Thinking?

I was in my bathroom this morning, deciding whether or not to curl my hair, when I heard the words "Have a Happy Period" from the TV set closest by.

Have a happy what?

Apparently, one menstrual pad/tampon company decided that in order to market itself more effectively, the newest line of pads will include what amounts to a baby wipe attached to each individual package. You take the new pad out and lo and behold, you can get that "shower-clean feeling" as a bonus for buying their product. First of all, I have never gotten a clean enough feeling from what amounts of a small, moistened towellette to classify it with the "shower" genre, and second, and more importantly, WHO came up with that marketing campaign?

My answer--it must have been a guy, regardless of the fact that the voices that advertize feminine hygene products are never masculine. A woman would have slammed that one down right way--the implication that a wet towel could, in any large scale way, turn what is at least three days of living hell into a "happy" experience.

However, there is, of course the OB line of tampons, which, although "designed by a woman" are completely without applicators. Given that omission, I tend to believe that is more a gimmick than a reality.

On the ligher, and local, side, Buddy Cianci, former Mayor of Providence and subject of the book, "The Prince of Providence," has been released from prison, and Steve Laffey, who challenged the incubent Republican Sentor last fall, has published a book that he claims Rhode Islanders will love. If that is the case, you would hope that more people would have voted for the man.

At least the weather is good, and my cats are happy, although there has been a significant reduction in the local chipmunk population of late for whom I have become primary gravedigger.

Escape Attempt

My sister came home for her "spring break" from school in February. Usually, whenever any of us kids have to travel somewhere by plane, we ask our father to do it for us. Since his work takes him all over the country on a regular basis, he has a quick and easy program on his computer that makes it happen in the most efficient manner for the right price. This time, Heather did not stick with her original travel plan. She changed her tickets from a United flight to a Delta equivalent--similar timing, arriving in the same place....so, why the change?

Well, one very small thing distinguishes these two reputable airlines. United will not allow pets to fly on board. Delta, with a few exceptions, will.

Heather arrived at the airport with a very small plastic cage in her purse. Inside were two fairly substancially sized hamsters--a male and a female. The female was dubbed "Nevens," although I am unclear as to what this name represents. The male carried the very plebian name "Hamster," given he was a replacement for his predecessor, Kenevil, who tragically died upon meeting up with a friend's pet dog that still retained some hunting instincts. Heather brought them upstairs and put them into the bathroom that she and I share. Half an hour later, I entered the bathroom only to find one hamster present. Nevens was comfortably lodged behind the toilet by the door. Hamster, on the other hand, could not be found. We looked through every room on the second floor save one--our parents had retired to bed leaving one of the doubled doors to their room cracked to allow access to the cat population. After hours of searching, we concluded that he must have gone in, and we had to abandon our efforts.

At about 6:30 in the morning, my father presented a sleeping Heather with Hamster. He had gotten up at his usually early hour to find Hamster in an overturned can of peanuts on the carpet by his side of the bed. Fortunately, he did so before Harriet, our oldest and most capably mouse-catching cat, came into the room, sniffed out the peanut can, and followed the scent to the closed door of Heather's room outside of which she sat for the next few hours.

Heather flew out to Colorado the following weekend, leaving Hamster and Nevens in our temporary care (although I beg to ask how temporary). Because the two of them did not get along, we gave them each their own cage. Nevens has her own space with a removeable plastic top and a few nooks and crannies she likes to sleep in. Hamster, the most athletic of the two, has a wire cage that is higher than it is wide, but it includes a wheel in which he will run for hours to make up for the lack of floor space.

Their cages are cleaned once a week. A few weeks ago, my mother brought both of them downstairs and proceded to change their fluff and add extra food and water--a process the hamsters, as hoarders who enjoy filth, never quite appreciate. She finished Nevens' cage last and left it on the countertop overnight. The next morning, the entire top of the cage had been removed and Nevens was nowhere to be found.

A search was immediately mounted. At first, it was concluded that she must have been injured by the fall from the counter to the floor and perhaps limped off somewhere nearby. However, an inspection of the all of the closest undersides of cabinets and appliances revealed nothing. My father put out small piles of food in random places, and they all remained untouched. Ironically, there was never a point when they assumed that one or more of the half a dozen cats in the house had got a hold of the innocent creature and brought it to an untimely end. As the days went by, the active search became a recovery mission. Nothing turned up at all. We resigned Nevens to the long line of unsolved residential mysteries.

One evening, my mother and I were sitting in the living room--it had been about five days since we had last seen Nevens. My mother turned down the volume on the TV set--she heard scratching somewhere, she claimed. Once the set was no longer interfering with this scratching sound, I also heard it, but I thought it was the printer on the second floor resetting itself in the usual "contacting the printer planet-like" manner. However, my mother was not content with that explanation. She walked over to the opposite wall and peered into the air conditioning vent on the floor closest to the TV. Lo and behold, there she was, scratching about on the metal grating under the floor plating. She reached in and brought out Nevens. With very little protest, Nevens was returned to her cage five days after officially breaking out. After a quick nibble, a little water, and some rummaging of the new fluff, she was comfortably asleep in her usual spot as if nothing ever happened.

So much for having a house full of felines.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare was promptly placed on top of her removeable cage top to prevent a repeat of the recent events. Due to good behavior, that has been downgraded to The Joy of Cooking. If this trend continues, the American Heritage Dictionary is next.

Bits and Pieces

Ah, May. And now, we, the population of New England, are finally getting a taste of the weather we would normally associate with this time of the year. There are blooming trees. lots of flowers, even leaves *almost* out and full grown now. The sun even makes varying appearances over our little cluster of six states.

