Moving

Around 7:30am on a rainy day last week, I was walking from my apartment to my car.* A man was putting oil in his car about five spaces away from me, and when he saw me he called out, "Hey! What happened to your truck?"**

Shocked/jet-lagged/a bit confused, I mumbled, "I had a car accident." And he just nodded like, "Oh, okay. Just checking," and disappeared back under the hood of his car. Now let's put aside the fact that 1.) I was still extremely jet-lagged from my recent return from the UK, 2.) it was 7:30am, and 3.) I am so not a morning person. I would instead like to focus on the fact that here was this guy who lives in my apartment complex, who I have never seen before in my life, and he knows what kind of car I drive. Creepy much?

"It's time to move," I thought to myself.

But is it really? It's strange how my first response is "Oh crap, people are starting to remember that I live here. Must be time to get the hell outta here." I mean, I was always the kid who begged her parents not to move and felt sick at the thought of somebody else living in her house. Was it the fact that I moved at least twice a year from the ages of 18-24 that changed things for me? Has all this traveling and exploring made me way too restless?

Maybe not. Most of the time I like knowing where the nearest dry cleaner is or the best place to go for a pint. I've been getting my hair cut by the same person for three years now, and I've been working for the same company for a pretty long time as well. Maybe "too restless" comes when I have an experience like the one above and immediately run back into my apartment to start packing.

I still think it's time to move, tho. People should at least say hello before the freak the crap out of you.



* I use the phrase "my car" only for convenience sake because it, actually, is not my car. It's my mom's van that has been bequeathed to my Not So Little Brother. We affectionately refer to him as "Old Sideburns" because he can grow them and to the van as "The Tank" because it kinda feels like you're driving/sitting in one.

**No, this was not a miscommunication. I used to drive a truck. I hope to do so again sometime soon.

Viva la Postcard!

A dear friend of mine is currently traveling round Europe and the UK for a few months. Before she left we were talking about postcards and how it's such a shame that people don't really send them as often as in years past. So we made a deal. It's quite simple, really. We're just going to send each other postcards from wherever we are (even if that doesn't happen to be a vacation spot). After all postcards are cheap, postcard stamps are even cheaper and can be bought in mass quantities, you don't really have to say much, and they range in design from something you can send your kid sister or grandmother to something you should probably be embarrassed not to be putting into an envelope.

True that they usually arrive at their intended destination a week or so after the person who sent them has returned from their trip, but who cares? In this age of "all mail is either a bill or junk" isn't it nice to get something that's nothing but fun?

My answer to this question is yes.

Album Currently on Repeat: Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak

We Recommend....

Sometimes you have to be super discriminatory when it comes to recommending something. Thankfully, a friend was wise enough to recommended this part of the McSweeney's site. One thing I can confidently recommend: do not read this at work unless you're really good at laughing silently (I am not).

Here are a few of the recommendations that made me laugh when I probably should've been working. And yes, the Steve Martin book they mention really is that good (and also makes you laugh out loud on airplanes and/or in other inappropriate situations).

*Fifteen-month calendars
Who doesn't like a little overlap?

*Duff from Ace of Cakes
This guy Duff has a cake bakery in Baltimore and a show on the Food Network. Maybe you know the show. Our sense is that if everyone were like this guy, and if every show had this joy, we'd be all good.

*The Remington ShortCut
If you cut your own hair and like it really short, this is the Jesus Christ of hair clippers.

*Fastpasses for rides at Disney's Magic Kingdoms
We wish there were Fastpasses for other things in life, like grocery shopping and graduate school.

*Born Standing Up by Steve Martin
The story of the genesis, apex, and end of Mr. Martin's standup career. This book has been justifiably praised.

*Microwaving cake for 20 seconds before eating
Doesn't matter how powerful your microwave is—you put the cake in there for 20 seconds. Remove. Add a dollop of vanilla ice cream (chocolate generally doesn't work in these cases, probably because of some kind of microwave-induced molecular rearrangement). Use a spoon. Do that mmm-mmm-wow moan-noise thing. Thank us later.

*Bacon of the Month Club
You haven't known pleasure until a full rasher of applewood smoked bacon shows up in the arms of the UPS man just as you're prepared to give in to the forces of healthy living and eat yogurt, or some crap like that.

*Sticky roller lint pickups
We remember the older lint pickups, the ones with the semi-velvety surface stretched across an oval head. Those didn't pick up shit. These do. (If by "shit" you mean sweater fuzz and dog hair and the like.)

*Baseball on the radio
A rich experience exceeded only by baseball at the park, in which case, we also recommend listening to the radio broadcast with an earpiece in the left ear as you watch from mid-lower level, left field. Funny, too, that the rise of radio and the rise of baseball were concurrent. Timely then, timeless thereafter.

Forever a College Student

I took a publishing seminar at U. Penn today, and the whole experience of being back on a college campus and in a classroom really made me miss college. It isn't really the first time I've been to a college since I graduated, but I don't want to count spending eight hours of mind-numbing boredom in the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champagne ballroom as a nostalgic experience. However, putting my mind back into student-mode made me notice a lot of things from college that I still have around me on a daily basis. This is by no means a comprehensive list.

