It struck me as I was swept back in time to 1607 how much the state of California is like the colony of Jamestown. 1) Despite Conan the Barbarian’s sword hanging in the office, you’ve got ineffective leadership; 2) the promise to make money by the wealthy to the wanna-be wealthy; 3) Jamestown = first failed colony; California = first failed state.
But I did promise NOT to be preachy and political for a while.
I’m an amateur historian. I’m allowed to give myself that title because I minored in history and if a book on my shelf isn’t titled “He’s Just Not That Into You” then it’s a history book: the Revolutionary War; the Civil War; biographies of Lincoln, his cabinet and assassination; WWII; my pioneer ancestry; Vietnam; newspapers and the printing press; Middle Ages; Henry VIII; blah blah blah. I also like to travel, explore and I live in Virginia so yes, I’m qualified to be an amateur historian and tour guide. I must be incredibly annoying.
Jamestown, Virgina, is where this country began. Of course everyone basically died who was a colonist at Jamestown and the Disney movie Pocahontas isn’t remotely accurate. I was singing while walking along the James River and not one animal took notice of me, let alone did an owl, raccoon or deer get in a canoe and guide me down the river.
I bought my ticket upon arrival as opposed to purchasing one online. The lady at the counter was English but I’m pretty sure she’s not an ancestor of the Jamestown colonists. We had a nice long discussion of the benefits of riding British Airways vs. Virgin Atlantic… something the colonists never had the opportunity to do. No, instead it took them 144 days to sail from England to Jamestown and according to records, they all got a bath (as in ONE) during a stop over in the Bahamas. So just right there I’d be out as I’m uber hygienic.
I’m sure the introductory film was excellent (well, no one in the film had a British accent which I thought was a little odd) but I spent most of it cowering and curled in the fetal position rather than paying much attention. We walked in seconds before the movie started and I, with my inability to walk without hurting myself, didn’t notice that the floor had steps rather than a ramp. I gracefully tripped down three or four of them and before catching myself on the arm rest of a few chairs. No physical damage except I scuffed my (new) shoes and I might’ve shattered one of those floor lights. Only minor emotional trauma ensued.
Come with me to the rebuilt Jamestown settlement.
This is Pocahontas. She started telling the people something important about farming and crops when I noticed she was wearing a black lace bra, which reminded me that I never made it to Nordstrom to purchase my Spanx bra. Gotta move on that one.
Powhatan, the Indian chief, said in the movie when noticing the early colonists (who were initially all men), “How do they survive? They have no women to cook for and take care of them!” Apparently I would’ve sucked as a Native American, too. Don’t you watch Top Chef on Bravo? The winner always seems to be a guy.
These girls were in the armory cleaning swords with this stinky green slime that looked as though it was the remnants of a few choice Ghostbusters scenes… except the stench was so bad I gagged a few times.
Then I got caught in a conversation with some guy standing watch over one of the facilities. He was sewing a jacket by hand (via top stitching… a new word for me) and would not shut up. I was desperately trying to watch the armory chicks blow stuff up out in the yard but he kept droning on and on about men’s roles and responsibilities vs. those of women from yesterday and today. Only men can be tailors but both men and women can be seamstresses. Yes, I know… I watch Project Runway. Women can also be blacksmiths and silver smiths and… oh look! New people. I can escape without it being too rude since he has other people to blab to now.
Then my favorite part… the ships. While it’s true I barf constantly while in open water, I still love ‘em.
The bathrooms were off to the side which is where I was reminded of my movie theatre antics. A gentleman with a cane barks to me as I’m walking into the loo: “Watch out for that step!” His elderly friends surrounding him all chuckle. I do not. As I’m leaving, one of his friends echos the earlier remarks and asks if I’ll be repeating my earlier fall since he didn’t have his camera ready at the time. I tell him I’m teaching falling down and getting up courses in 30 minutes in the main building. Never let it be said I don’t make an impression on people.