Finally, the website upon which so many of us spent our winter working has been put online. If you're interested, please see The Mayflower Story. To allay any confusion, this is not about the famous voyage of the pilgrims in 1620. Instead, this website focuses on the journey of the Mayflower II, part of the exhibit on the waterfront belonging to Plimoth Plantation. Check out the web clips along the path of the voyage--we really focused on those in particular. This summer, the remaining members of the crew from the 1957 voyage have been invited to the US for the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary this year of the ship's arrival. We will hopefully be sailing the ship this upcoming July as a result. I have never seen the ship sail in person, actually, for all the work I have done at Plimoth Plantation, so regardless of where I am by that time, I will certainly at least make an effort to see it happen.

So, Tony Blair is finally stepping down as PM in the UK. When I first went over in October of 2005, I remember the whole election process of a new opposition party leader--something that I completely did not understand given my background. Eventually, David Cameron was elected to this post, and although a little slick for my tastes (and obviously with his "eye on the prize"), I can see how his charisma will win him votes. I am curious to know if there will be an election following Blair's departure, which was something hinted at but not confirmed by last fall. If so, I can clearly see David Cameron go up against Gordon Brown, and therefore, winning the election.

I have decided to go to my five year college reunion. We'll see how that goes.

Wasps have decided that the eave over my main window is the best place to create a comb complex. The combined forces of my hose and my bottle of Raid says otherwise.

Well there you are. I hope all is well out there with the rest of you.

The Definition of "Emergency"

I always marveled at the contradiction that is the "Emergency Room". The very name implies a place of urgent and immediate action, where things are swiftly remedied in an efficient manner. Of course, if anyone has had that sort of experience in the ER, I would rather assume that some unfortunate accident befell you in the Twilight Zone forcing you to visit the establishment.

I never gravitated towards the ER television series, either. I think there are only so many times a show can advertise its next installment as the "most shocking" or "most unbelievable". As the true-to-life Emergency Room requires about three hours of your precious time during which you will mostly be sitting with elderly people watching "As the World Turns", it isn't the picture of the utter chaos of human Armageddon, either.

Lots of pilgrims end up in the Emergency Room for one reason or another. Even before I joined the on-site cast, one interpreter came into the Visitor's Center with his hands entirely bandaged. He had been working in the Village that morning, when a large group of teenagers with a Christian school entered the small confines of the house in which he was sitting. The hearth, right by the door, was being tended through the obstacle course of new visitors, who were trying to pack themselves inside for want of warmth and entertainment. All of the girls had long skirts on, and given the cool, overcast weather, a number of them wore either tights or nylons. One student, standing with her back to the hearth fire, took one unfortunate step backwards and the hem of her skirt lit up. It would take only seconds for her nylons to be sacrificed as well, but the interpreter present was quicker to act than think. He dashed over to her, dodging furniture, people and props, grabbed the bewildered girl, put her over his lap and literally beat the fire out with his bare hands. The result was first, a charred skirt with literally an eight inch gaping hole, second, a pair of very burned and blistered hands leading to a trip to the local Emergency Room, and third, several days off for the altruistically injured interpreter.

Fortunately, I was never physically compromised by working in the Village between a few singed petticoats, a handful of cuts, and even sitting on a nest of yellow jackets (there has never been a moment during which I was more grateful for the several layers of wool covering my lower quarters since then). I did accompany my friend, Lori, to the Emergency Room after her having been stepped on by a cow. She was leading Rose, the local livestock, from the grazing field outside of the town gates back into her pen, when both of them stepped in the same place at the same time, the cow's reflexes slightly behind her own. She said a white light flashed and she crumpled in the field. Thankfully, this was observed by another interpreter, Asia, who quickly sounded the alarm to get the nearest and most capable help. Although the Emergency Room was close by--perhaps a mile or so--none of us wanted Lori to go alone, so I drove her there. We arrived at about 4:30 and the whole process ended five hours later, during which she was x-rayed. The damage amounted to some wear and tear due to crushing, but nothing actually broken.

If something WERE broken, I am certain we would have been in there until at least 10.

The local interpreters knew where we were, and most of them stopped by for a while. I think the Emergency Room went from inexplicably stagnant to lively. No need for a weekly series.

It's Cold, a Cold, and Cadbury Creme Eggs

So, it's April, and that little weather icon under my Yahoo mail account displays a bright, yellow sun unobstructed by clouds. No matter how hopeful this report or the scene out of my window appears, the little number on the temperature guage hasn't gone above 40 degrees, and since there isn't an additional wind icon, after being deceived by the pictoral report and walking out into the wonderland of your back yard, you are suddenly bombarded by bright light transposed over chilly air only exacerbated by a brisk breeze.

At times like this, I am thankful NOT to be working on the Mayflower. The people who work on the Village site don't know how good they have it in their little, one room mud huts with a fire glowing in the hearth until they are forced to do a ship rotation. A ship rotation generally encompasses about four months at either the beginning or the end of the season, so you either start out in the miserable, cold weather or you wrap the season up with it. On the few occasions I have had to be down on the waterfront this year, each time I looked up from the pier to the half deck--the highest point on the ship seen by visitors--and saw a wool-clad interpreter taking the few opportunities to do their thing that the trickle of available visitors afforded.

Of course, out of no where, I have acquired some kind of sinus infection/cold. I felt it coming on the other day when I was out shopping for food at the supermarket. I don't like shopping on Saturday because everyone else is doing the same thing, and no matter how many people there are out there in one place, their lack of awareness of others around them only increases with the numbers around them. In Shaw's, this amounts to people parking their shopping carts in the middle of aisles while they stand in the middle of the now reduced space and have an inner debate about whether to buy Rice-a-Roni or Uncle Ben's. Seeing this over and over again inspires in me what I consider to be a locked-on-focused state of mind. I will walk through the store and have a game plan in my head--knowing what I will pick up, where it is, and determining what the most efficient means of getting all of my items in the shortest amount of time. This time, I was completely zonked out--and it took about an hour for me to get everything I needed. I went home and immediately took a nap. I could feel the beginnings of what I thought was a cold coming on, but I attributed them to my allergies given I had cleaned the apartment earlier that day.