1. My student ID is still in my wallet. I'm not ashamed to admit that I occasionally still use it to get money off things. If you have a moral problem with that, then put yourself through college and see what you can afford post-graduation.

2. My bright orange parking permit sticker is still on the back window of my car. I never did affix the college alumni stickers they keep sending me, but anyone who looks at my car knows I once parked in G Lot.

3. My boss at the library used to make me baskets filled with candy and assorted good things for each holiday. One year, she was out of town so Dee from the ILL department left some candy on my desk and named me "an honorary ILLer." I still have the tag hanging above my desk.

4. A Care Bears valentine from Rictor.

5. A note on blue paper that also sits in my wallet (seriously. and I just cleaned out my wallet too). This note is from Becca and was written with the spinal pen. I would reveal the message, but it's a private joke so you wouldn't get it anyway. Trust me, though, it's funny.

Speak Now or....

Sometime this weekend, I lost my voice. And it didn't go suddenly or with any dignity.

It began with a terribly minor experience with food poisoning (tip: feta cheese does not travel well), and before I knew it I had all the vocal quirks of a 14-year-old boy. My voice is naturally a little scratchy anyway, but as the weekend passed, words that normally would receive a slight inflection or emotion suddenly began to squeak sharply out of my mouth . By Sunday night, it was uncomfortable to say anything above a whisper. I thought an evening of hot tea and silence would get me up to a reasonable vocal level by the time I reached work on Monday, but I was very wrong.

In fact, it got worse. This put me in kind of a weird place when I'm trying to explain something to my boss or ask her a question. In the end, I've had to skip the chats with anyone around the office and rely completely on email. Though this has been kinda rough on someone like me who really does like to talk, it has made me think of how much I really count on speaking and how nice it is to not be forced to act like a mime in order to get your point across.

Though I must admit that at this point, I'd probably kick your ass at charades.

Baseball

Since yesterday was the official opening day for the Phils, I thought I'd revive a quote from Dr. Matthew Roth: poet, professor, and avid baseball fan.

"I found that if I changed my seat every other inning and held a dishcloth in a certain way, it was very lucky for the Red Sox."

:-)

Thots from Mr. Steinbeck

"After the bare requisites to living and reproducing, man wants most to leave some record of himself, a proof, perhaps, that he has really existed. He leaves his proof on wood, on stone, or on the lives of other people. This deep desire exists in everyone, from the boy who writes dirty words in a public toilet to the Buddha who etches his image the race mind. Life is so unreal. I think that we seriously doubt that we exist and go about trying to prove that that we do."
~J. Steinbeck
The Pastures of Heaven

I Have an Addiction, Sir.

Whenever we would have tea together, my Grandmom always said, "I like my tea the way I like my men: strong and a little blond." I probably should've questioned her a little more about this statement beings as my Grandfather was a brunette, but I never did. I'd just wait until she took the bag out before I handed her the milk.

I sincerely believe that all the women in my family are genetically addicted to tea (the men are partial to their scotch, but that's a story for another day). Every one of us is Irish and English within an inch of our lives; we never stood a chance. The second thing any of us will ask you after you arrive (after "how are you?") is if you'd like a cup of tea. Are you not feeling well? Then have a cuppa tea. Did your day go badly? I'll put the kettle on. It's reached a level in my life where my dear friend in Altoona took me straight from the train station to the tea cupboard in her house and said, "Whenever you feel like it, just help yourself. I know how you feel about your tea."

Visiting my family in N. Ireland, I had my first high tea...and also my second in the same day. Thousands of miles away from my Grandmom's dining room in Collingdale, I still felt at home in Uncle Billy and Aunt Dolly's living room as Uncle Billy raised his mug and said, "I never thought I'd be having a cuppa tea with ya."

When I moved back from Chelts, I smuggled as much real English tea across the Atlantic as possible. Some of it was fancy, expensive tea, but the majority was just plain old Tesco brand. It was lovely, and I tried to make it last as long as possible. However, when one averages about five cups a day, well, the supply dwindles quickly. It's a sad fact that American tea sucks. Some types, like Tetley British Blend come close, but I still find myself spending a little extra money on Twinings' Irish Breakfast or Prince of Wales. The best I've had since coming back to the States was a loose leaf blend that Rictor's dad brought back from Russia. Clearly that doesn't count.

And when I go back this year, it'll be tough to resist the temptation to bring an extra suitcase solely for tea smuggling. I'm sure I'll manage, tho.

Ben Folds?

Not that many weeks ago, I sat in a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner near Rittenhouse Square with the Katherines. As we tried to chase away our Hoegaarden hangovers with powdered-sugar-and-maple-syrup drenched Challah French Toast and bacon, I turned to the Katherines and said, "Isn't that guy standing by the door Ben Folds?"

"I don't know what Ben Folds looks like," answered the Katherine to my left.

"He looks like that guy standing by the door...even down to the glasses," I yawned.

And he did. The olive green cap, dark-rimmed glasses and modern bohemian style of the way he tied his scarf around his neck all seemed to scream, "Yeah. I'm a hip musician."