Then it was on to Yorktown which is where Gen. Cornwallis’ stooge surrounded to Gen. Washington’s stooge and the Revolution War came to an end after 5 years in 1781. It had a fabulous museum, clean bathrooms, and an excellent cannon reenactment. What is with me and explosives? There was also a farm which made absolutely no sense since I expected battlefield tents and chamber pots, not domesticated turkeys.
While there I asked one of the guides what they do with the dried tobacco (which is hung from the ceilings) once they rotate it out. Did they throw it out or do something with it?
His response? “This is an educational facility. We do NOT process tobacco products!” Dude… I don’t smoke. I think it stinks to high heaven and it would be completely irresponsible to teach all your third grader visitors how to roll their own cigarettes. I just wondered because despite this being an educational facility, it IS a functioning corn and tobacco farm and throwing things away just seems silly and wasteful. Crabby old fart.
We ate lunch at a Greek festival in Williamsburg. That’s neither here nor there but I love Greek food and it was sort of a random place to eat it.
So Jamestown gets 4.5 stars while Yorktown gets 1 (out of five, of course). We didn’t make it to the archeological dig site where Jamestown was originally located because I didn’t see the point in forking over ten more dollars to see a hole in the ground where 350 year-old bodies had been pulled out.
Who knows what adventure I’ll be off to next, so you better stick around.
I recently spoke with my nephew and we agreed that we are both perfect; I assume he realizes (hopefully after a deep and meaningful conversation with his mother–my sister) I’m only perfect in my sugar cookie baking and teeth flossing… and I’m even hit and miss with that one.
I do have a point.
It struck me after multiple conversations with a variety of people over the last few days and reading this on my friend’s blog… LADIES: let’s see if we can change with world (or, at the very least, ourselves).
You know how they say men think about sex every seven minutes or 30 seconds or whatever the stat is? Maybe we women could train ourselves so that every time we see a man (or a woman, or a dog, or an ad of some kind) we automatically think: “You know, I really look pretty good today. The End.”
OR “I’ve got a terrific smile. I’ll try it out on him/her/the dog.”
OR “Perfect is overrated. I’m doing just fine with FABULOUS.”
Plus, I just found out that my boobs aren’t the main attraction I’ve always thought they were. It’s time to start looking elsewhere for the reasons why people like me… and why I should like myself.
I realize as of late I’ve turned into one of those self-righteous and pretentious prigs I despise. I promise I’ll return to my regularly scheduled program tomorrow, complete with photos and self-deprecation.
I’m confused as to why the man I was totally hot for in the 80s has turned into such an uptight dinkus. I loved Growing Pains. I loved Kirk Cameron. Kirk was the star. He was on the cover of BOP and Tiger Beat all the time. He made Ricky Schroeder look like a dork. The other kids on the show were OK but when Leonardo DiCaprio was found in a garbage dumpster and adopted, I moved on to the greener pastures of… I have no idea but I stopped with the Growing Pains.
This year marks the bicentennial of Charles Darwin’s birth. Let me be honest: I’ve not waded entirely through The Origin of Species. In fact, I think the extent of my reading has been that of half a dozen chapter headings and maybe a glance or two at some sketches. Unlike my foray into Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man and Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, I was not required to read Darwin for any of my classes. Who read Darwin for fun? Let me see your hands. Liars.
As someone who believes the liberal arts to be the superior college majors, maybe if I hadn’t done everything in my power to avoid science and math courses this would be a completely different entry.
As I recently told Scott, I found myself in a Cosmos class sophomore year. Easiest science credit ever. Really. No math involved but it did help if you had a great understanding of Greek mythology and the Zodiac (thank you, Cosmo magazine). We watched movies practically everyday which were hosted by the one and only Carl Sagan. Smart man. Very smart. Probably brilliant. Boring. Awkward. In terrible need of a stylist. No camera presence. Used the word ‘billions’ about 50 billion times every 3 minutes.
Other than my judgments of his self-presentation, I remember one thing he said and it went something like this: humans are more closely related to trees than they are to monkeys.
Record scratch. Crickets. Whaaa?