And now, after getting through the whole winter without a single cough or sneeze that could be attributed to a lack of good health, I am experiencing that "rising" effect that happens after something starts in your throat and moves into your head. My choicest form of relief from this state is Advil Cold and Sinus. However, because a tiny proportion of the population somehow managed to make an illegal drug out of medicines like Advil Cold and Sinus or Claritin, I have to wait in line at the pharmacy counter behind a host of senior citizens, ask for the medicine when I finally get there, be scrutinized by the pharmacist, have my driver's lisence inspected, be forced to sign on a screen for the box, and then, ten minutes later, be bestowed with the coveted medicine by a reluctant pharmacist. And when you're not feeling your best, this song and dance is even more irritating than it normally can be.

Oh, well, at least Easter candy is on sale.

But I'm (insert age here)

There's nothing like living outside of parental scrutiny after subjecting oneself to it for six months after being free to roam the world for a year's time.

I went to see a play in Boston called "Well" on Saturday night. One of the notably striking lines in the performance had to do with how things suddenly "change" as soon as you walk back into your parents' house. It's as if you are passing through a time warp upon stepping over the threshold--you're back in your teen years and your parents are back treating you like no amount of subsequently gained life experience or education had any positive effect on you since that time.

Although you may have successfully lived internationally without desperately calling home for help, somehow if you don't come home within a twenty-four hour stretch, parental panic ensues. It doesn't matter how many times you told them you were going out and didn't know when you were coming back again--even if you got really ambitious and gave them a play by play of where you were going when and with whom, you'll still get the "where the hell are you?"
phone call at some point and you better hope you aren't in a situation in which that may cause you some embarrassment.

Then, you arrive home and must directly confront the situation.

"Where were you?"
"I was out--just like I said I was going to be."
"And you didn't come home until now?"
"(Instert parental title here), I'm (insert age here)."

The funny thing is that when you were anywhere between 14 and 18 years old, the assertion of age only served to enhance your parents' arguments: of course they are going to call you, you're only 14 or 17, etc. However, this gets increasingly harder to justify after you hop over the 21 line. Once you start putting in numbers over 25, then, it just sounds ridiculous. In my case, if this is my mother--and she usually does most of the quizzing--I'll make a point of the fact that she had already had me (her first child) by my present age. That usually places a pause in the conversation.

However, it goes on--this time, the car is somehow brought into question. Now, two months ago, my brother brought our Toyota 4-Runner to my parents' house with the front of it in a semi-crushed, somehow hanging-off-of-the-body-of-the vehicle state--and with a broken window to boot given someone had recently stolen his stereo. I think it was in the shop for between three and four weeks to repair everything. The cost more than likely outweighed the value of the vehicle. When my mother starts calling my brother to "check up" on the state of the 4-Runner on a daily basis, then perhaps I will entertain the "where the hell are you?" phone call under this line of reasoning. Since I am sure you assume this does not go on, and indeed your assumptions would be well founded, and since every time someone asked about the 4-Runner after it's longer-than-expected absence my mother's reply was "oh, someone stole my son's radio and broke a window to do so" rather than "my son crashed into a median on Route 1 inflicting 3500 dollars worth of damage on the front of the car", I am rather inclined to dismiss it.

When I took on a film project at Plimoth Plantation for the Mayflower II's 50th Anniversary, I had to think practically. I worked on the film clips for the upcoming website for three or four days, and many of them ended long after 5 pm only to be tackled again in the morning. I still had my commute to contend with both ways, too--about an hour, maybe more, each way. Since I was working for such a low pay rate, I asked to be housed in lieu of the cash, and they agreed. I moved into a room in a house the museum owns, and I didn't anticipate the amazing benefits thereof--NOT ONE "Where the hell are you?" PHONE CALL. I could take a week's vacation to Tahiti and no one will think to call with the underlying "be home soon" demand implied. I have a roommate for part of the week, and normally I don't like sharing my living space with someone else, save in the case of significant others. However, what I did notice this time was that didn't matter at all--I could do all the basics without scrutiny and somehow, as soon as I walked back over that threshold and out the door, the invasion of the life of a normal 27 year-old stopped.

Thought for the Moment: Yes, counter-lady at the local liquor store, I know you recognize me. I've come in on and off over the last four years as a patron of your establishment. However, somehow, it must make you feel better about yourself to demand ID from me every time I intend to purchase anything from you. The first time, certainly, I understand that. In addition to first-time getting-to-know-yous, you had to put me through the ringer about the format of my driver's lisence. I'm sorry it didn't match your books suitably, although I swear I have no control over my home state's decisions as to how my lisence appears. I am also sorry that since the format change, I retained a copy of my old, laminated version that I can also present to you with the same ID number, the same birthdate, and lo and behold, a photo of the same person on it so if you get excited about being able to give me trouble about my purchase, I can nip that in the bud before it builds too high. And yes, I know, reluctantly, you have to allow me to buy my bottle of white wine because there is no room for reasonable doubt that I am somehow under 21 after presenting you with two forms of ID. I also know that I took additional fun out of the process for you by also carrying my passport with me, just in case a third confirmation of my birth date is in order. However, as time passes, my age only moves farther and farther away from the 21 year threshold rather than closer to it, so the longer you ask me for my ID and the more forms of that ID I bring to you, the person who looks increasingly like an idiot is you rather than myself.