I went back to smearing grape jam on my regular toast (because diner toast is probably the best food in the world). I silently cursed the fact that my red-headed roommate from Freshman year-who nursed an intense infatuation with the music of Ben Folds-was living far away in Pittsburgh and unable to help me determine if the man at the door was in fact Mr. Folds himself. I felt too silly to get up and actually approach this guy on the off chance that it was just some French guy called Peter who couldn't understand why twenty-something Americans kept coming up to him and asking if he was this Ben dude.

Two weeks later we find out that Ben Folds had a show in Philly the night before we possibly spotted him at the diner. So it actually could've been him....

And I wondered, why can't I speak to famous people? We're bombarded every day of photos of Jude Law at the drugstore, Julia Roberts buying cheese at the market, and Harrison Ford having a chat with the five other people that live in Wyoming. Magazines are constantly reminding us that "Celebrities are Just Like You!" I have no problem talking to people on planes or strangers like the German lady who sat next to me during the train ride between Marburg and Kassel; however, if Kate Winslet sat next to me at the airport I'd forget how to speak.

Yet when I have the gall to do something like stage door Eddie Izzard, all I can do is squeak out my name and add some cheesy sentence he's probably heard a million times before. Perhaps I was suddenly intimidated by the fact that I was standing in front of quite possibly the funniest man alive today. Perhaps I would have been less intimidated if he'd been dressed in women's clothes.

Perhaps....

Tough Skinned Philadelphians

I've started taking the El when it's either too cold or gross enough to keep me from walking the eight blocks from the train station to my office building or in the afternoon when I want to catch the express train home. One Wednesday Steph and I left the office on time, but the El was late getting to the station. Worried that I'd miss the express and have to sit in the station for an unnecessary half hour, I ran down to the platform....only to be stopped by a cop.

Several other commuters and I were told to go back up the stairs; there was a suspicious package, and they had to wait for a verdict from the bomb squad before letting us any further.

Back up the stairs we all trudged. I met up with a couple other T&F people who ride the same train line as I do, and we stood and joked amidst the ever growing group of angry and confused suburbians. The police officer was forced to explain the situation over and over again; his already unconcerned tone and mannerisms growing more weary and annoyed as the minutes ticked by. Amidst the tropical background music of the steel drum player, we were told to stay in the waiting area at the top of the steps where we'd surely be safe...10 feet away from potential explosives.

Not long after the platform was cleared (though the platform across the tracks still bustled with people and trains), several Philly police officers arrived and calmly consulted with the original officer. No one seemed concerned-not even the bomb-sniffing dog that trotted excitedly down the stairs. I suppose it was probably a good crowd control technique, but I got the distinct feeling that even the police weren't worried and didn't take the mystery box to be a serious threat.

And so we stood until the bomb squad carried off the box (deemed nonthreatening) and the trains filed one by one along the platform once more. Even my friends and I stood unconcerned except for the thought of how we'd be able to get out of the city if they suspended the train for the rest of the evening. Though I can't for the life of me understand why the woman nearest the stairs (and the suspected bomb) just stood there with her two-year-old boy as though nothing was wrong.

And somewhere, someone on the R5 to Paoli smacked their forehead and thought, "Crap! My box!"

In Honor of Spring

Even though it was 25 degrees this morning, spring is technically here. And with it come tourii and the resurgence of the squirrel population.

I'm the kind of person who often seems to find herself in strange situations with some equally strange people. I'm also well aware that, in addition to being the City of Brotherly Love, Philly is also home to many, many weird people. I just didn't know that they also worked for the National Park Service.

Often, when the weather is nice, I'll have lunch in the park across the street from my office in Olde City. One lovely late-October afternoon, I was sitting on a bench in said park talking on the phone. The trees had begun losing their leaves, and the heavy winds of the night before had also brought down a few branches. The National Park workers were scrambling to clear these branches from the cobblestone streets in addition to their usual tasks of grass-cutting and leaf-raking; I didn't think anything of it when a tall, thin man in the olive green coveralls of the average park employee walked past me carrying a weedwacker.

I think that now would probably be a good time to mention the ungodly amount of squirrels that live in and around the park. On occasion, when I have lunch in the park with some of the girls from the office, I see the tourii (Rictor's and my term for flocks of tourists) feeding the squirrels, and I shake my head. People should know better.

So I wasn't really paying much attention to this guy until I turned my head a bit and noticed that he had put down the weedwacker and was now several yards away from it, on his hands and knees, crawling toward the base of a tree. I looked a little closer and saw a squirrel squatting on its hind legs and staring at the man who was crawling towards him. The next thing I knew, Park Employee had reached out, snatched the squirrel with one hand (!), and then started to unbutton a few buttons on his shirt with his free hand. I wanted to stare openly, but, as this man was clearly out of his mind, I tried to watch from the corners of my eyes while pretending to mind my own business.

With the stealth of a professional animal trainer, Park Employee slipped the struggling squirrel inside his shirt and cradled the wee thing against his stomach with one hand. He then stood up, walked over to the weedwacker, picked it up with his free hand, and calmly strolled off across the street and behind a few colonial-style homes.