You know what? I DON’T CARE. And I don’t know why Kirk Cameron has his panties in a wad over Darwin, either. Whatever happened to being a little more open-minded? Now did I just I say, “Abandon your belief system?” No, I did not. I certainly haven’t let go of mine… I just want there to be acceptance that people have of all sorts of ideas without someone belligerently telling another that they’re wrong.
How about we all try this… when someone says something we don’t agree with, let’s insert the following statement instead of bursting into a hate-filled rage of Rush Limbaugh/Glen Beck/Bill O’Reilly proportions: “OK. That guy is wacky and I don’t agree. I sure do feel sorry for him and his kids because you KNOW they’re going to need therapy in about a week. Who’s up for a Pop Tart?”
I don’t mean to sound apathetic about this renewed debate over evolution, but it’s not something I ponder on a daily basis. I know what I believe and that’s good enough for me. Lately I’ve been pondering the need to purchase winter clothes (since none of my pants fit anymore) vs. paying off my credit card so I can save for a down payment on a townhouse. I’m pretty sure I’m more concerned about the evolution of MY life and less about why some dudes who could crochet an afghan with their back hair insist on not wearing a shirt while running outside.
* Just for the record, I think the idea that we come from monkeys is preposterous. I’m not believing the whole ‘tree as my ancestor’ nonsense, either. But if you believe in or follow either one of those ideologies, then cool beans for you. Everybody has to believe in something.
Tolerance people, tolerance.
Let’s pause and remember what we learned from the movie Clueless on this subject:
MR HALL
Any further insights?
TRAVIS
I had an insight, Mr. Hall.
MR HALL
I’m all ears.
TRAVIS
OK, like, the way I feel about the Rolling Stones is the way my kids are going to feel about Nine Inch Nails, so I really shouldn’t torment my Mom anymore, huh?
MR HALL
Yes. Well, it’s a little off the subject of Haiti, but tolerance is always a good lesson, even when it comes out of nowhere.
Garth Brooks might have thanked God for unanswered prayers, but right now I just can’t do that. I stopped trying to fix the world’s complexities long ago as trying to simply understand the problems seemed easier and more attainable. Besides, I’m far too busy trying to figure out what’s going on in my own head to worry about everyone else’s issues.
And therein lies the problem. Focusing on other people allows me not to face my own demons. I don’t have to think about the complicated answers and sort them out so all the pieces fit when there are others to worry about.
But I’ve decided that I can’t help other people… because I suck at it.
Sometime between age 18 and the day before yesterday I learned that service doesn’t have to mean painting a barn, cleaning someone’s house or babysitting. Somewhere along the way the question came into my mind, “What do we live for if not to make life easier for others?” What does it hurt to give a stranger or tourist directions? Help carry someone’s groceries to his or her car? Advise which roads not to take during rush hour? Share a cab? Offer someone a ride? Give a hug? Send a card?
Most of us carry in our hearts a desire to assist the poor, to lift the distressed, to give comfort and hope and to help all those who are in trouble and pain. We recognize the need to heal the wounds of society and replace with optimism, faith, and hope. Truly great men and women resolve to dedicate a part of their lives and time to those in distress.
Helping hands can lift someone out of the mire of difficulty. Steady voices can provide encouragement for some who might otherwise give up. Listening to another’s burdens can be an immense sense of relief and release for the one doing the talking.
In short, it never hurts anyone to be nice.
Having waxed poetic, I feel I should be honest. I believe serving others is closest we can be like gods ourselves. I was always taught to lose myself in the service of others and I think I have truly lost myself. I am so lost, in fact, that at this juncture I am starting to wonder the point of me being here. Not in DC but on the Earth itself.
Why reach out and try to help others if we are continually rejected?
I don’t really fit in anywhere. I’m too liberal for my culture and I’m considered incredibly sheltered, naïve, and just plain weird by the rest. I keep praying God will take away my compassion so the burdens, loneliness and inability to make a difference in other people’s lives won’t hurt so much. I think that’s one prayer He’s not going to answer.