Then, Then and Now

It's March--or it will be for another few days. For some reason, this prompted me to think in a "where we are now" fashion.

Age: 2005: 25
2006: 26
2007: 27

Corresponding Cards: (to find the cards that correspond to your years, simply add the digets in your birthday together for the year in question--for example, if your birthday is the 21st of March and you wanted to find your card for this year, you would add 3+2+1+2+0+0+7 to 15, then add 1+5 to 6, working your way down to a single diget number with the exception of 10 in even years--and check the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck).

2005: The Hermit IX meaning prudence in some cases, but also corruption, roguery, dissemination, concealment and fear.
Accurate? Yes.

2006: The Wheel of Fortune X meaning good fortune, success, and increase.
Accurate? Yes, if the year is viewed as a whole.

2007: The High Priestess II--which is actually my "card", so that has added significance.
Basically, it is one of the few in the cycle that can really be read to be my year in that things should come together somehow to achieve a personal goal. The card itself has an element of mystery and combines both wisdom and passion.
Accurate? Let's hope.

Relationship Status:
2005: Living with long term boyfriend. That relationship would end in the middle of April.

2006: Nothing in March--living in York at University with mostly younger students and no tangible dating prospects.

2007: We're working on that ;-).

Where Living?:
2005: Bridgewater, Massachusetts.
2006: York, United Kingdom
2007: Saunderstown, RI/Plymouth, Massachusetts/anywhere else I travel

Employment:
2005: About to restart as a Colonial Interpeter at Plimoth Plantation on the Mayflower II full time.

2006: Full time student finishing my second term at the University of York

2007: Putting together a fundraising film at Plimoth Plantation and job searching.

Farseeing Goals:
2005: Get into graduate school.
2006: Get out of graduate school.
2007: Get a job with a living wage.

And now for something completely different:

Ahhh...sun, lovely water, beautiful, vivid colors--who could ask for anything more? Well, at the time, I certainly could have. These were taken on the south side of Newport, RI in February when it was about 10 degrees out with a wind chill of about -17. I think I managed to stand there and snap five or six shots before I ran for the car.

Ok, Harriet, You Win...

The cat in the foreground is Harriet, the proverbial queen bee of the cat population here in this house.

Unfortunately, Harriet needs a little extra care every now and then. In the first place, she is a diabetic and requires insulin injections twice a day.

However, her injections never subject her caretakers to potentially severe bodily harm. As long as you "ask" her if seizing her by the neck and thrusting a needle in her neck is Ok, she will at least refrain from punching a hole in your hand with one of her very capable, razor-sharp teeth.

Her "pet peeve", so to speak, is grooming. She has flakey, oily skin that will gradually produce mats in her fur as it sheds. In my experience, if this isn't caught pretty early on in the process, they will knot closer and closer to the skin. It isn't our unwillingness to help her that gets her to this point--instead it is the fact that we realize, from personal experience, that we put ourselves in the way of near-eminent bodily harm if we try. On Mother's Day, two years ago, I called home from work on my break only to discover that my mother had been quickly transported to the local hospital only minutes before because she had made the poor decision to attempt to comb Harriet only to be bitten, hard, to the bone on her hand with the subsequent threat of infection.

Tonight, I took a good look at Harriet, and with mats peeking out here and there in her black fur, it was more than evident to me that yet again, this hazardous task required a new attempt. I knew what I was up against, so I held Harriet with one hand while I utilized the offending implement--the hated "cat brush"--in the other. I managed to get a lot of the chunks of clumped fur out. Every now and again, she would contort her body in such a way as to try and physically make me regret my seemingly adventurous and altruistic decision. This was proving ineffective to her cause, and twenty minutes into the session, I had about half of the matting off of her, and she was in a "no-win" situation on behalf of her cause.

Ah, but how I underestimated Harriet.

She had twisted her body so I was holding her by the scruff of her neck, her head against one of my folded knees and her back end by the other. I was determined to pull off the last clump of fur that made up a huge mat on her left side. Then, I felt something warm on one of my legs. Yes, in a seemingly fully dominated position, even Harriet had her own ways around it. Harriet, the only cat smart enough to know her name, who recognized a seemingly large vocabularly of words, who never did anything "bad", had peed on my right leg.

So much for the "last resort". I suppose it is different for all of us. She was immediately released to her much desired freedom. I, on the other hand, had to strip, wash myself off, and find something else to wear.

I should have brought out the scissors.

Now You See It...

When I went to Norwich last May, I wanted very much to visit this church--St. Andrews. It was the parish in which John Robinson, the "pilgrim's" preacher in the Netherlands, got his start before being ejected from his post for being too "reformist" and making the journey to the continent with his followers.

I was disappointed when I arrived because the church was closed due to some emergency, announced by the florescent paper on the black door in the top photograph. No, I didn't run up, stealthily remove the offensive sheet, and then retake the better, unobstructive shot.

I've been working on film clips that will be going on a new website, and in a step by step process, my manager, Ben, and I learned how to manipulate film and photos with a very in depth program. We've been able to change around words so that statements are clearer, edit smooth transitions between cut film clips, and even use some creative brain power to cover up some more stubborn bits and pieces. Likewise, I started to learn how to use my own photo editing software on my photographs. That stupid paper on the door always drove me crazy whenever I saw the above photo after I took it. Today, I figured out how to take it out.

After Ben and I finished the editing, he said he would never believe what he saw or heard on an edited piece of film again. I don't think he is too far off the mark.

