, so we can get to the best part of the day, which is Lost and Found.
If you click that link, you will see that we are not, in fact, raiding the lost mitten and scarf bin at the restaurant; Lost and Found is an antiques dealer adjacent to Circa 1930. In addition to serving up beautiful old furniture and tableware at bargain prices (for those of us accustomed to Northeast price tags) they also stock an enormous selection of antique table clothes, table runners, pillow shams, quilts, handkerchiefs, and best of all, dishtowels.
I know. When you picture other people's old dishtowels, you picture a striped bar cloth from Williams Sonoma that someone recently used to mop up cat vomit. No. What I am writing of is 19th Century German homespun - which, if you have never experienced it - is 100% linen and sturdy and beautiful and please forgive me but it is OLD and obviously well loved by its maker and its previous owner and when you see it there, nestled up next to the French lace and the odd Williams Sonoma cat rag, you simply have to rescue it from such a cruel fate.
In similar fashion, you rescue the perfectly useless two-hundred year old handkerchief. Why do you buy someone else's abandoned snot rag? You do it because it is almost entirely made of lace and it only cost $2.
When you find yet another snot rag I mean handkerchief that some sturdy and careworn woman out in the prairie BOTHERED TO CROCHET A BORDER FOR, what are you to do? You buy it, of course.
Oh, and that more recently mass produced linen dish cloth with the geraniums on it? Why should it suffer obscurity at Lost and Found just because it was not made by an overworked mother of ten in a lush German valley? Don't be so mean. It's only $5.
If you think these pictures are under-whelming, I agree. They do not capture even 1% of the magic. If you think I am off my nut for loving these items and purchasing them, consider the number of items you've purchased whose luster and magic fades the moment you sign the credit card slip - and remember that every time I reach into the cabinet and pull out that homespun, I feel actual real live happiness. And so when the time comes to visit Ram Cat and Lost and Found, I do not hold back. This last time, it was a handkerchief run. Next time, who knows?
* In Ram Cat Alley suggests a violence to cats that I don't altogether approve, but it's a great place for lunch and antique shopping with Leta, so we let it pass.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Lampshade on my foot
I am overwhelmed. Ok, freaking out. I have forty-five minutes to get out the door to Penn Station so I can spend Christmas with Liam. But meantimes, my apartment is a disaster, I have not packed, my hair is unkempt, and I have not yet finished knitting the scarf. (There is a scarf I am knitting. We'll talk about it later).
Anyway my dad shows every indication of not dying before tomorrrow, so I just wanted to remind you (in case you are the sort of person who sits in front of the computer on Christmas day) that I promised, if my dad was still alive, to post a picture of myself on Christmas day. It'll go up at, like, say, 8am, and will remain until, like, say 5pm. Then I am deleting it and we'll all pretend that never happened. Etc.
So anyway, lampshade on my foot, no clean socks, hate my hair, can't find wallet, pants all wrong, where's my stocking... I gotta go. Like right now.
Merry Christmas. (Until tomorrow).
Anyway my dad shows every indication of not dying before tomorrrow, so I just wanted to remind you (in case you are the sort of person who sits in front of the computer on Christmas day) that I promised, if my dad was still alive, to post a picture of myself on Christmas day. It'll go up at, like, say, 8am, and will remain until, like, say 5pm. Then I am deleting it and we'll all pretend that never happened. Etc.
So anyway, lampshade on my foot, no clean socks, hate my hair, can't find wallet, pants all wrong, where's my stocking... I gotta go. Like right now.
Merry Christmas. (Until tomorrow).
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