Everyone loves those ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures. Somehow a beastly and socially awkward/inept ogre of an individual is magically transformed into a swan. And everyone loves a swan. Except for me. Wait, maybe it’s geese that terrify me. Yup, it’s geese. Bruce the Goose… what an awful creature that traumatized a 5 year-old girl who was minding her own business while exploring the Duck Pond.
But I digress.
When I moved into my apartment in early July, I don’t think it had been cleaned in years. Aside from the dead bugs that littered the window sills and tub, the toilet was full of black water, spider webs in the corners, filthy floor boards and window treatments and the ever-present smell of death.
I cleaned and made liberal use of Febreeze and Yankee candles. The previous tenants’ couch was removed and the lingering carcass odor miraculously disappeared. But that’s where my creativity comes to a screeching halt. It’s not within me to make things pretty so I have to rely on others. Mainly my mother. In almost every apartment I’ve ever lived, mom has shown up and while I’m at work she’s created masterpieces. Slap on some paint, buy some plants and rearrange furniture and artwork… viola! Brand new place to live!
Dining Room
BEFORE
AFTER
Living Room
BEFORE
AFTER
Bedroom is next (but that’s a solo venture).
Thank you mom! You’re the best!
I have so many friends from a wide variety of cultures that sometimes it shocks me. I’ve participated in Ramadan (well, I’ve continued eating but broke the fast with my friends who observed it); went to a baby shower that lasted 6+ hours, had a full bar, dancing and a curried goat that was cooked on a spit in the backyard; and I dropped squid down my cleavage at a Chinese New Year’s festival where I was one of 3 white people.
Everyone has their theories, beliefs, and stories, whether they be cultural or religious. I’ve learned to nod my head and go with it because after all, I’ve had a few odd home remedies put upon me over the years.
As a child if I ever got a sore throat, my mother would take a rag, soak it in rubbing alcohol and then pin it around my neck. Should an earache accompany said throat issue, she’d crush an aspirin into powder form, dissolve it in either rubbing alcohol or oil and then dip cotton balls in the mixture and place in my ears (I could be making this one up but I’m positive cotton balls dipped in something were placed in my ears). A chest cold meant I had Mentholatum smeared across my chest and then was covered by several layers of clothing. (Sweating it out, possibly?) I’m not certain these old family pioneer remedies worked but then again, I didn’t die so maybe they did.
A friend who lived in Costa Rica heard a few times, “Oh, you know what would clear up your pimple problem? Rub a lemon all over your face.” As far as I know, she never did. I think she went home and visited her dermatologist instead.
I found myself at a homeopathic pharmacy several months ago, looking in vain for something to clear up my lungs because what the doctor gave me wasn’t working. I purchase a bottle that was guaranteed to get rid of all foreign objects causing my bronchitis. Drinking a fennel-flavored liquid was not what I had in mind and no, it didn’t work. Maybe if I had kept using it though… I still have the bottle. Hmmm.
Before this summer’s facial bee experiment, I stepped on a bee while in middle school. I was reading the Little House series at the time and learned that if you covered a bee sting with mud, the pain would cease. It did and now I’m a huge fan of mud.
Two years ago a tick found its way on my stomach while I was doing crunches at the gym. Yes, I’m sure that’s where I got it. I tried everything I remembered from my teenage years of reading Seventeen : cover it with fingernail polish, use tweezers to yank out the head, slather petroleum jelly across it, and finally… burn it off with a match. Let me tell you right now that burning your flesh is NOT something you should do. It doesn’t feel good or smell good and you know what? It doesn’t work. You get a blister and the tick is still near your belly button.
A former co-worker had one of those tumor zits (you know what I’m talking about) that wouldn’t go away. Finally she boiled a tea bag and placed it on the offending zit. Boil the bag, place on zit, remove and repeat process for I’m not sure how long (a few hours, I suppose) … but it took care of the problem. No joke.
I had a friend in college with a sweat issue. She would sweat so badly that when writing, the ink or pencil smeared everywhere. No exercise involved, folks… the sweat came pouring out all the time. She ruined clothes and didn’t smell so sweet. While in medical school she had a controversial surgery that removed her sweat glands. She no longer sweats… at all. According to my sources what she really needed to do was cut a potato in half and rub it under her armpits.