Adventures in Software

Remember the days when you purchased a computer and it came with all of these discs representative of all of the programs that were pre-installed on your computer? Remember when you could just buy new software for updated programs or for new one you wanted to put on your computer?

Ah, gone they are, along with the "safety" of SPF 15 sunblock and the assurance that a gallon of gas would indeed cost less than a value meal (chips and drink included) at Subway.

Upon receipt of my new computer, the first thing I noticed was that there was a minimal quantity of "useful" stuff that came along with it. Everything I identified as a CD-rom was an "upgrade" of a program already on the computer or something I didn't want to use anyway. In order for me to acquire the stacks of back-up discs I used to get, I have to perform a "back up" on the system myself. Oh, and with no indication of how many discs that may take, either.

Windows Vista? Yeah, technobabble blogs that will make the Blogs of Note list long before mine will have LOTS to say about it, and may even debate the pros and cons of it for you. However, the only difference I can see here is a bubble with a Microsoft flag in it where the Start button used to be. If you want to see all your programs, instead of a list that appears off to the side for you with all of them on the screen on the same time, you have to scroll through a list of them. The one disc included in the package with this laptop was to update Vista, and it came with a nifty little remote control that would fit right into a port in the computer. However, in order to use it, I had to upgrade from Windows Vista Home Basic--which does nothing more incredible than Windows XP--to Windows Vista Ultimate, which cost.....drumroll.....two hundred dollars.

Your computer needs two basic sets of programs (unless you fell for the chic commercials with the dorko versus the cool guy representative of a PC and a Mac computer respectively). One is your word processing/office program set--and we all need at least to be able to type and print a document. The other is virus protection/computer security. The makers of this software smartened up some time ago and had their programs installed on your computer with an ever-present (and ever-reminded) expiration date. Therefore, I can use the newest version of Microsoft Office--which only really includes the four basic programs--for sixty days.....oh, wait, not quite. Apparently, the Microsoft tekkies have done it again and after watching endless car ads that offered a warrantee that covered either a certain number of miles or a certain number of years--whichever expired first, they decided to offer their own "compromise." Instead of being able to access the Microsoft Office programs for the sixty days on the icon, I can only open each one of the programs a certain number of times. So, the "subscription" expires either in sixty days or after I open the programs the alotted number of times. And....to upgrade to the "full, unlimited version"? Another 150.

I can say that Norton, the security software, was originally installed for sixty days as well, but they included a program key that without any additional cost, once entered, opened the program for a full year.

Oh, and I did receive a printer, and a pretty good model at that. Too bad the software included to install the printer on this computer wasn't compatible with Windows Vista. Way to go, HP.

*Disclaimer*: Unfortunately, I have just transferred to the new version of Blogger--well, I was more or less compelled to given as soon as I signed into old Blogger, I was immediately transferred to a page that would not allow me access to my Dashboard unless I did the upgrade. I am not sure if anyone else has had trouble recently, but this is the first time Blogger has allowed me to sign in in about a week, and I am not even at my home "port." Therefore, I apologize if I fall short of stopping by any and all sites of visiting Bloggers.

Has anyone else had trouble?

Monotony

You notice very mundane things when you're out of work and have been for some time.

• A day encompasses a lot of time.
• Thinking too much becomes an understatement.
• So much time, so little to do, and yet, nothing gets accomplished.

My most recent jobs completed:

• I purchased a new laptop. My theory regarding Dell computers, given I have owned a number of them in my time, is that they are made very much like cars that have a four-year warranty--to start to break down after about a year and a half. My Dell laptop slowed to such a crawl recently that it was impossible to restart the computer in less than ten minutes (that is no exaggeration). After consulting Consumer Reports, I decided to go with HP this time. So far, so good.
• Of course, the new purchase meant that I had to transfer all of my files, pictures, documents, and more to this computer, which has taken hours, but far less memory.

Last night, before I actually fell asleep, I picked up The Four Agreements again. In the case of any book with some wisdom to share or some insight to give, I always find myself reading it straight through first, and then, later on, rereading relevent bits and pieces of it. This time, I found myself going back over the section regarding making assumptions. When you're stuck with your own company a lot and little more than that to focus on, it is easy to completely dream up scenarios and explanations in one's head regarding anything from momentary glances to convoluted situations. I think I have found myself doing that most often when I disbelieve that I will receive closure any other way. At least if I "explained" it to myself in my head, then, I could create some scenario where I wasn't to blame or where things came out right in the end. I don't think I have ever once really "accepted" something if there was a missing piece or if the puzzle was hopelessly incomplete.

On a less deep note:

Bad Movie for this evening: "Cutthroat Island". A horrible pirate epic starring Geena Davis. Who cares? Ships, lots of gunfire, tropical locals, even a monkey called King Charles. How can you possily go wrong.

Recent Good Movie choice: "Dances With Wolves". Yeah, yeah, Kevin Costner--I'm sure he has a hate-site out there somewhere. However, the scene was captivating--and truly the only time I can say I have ever thought as much about the American Plains. The self-discovery theme was extremely well developed, and the incorporation of Native American culture (Sioux in this case) was as much an incredible experience as an educational one. There are scenes in that movie that I will never forget and I know will touch me. It's the type of movie that, although long, deserves one's full attention, and at least in my case, I came out of it knowing that enough of it will stay with me that another viewing will not be necessary to refresh my memory so much as it would be to enjoy the film again.

Ugh, exhausted, and back is hurting. How is everyone out there?

Dover

I was again peeling through some old photos and I realized that I never did anything with the pictures I took when I briefly visited Dover in Kent. The city itself wasn't particularly impressive (apologies to any and all Dover residents who read this blog--if there are any, which I doubt), but the castle overlooking the famous white cliffs was a fascinating place, used for literally thousands of years (from the Romans to World War II) and with evidence left by nearly all of its inhabitants. Although harder than one would imagine to get a good view of them, the white cliffs were certainly a memorable sight, as was the countryside that extended out from the city proper, panoramically visible from the Castle complex.