Maybe my all-time favorite remedy came from a teacher at school. I threw up and was told, “Try not to think about it and you’ll feel better.” I got right up and started working on my cursive. Praise the power of positive thinking!!! Please. I’m sure I threw up again and went home.
A Haitian friend of mine (oddly enough it was the same person who had the 6+ hour baby shower) gave me a Voodoo recipe that knocked me completely out… taking my cold with it. He doesn’t practice Voodoo and swore it was really a “family” remedy. I didn’t care. It worked and therefore rocks. So as flu season approaches, you might want to consider trying this because you never know.
The Voodoo Potion
1 C boiling water
2 capfuls of rubbing alcohol
1 lemon
Honey to taste
Boil water. Add alcohol. Squeeze in entire juice of a lemon. Add honey to taste.
WARNING: Make sure you do not get behind the wheel after consumption. I promise you will be knocked out. All you will want to do is pass out.
I love to get lost in a good book. Even better, I love it when the book makes me think rather than one of those trashy paperbacks about a smart but verbally abused assistant who stands up for the little guy/blackmails her boss/falls in love with the CEO I read at the beach. I’ll admit I’m a skeptic but do like to be entertained. I suppose that’s what makes Dan Brown so intriguing.
I was not offended by The Da Vinci Code nor Angels & Demons. I was, however, offended by the movies. Tom Hanks as a hot and brilliant professor who solves these religious symbolic mysteries in about 3 hours and in doing so saves the world? Please. I can’t buy Tom Hanks as hot, especially with that haircut of his. Thank heavens we don’t see much of him swimming laps.
Living in DC has turned me into a major snob and a stickler for geographic correctness. I love watching movies filmed here… not to see if I can catch of glimpse of myself (though you MIGHT be able to see the back of my head in Hannibal). I want to see if the director got it right. Most of the time, they don’t.
“There’s NO WAY anyone could run from the Starbucks on 14th and K into Union Station within 5 minutes! What a crock!” “The State Department is no where near the Reagan Building.” The list goes on and on.
As you know I’ve been sick… again. I’m ticked that the weather is perfect and yet I’m too exhausted to get off my couch and enjoy it. Therefore I bought Dan Brown’s newest book, The Lost Symbol, and found myself nearly completing it in a short period of time. Of course the story is a little far fetched but then again, who doesn’t like a good conspiracy? I’m reading for the STORY and to be entertained, not edified. Of course that gets mucked up when I read passages like this (chapter 3, page 13):
“Memorial Bridge already?… Langdon gazed left, across the Tidal Basin, towards the gracefully rounded silhouette of the Jefferson Memorial. Directly in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose… The monolithic spire of the Washington Monument loomed dead ahead.”
Boys and girls, there is NO WAY this drive is possible. When crossing over the Memorial Bridge towards the Lincoln, the Jefferson is on the RIGHT but definitely not visible until one gets passed the Lincoln. In fact, the Jefferson isn’t fully visible until right before the WWII Monument.
Then things get personal because some of the running around/chasing takes places near my office. Unless Dan Brown knows some secret and yet public entrance to the Metro or some other mysteries about Franklin Square, it’s quite obvious he never bothered to visit DC before writing his book. Ten minutes to get from Metro Center to King Street on a Sunday night? I don’t think so. You’d spend longer than that waiting for a train. He also has the Washington Redskins making the playoffs… ha ha ha!!!
I’m being picky and ignoring the fact that Brown actually wrote a fast-paced and interesting story. Does it make me think differently and feel suspicious about the Founding Fathers, Greek mythology, freemasonry, the Egyptians, tattoos, and eunuchs? No. Well, maybe a little about eunuchs. Ew, Ouch and most importantly… Why?
Pick up a copy and enjoy the ride. Then come to DC and I’ll give you a REAL tour.