View overlooking the city from Dover Castle

View to the northwest on the wall, one of the Gate Towers

Dover's white cliffs

Second Tier Photos

Today, I thought to go through some of my photographs from England. When I took a lot of them, I saved them, and some I labeled, but just like anything else, after their "time" on the memory card in my camera had come and gone, I didn't think on a good number of them again. I am not sure why this is the case, but I was most impressed with the sky in England--it may have been how the clouds were formed or how the sunlight came through them and the surrounding scenery, but every time there was a sunset, it was always impressive. This one was labeled as sometime in April of last year, and it was taken overlooking the soccer field outside of the dorm system I lived in.

Letters Never Sent...

Dear Control-Freak Drivers,

I realize that we live in a world where no one else matters more than yourself. I also know you manifest this manic tendency in multiple ways. First, you may catch a glimpse of me driving along just over the speed limit coming up behind you--and see a younger chick driving my car--and automatically assume that I must be "taught a lesson" about safe driving by you behind the wheel of your overstuffed family vehicle with "Baby on Board" sign proudly displayed on one of your stylistically tinted windows. Your reaction under these circumstances is usually to slow down to three or four miles per hour under the speed limit, ultimately endangering the many bundles of joy that are in your car as my frustration gradually extends into the "road rage" category. Or, on the other hand, you may see me coming and know that you are going to force me to hit the brake rather hard if you pull out from Stop and Shop a spilt second before I pass you by (with no one behind me, I might add). As a result, you, with all of your superior years on the road before the gas shortages of the 1970s, wisely decide to turn onto the road in front of me anyway, and then drive exactly at the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit all the way down the one-lane road extending between me and where I live. I applaud your efforts to deserve the smug look on your face as I sail by you as soon as a second lane appears in either of these circumstances. It's always nice to feel superior, even for a few brief seconds, and especially in environments where the people you've ticked off can't say anything audible to you when you pull your mean-spirited jaunts. I'd like to inform you that I have contacted the Department of Transportation and formally proposed that all cars be fitted with a radio system whereby I, the offended party, can simply type into the computer your lisence plate number and then immediately be connected to the audio system inside your car to tell you what an incredible ass you really are. I feel that this may be the only way you may think twice before impeding my progress on purpose just to feel that little bit better about yourself you apparently need.


Dear Self-Obsessed-Facebook-Profile-Editor,

I admit, yes, I did ask for it by "friending" you online, so I only have myself to blame for the multiple repeat appearances of your name on my "News Feed" every time I check the website. I also admit that Facebook is only one of a number of websites that force people to share information about themselves in inordinate dosages. However, I hate to inform you that I do not believe anyone on your friend list is that interested in your 50+ "Notes" about yourself and your opinions or the continuous updates of your "Status" which include mundane details such as dish washing. I know that the endless searching you do to find "Groups" that truly fit your personality and interests should be acknowledged by the world as a whole, given the list of them extends at least halfway down the long page you have filled out about yourself. Regardless, I must alert you to a few observations--one, that you must spend too many hours in front of a computer given the amount of time that it takes to produce those multiple gems of personal information on my "News Feed" every day. As a result, you may adulterate such important things as your sight and your relationships with actual breathing people (some of whom are on your friend list and may want to see rather than read all about you). My advice? See if you can go one full twenty-four-hour period without "perfecting" your personal information on Facebook. Yes, I know, baby steps toward the goal of actually combatting this obsession, but progress is progress nonetheless. God forbid you go out into the real world and meet someone who may be more talented or perhaps even more interesting than you are.


Dear Self-Important-Woman-With-Too-Much-Time-And-Too-Little-To-Do,

Yes, society is funny isn't it? Since it became unpopular to employ or even own a servant staff of your own, I know circumstances have compelled you to find other targets for your sense of personal superiority. These mainly come in the form of staffpeople at your more frequented establishments such as Panera or Starbucks. However, I regret to inform you that no matter how many times you make an appearance at one of these local businesses, the people there aren't looking for when you are going to come in that day. In fact, this may actually extend to the staff not setting things up to your liking for when you do ultimately arrive. Because of a long morning rush of caffine-deprived small-time-suit-wearers, the Starbucks staff may not have quite gotten around to refilling the milk dispensers, for example, and perhaps, they may not "learn something" from your lecture about how "it is NEVER like this" whenever "YOU" come in for your non-fat, half-caff latte. Outside of the statements themselves, you may be surprised to find out that few people are going to take a forty-something upperclass socialite who is "supported" by her husband wearing a Prada version of camoflage cargo pants, Chanel sunglasses shaped like a box, and with hair dyed that shade of red that insults real redheads everywhere seriously. In fact, you may be shocked to discover that a simple "please" and "thank you" (don't tell me you didn't watch Sesame Street growing up) may get you all that you need or want and may even earn you a smile from the staff when you do come in again. You're more assured to get that result under that premise because otherwise, when you return and you turn your head away for one split second, you don't want to know what the barista is putting in your drink.


The above are letters to people you always "wished" you could send, but ultimately could not because you probably didn't fall into one of the types of categories that would compel doing anything more than waiting out your aggrivation at the actions of other people. I encourage any and all forms of liberation of such frustration. What's a blog for?

Oh, yes, I spent my New Years in the company of---Barry Manilow.

Well, not exactly...

Last summer, Lindsay and I created the "Bagging Barry" plan, which essentially meant that we intended to go and see his show in Las Vegas and spend the New Year in the city as well--the New Years' celebration being entirely secondary to seeing Mr. Manilow, of course.