Today was not the Saturday I was expecting. Not at all. I anticipated sleeping… which I did. Slept until 9 am. This is completely out of character for me but since I’m still coughing as though I have emphysema, I gave myself a break. I’m still avoiding the gym because heaven knows I’d be completely grossed out if the person on the next tread mill over barfed up a lung.
I did a couple loads of laundry and remembered that I had 2 tasks to complete:
1. Go to work. Miss a couple of days at the office and you get behind, especially when you’re on deadline.
2. Make more keys for the work bathroom. They keep disappearing and I don’t know why. It’s a key to a bathroom, not a safe deposit box. There is nothing remotely cool in the bathroom, just three toilets and the Cherry Blossom scented lotion from Bath & Body Works (which I did not purchase because it smells nothing cherry blossoms).
Today was an absolutely gorgeous day, which should’ve been my first clue that everyone would be out enjoying it. I couldn’t find a parking space anywhere near the office or several blocks away, for that matter (our parking garage is only open M-F). Fine. So I made my way to Lowe’s. Turns out the bathroom key is some type of special government-only made key and there’s only ONE store that duplicates them and it’s open during work hours, M-F… 15 miles away from my office.
Fine. No one in their right mind should be visiting Lowe’s on a Saturday afternoon anyway. As I was walking back to my car, there was a guy next to me and our movements were in sync. He was in my personal space and so being the paranoid individual I am, I sped up.
Turns out that wasn’t such a smart idea because a high school girl on her cell phone didn’t see me walk behind her car and she backed up and kept backing up until she bumped me. I hit the back windshield with my fist and yelled. She still didn’t stop (thankfully I can resemble a cheetah when necessary). She also never got off the phone. And as she drove away, she flipped me off.
I *really* want Virginia to pass that law where you incur serious fines if you talk on the phone without an earpiece while driving. I also think you shouldn’t be allowed to drive until you’re 25. Or maybe high school kids shouldn’t be at Lowe’s, especially if their hair is as big as mine was in the 80s. Fingernails that resemble Ginsu knives (but with flair) and fluorescent headbands should be banned. And I don’t like bumper stickers that tell me how smart your 6th grader is.
I spent the afternoon painting my bedroom and while it looks as though I let Helen Keller take the lead, the new color changes the room’s personality which I find a tad bit exciting. I got a little light-headed from the paint so now I’m at work. On a Saturday night. Later on I think I’ll put some gas in my car and go to the grocery store. I might even buy one of those Spanx bras at Macy’s. The possibilities are endless.
In January invested in a DVR and my life drastically changed. With my DVR I can still watch my beloved TV programs if I have to work late or actually have plans. There’s just something comforting not only recording Ugly Betty and Psych, but also Family Ties and Cheers, because those two shows are on at 3 am and I’m not usually awake at that time. Usually.
But I was today and for good reason. I went to bed last night at 8 pm and it was a struggle to stay up until then. I suppose that’s what happens when you’ve been given a cocktail of meds to fight off bronchitis (yes, for those keeping track that’s the third time this year), an ear infection and laryngitis.
So obviously there was no need to take advantage of my DVR to record programs while I was at work since I’d be spending the entire day at home (somewhat thrilled that I won’t have to take my fitness test tomorrow… I have no doubt that I’d fail).
Are you aware of how much crap is on television while you’re at work? And can you believe that I watched it all day long? Yup… I got sucked in by the TBS Tuesday morning movie (Son-in-Law), two hours of Vegas, one hour of Child Star Mug Shots, and a smattering of bad sitcoms that were canceled for a reason.
I decided that I really need to purchase the InStyler and learned that teenage boys who have crushes on their teachers are just being boys… it’s their teachers who are sickos. Wanna know what else I learned?
Leif Garrett really dropped 50 feet below rock bottom.
No one, not even Shaun Cassidy, should wear satin pants.
Kanye West is a total d-bag.
Hef’s girlfriends are gold diggers. And they’re dumb. And a little too orange for my taste.
I’m still not quite sure why I liked the original version Melrose Place… I certainly won’t be watching the revamped version.
I really think it’s time I crack out the DVDs.