As you can see, we were successful in this endeavor.

Above we have Barry singing "Mandy" at the piano and below it, Barry singing one of the classic hits from the 1960s off of his newest CD. Yes, Lindsay and I were, by far, the youngest attendees in the audience. We even had to instruct our closest seated neighbors how to get the glow sticks, handed out to all of the audience members before the show, to actually glow. In a phone message left by me after the concert, I described it as having "lots of music, lots of passion..." and Lindsay handily added in "lots of boas..."

We stayed at the Monte Carlo on the Strip, although the sheer size of these places there makes distance seem rather deceiving. It can take about twenty minutes to get from one place to another because you are literally "passing" the places on the way for such a long time.

On New Years, the most interesting elements involved included one fifty year old guy who had taken the time to write "Show your Tits" on a piece of cardboard with a green marker and was showing it to all who passed by, a bunch of "The End is Nigh" Christians holding signs condemning just about everyone and everything (one even had his own wooden cross, life size) holding up foot traffic in the streets, and the simultaneous fireworks let off at a few of the hotels at midnight.

We also saw "Mystere" by Cirque de Soliel at Treasure Island. It really is characteristic of the surrealism associated with the troupe. However, the surprising thing was the audience participation element. An "usher" made occasional appearances from the beginning to the end of the show, generally harassing audience members. Lindsay, at one point, did exhibit extraordinarily good judgement, given an "infant" in the form of one of the performers rolled a large, rubber, orange ball in the direction of our row, which was stopped by a railing in front of us. The "infant" indicated that he wanted the ball returned to him, so Lindsay stood up and pushed it back. Of course, this only prompted him to roll it again, and Lindsay refused to perform the same office a second time. A more compassionate audience member a few seats away obliged, only to become the "infant's" designated "Mama" for the rest of the show. Well done avoiding that fate, Lindsay.

Lest I be accused of putting off my "tag" for yet another post (now only understanding for the first time what the tag actually means), I shall leave off for the present.

"When will our eyes meet...."

Part One: Rated Poorly

Here's some "fun with expectations" to be enjoyed in three parts.

Stuff that turned out worse than was expected:

• "A Christmas Carol" performed by Trinity Reperatory Company in Providence, RI: Every year, my family buys tickets to see this annually produced show, and Trinity Rep. reliably creates a new perspective or interpretation to keep the many-times/many-ways seen show interesting. However, "interesting" this year bordered on the bizarre. My first indication that this would be the case was a commercial I saw on a local TV channel about the show by the director. The director, "so honored to be able to do Trinity's play," in as few words a possible, convinced me that he apparently thought he had come up with THE new, modern, artsy way to do the show. Therefore, I wasn't so much "shocked" as I was disappointed to have been correct. The guy had a thing for puppets--perhaps wishing to shed some much needed employment upon his rarely spotlighted puppeteering friends--but he didn't quite carry through his ideas. There was one of Scrooge himself, which disappeared about mid-way through the play without ceremony and consequently, with a loss as to audience interpretation of the puppet's meaning. The most "striking" was the Ghost of Christmas Future, which rose out from a curtain on the stage in the form of a Phantom of the Opera mask-like face, accompanied by one "pointing" and one "non-pointing" hand. In other news, the set was "minimalist" to a severe degree--cups and tables in scenes weren't even "real", but were instead cardboard cut outs (unconvincing when they had to be "used" by the cast as if they retained that third dimension they were missing). The background sets, wheeled in and out by stage hands (and this was the first production I actually "saw" the stage people "working" on the stage--other times they were strategically well hidden) could have been sketched by, and were perhaps on loan from, a local third grade class attempting a similar production. Even the cast was minimalist--a chorus of girls between about 8 and 12 years old made up for the lack of "company" in song or in bustling, "busy" street scenes.

The Bottom Line: The reason why this production is being judged rather harshly is because first, Trinity has done amazing versions of this story that have wowed and truly affected its audience. If they couldn't do so, families like my own wouldn't make the yearly pilgrimage to see A Christmas Carol. Since it is such a popular play, enough so that they have to have two casts to perform it, you would think they would take that in hand and mind when they choose an "interpretive style" or perhaps even a director in the future.

• "The Crimson Petal and the White"--a novel by Michael Faber: When this book came out, I was working at Borders, and Mr. Faber was celebrated as "a twenty-first century Charles Dickens." However, simply setting a novel in the 19th-Century Victorian London, including some less-than-reputable characters and throwing in a slum or two to remind the reader of the "hard times" experienced by the masses does not qualify comparison to a literary paragon. The book is over eight hundred pages long but it does not at any point inspire the reader to the "unable to put the book down" level. In fact, the characters are so poorly developed and two-dimensional that the reader rather doesn't care what happens to them "next" as chapter after chapter passes by. In order to "make" his characters interesting, he gives them some peculiar mannerism--one of the main characters is a "fop" with an "innocent, sickly" wife, and another, a captivating whore. Faber is so preoccupied with preserving his mystique and setting the scene (or one can only suppose those are his motives) that he includes long interactions between characters that even he in the omnipresent "author's voice admits are irrelevant to the story the reader ultimately skips through to get back to some significant action. At first, the reader may be fooled into thinking these scenes and interactions are somehow symbolic; however, after perusing through many of them, it becomes abundantly clear that the reader will never be left in a position where he or she will have to backtrack in the novel to pick up that one piece of information or one detail missed in these scenes. Because of his minutea, one actually comes to expect the sex and the murder, etc., which destroys the surprise at these elements so well woven by far more skilled authors.

The Bottom Line: I think invoking Dickens as a comparison to any unproven author is rather strong. I should have taken the hint when I found the book at a local used book store in hardcover form for about five dollars. Then again, I was told once that any book that is five dollars or less is worth getting. I think this is the only case to which that statement does not apply.

The "Christmas Spirit"

A friend of mine gave me a copy of a book called The Four Agreements for Christmas this year--it was very kind of him to think of me, let alone share with me something that is very much a part of his own philosophy of life. The basic premise of these four agreements is not only to raise personal awareness, but to raise awareness for those around you and what that means. At this time of year, I have to say that I was most struck with the "second agreement," which discusses the reasons why people do certain things.

Simply stated, the author (Don Miguel Ruiz) says:

Nothing other people do is because of you. It is because of themselves. All people live in their own dream, in their own mind; they are in a completely different world from the one we live in. When we take something personally, we make the assumption that they know what is in our world, and we try to impose our world on their world. (page 48)

I think most people can agree that this is an important point. However, I find that agreement may come easily while practice does not.

Say you're sitting in a park on a bench on a nice day by yourself. You're watching the world around you, and you focus in on one or two people in particular that you see either walking by or talking to someone or playing a game, perhaps. For one minute, do you ever wonder what kind of a life that person has had--what brings them from black and white to color or from the two to the three dimensional?

Yes, it's true, we all get wrapped up in our own little worlds at times--especially if something goes wrong or if we are nervous about something potentially going wrong. However, in those moments especially, it is essential to step outside and see the "big picture" to regain perspective.

Case in point--the "Christmas rush."

I hate it, and I'll be the first to admit it. I have to wait in line everywhere. What I want has to be completely out of stock when I get there. The guy in front of me is taking absolutely forever to pay with that credit card. I am in a line of ten cars to park in the garage, and in a line of triple that to get out. No matter where I am walking, there are people I have to walk around to keep my own pace up. I am constantly thinking of the next task I have to accomplish and how I can get that done as painlessly as possible.

And that is completely wrong. Absolutely none of that applies one fleeting thought to anyone else other than myself. I forgot to consider the fact that everyone else who is a part of that "Christmas rush" is on his or her own mission and is subsequently in his or her own world. Since this is the case, the so called "Christmas spirit" may be an extension of the second agreement--not just that we have to buy the "perfect gift" for Uncle Joe and Sister Janet, but that we have to remember that everyone around us is doing the same thing. Instead of tapping the toe of our boot on the linoleum while a thirty extra seconds are taken by the guy at the head of the line to complete his purchase or whizzing by the "slower drivers" who are just "in our way," we should take a deep breath, realize what is going on in the minds of the people around us. Why worry--for countless Christmases past, we were all able to get everything done we wanted to. And, since the point of the season is to think about someone other than ourselves, perhaps the challenge isn't to donate money to the "faceless needy," which most of us do without thinking about why that is important, but it is to see beyond our own little worlds when the tasks on our list seem to close us into our own minds.

So, what ARE they talking about?

The honest answer to this question is B. I was standing on the half deck at the time, slightly behind and above the subjects, so I have no idea what they were really talking about. I can assume, from prior experience, that A is the most likely choice, given those are the three most popular questions to pose to interpreters of all kinds. The fourth most common question has to do with a piece of equiptment called the capstan. The reason that inquiries about the capstan are so memorable has to do with the "guesses" visitors come up with to explain it.

The capstan, to clear up any confusion, is a large, black, round piece of wood that is right behind the main mast extending from the main deck down through the orlap deck, the deck below. It has metal fittings around it and two square holes bored through the diameter of it on opposite sides. Yes, it does look odd. If we're interpreting on the main deck, we answer "what is that? (point at capstan)" most often. However, we have also had some folks "interpret" what it is for us. These interpretations include anything from "it steers the ship" (at least that somewhat makes sense) to it grinds corn (yes, that was certainly feasible on a moving ship), it is a furnace (a one-time-only-use furnace apparently given it is made of wood) and finally, that it "holds the telescope" somehow.

I very much enjoyed comments made by Captain Picard--always an honor, sir, when you come by, and the Mr. Anonymous who posted this time, whether or not he/she may be the same one who visited before.

What is the most likely dialogue between these people?

A) One of these questions are being answered: "How many passengers were there?", "How long was the journey?", or "What did you eat on board?"

B) How would I know? I was taking this picture on the half deck clearly from above them.

C) Costumed guy: "No, I think the one in the yellow tank top has the nicest ass."

D) Visitor: "Is that your dingy over there?" Costumed guy: "No, my pinnace is much bigger than that."

What is Beth doing in this picture?

The answer is: A.

On a rather stormy and miserable day at the Mayflower II, as you can imagine, there isn't much to do. We are allowed to leave the site, given we have no heating and are almost entirely exposed to the weather out there, only if there are no visitors on board. Of course, the result of this plan is that we'll get a couple or a family of four that come on in so well timed a fashion that we'll all have to stay on the ship while they tour the whole thing, and, just as one of these groups finishes, ah, yes, another comes on board. Therefore, you end up spending most of the day dressed head to toe in rain gear (for those not in costume) or in varying degrees of wet wool (for those in costume).

In this picture, Beth, after one of those smaller sets proceeded down to the below-deck area, tied the bits and pieces of a malkin--a mop--together and hung the line off the side, attaching a piece of ship's biscut to the end of it. Unfortunately, this resulted in the biscut getting caught on something close to the waterline, and the line breaking apart, leaving the ship's biscut hanging off of the ship until we finally figured out where it was and could bring it back up. The biscut, hard-tack-like as it is, having been rained on and left exposed for days, was entirely intact, proving by experiementation that even seventeenth century methods of preserving foods are effective.