The Shape of Cobbler

It's was historic week, as my friend Dan said. Dan should know. While drinking beers at a sports bar on Monday night, catching game five of the American League playoffs, he made a reference indicating a unique knowlegde of events before his time. We were describing our favorite cities and towns, in the world and in the United States. Once, Dan told us, on a drive through Virginia he caught sight of a little place. It was just like Brigadoon, he said. "Brigadoon", the 1947 hit musical, features the story of two American tourists putzing around Scotland. They stumble upon a charming village. One, of course, falls madly in love with a maiden who lives there - but there is a problem. The town appears only once every 100 years. So the reference fit - but wait one second, I said. Did you just reference "Brigadoon" while drinking 32-ounce beers in a somewhat seedy bar? That's right, he confirmed. That's just what he'd done. Dan pulled up a chair next to me and while the others talked science we discovered we'd both been brought up on musicals and oldies. The powerful rhythm of "The Impossible Dream" from "Man of la Mancha" mingles easily with "Breaking Up is Hard to Do" in the car-ride memories of my youth. Between life comparisons, we caught some of the game and talked to strangers about the upcoming election. The Sox won and I rejoiced.

The next day I was hounded by two things: my father singing to me over the phone, once with a coworker, and the question of what to make for dinner that night as I was having some friends over. My father, it seemed, was delighted that "Brigadoon" had entered discussion, especially since I'd called him from the bar to ask he and my mother if they could remember of the musical hits. While they couldn't at first, on Tuesday, my dad was eager to sing. When he and a colleague traded the phone back and forth between them after lunch, each singing a verse, I asked, "Is this what you do at work?" Yes, he said. Yes it is.

That afternoon I requested the help of my own coworkers. What should I make for dinner? One suggested something that sounded good involving Mexicorn and seafood and I decided to forgo my normal dedication to the cookbook and go for it.

We opened several bottles of wine, had the game on in a separate room, and I proceeded to cook, a skill that has come slowly to me. The conversation, cheese and crackers, and use of the seldomly-used dinner table suggested that: I was actually having a dinner party and it was successful. The food turned out well and I was surprised, just like I am any time I make anything. Karla brought dessert, and as she passed it out, J made an announcement - "I love pie." He went on to inquire about the difference between pie and cobbler, which we were having. Cobbler, explained Karla's husband Max, is like pie, only more shapeless. It's like an informal sort of pie.

The mood was relaxed, the Sox won again, and I went to sleep, and woke up, very tired. But the week forged on.

That's because it was game seven Wednesday and there was no way I was staying home with Yankees-loving J to watch a potential disaster. Last year we watched game seven, Yankees - Red Sox, on the floor of my studio apartment and when the Yankees won J stood up and cheered while I crawled under a blanket, silently wept, and fell into a restless sleep. This year I wouldn't be alone. We filled a table at a local sports bar and kept the beers coming, especially when I realized I was nervous, an emotion I rarely feel regarding sports, but often when the Red Sox get just far enough to lose it all.

A fellow fan and I stood at the bar, anxious, during the last inning, and then...and then...we WON. They won. Beers were downed, tabs were paid, we hugged, went on to the next bar where we all participated in taking a huge, pink shot and danced to 90's music all night long.

Again, I awoke tired. But thinking of it now, a Monday, rested, and nothing to do but start working, I'd certainly do it again, and what's more, I long for that Thursday morning. Yes, I was worried I'd acted like an idiot the night before, I was tired and had just had enough time to get showered and dressed before being horribly late, but I'd had quite a week in just three days. I hadn't succumbed to the television in a mindless way. I was out, walking to my car that morning with my fall jacket, appropriate for the cool fall air and cloudy sky. I had to make it all the way to Franklin street, where my car had remained. I liked the smell of busses running up and down the street, the students and others waiting for them at designated stops. Walking in order to get somewhere is no longer part of my life, as it was in bigger cities, and the very normal sounds and sights were all the more interesting.

As I made my way down Greensboro, I noticed a small, nice looking house to my left, with a porch and picket fence. A well-dressed woman sat on a rocking chair out front, and what must have been her teenage daughter sat next to her, also in a rocking chair. They were covered in blankets. They were reading. I stared for a moment, wondering what they were doing there on a Thursday morning, half wishing I could just walk over and join them. They looked back and seemed friendly, but responsive to my questioning glance. This is what we do on Thursday morning, they seemed to say. It's just what we like to do.

Their answer to the busy world made my walk even better. Though I was tired, things seemed in the right place. I was learning to cook, had funny stories to tell, and the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

To Atlanta

It's a rainy morning here in North Carolina and I'm drinking some fabulous (expensive) coffee and having a nice bowl of Kashi GoLean, which includes "fiber twigs." Good health, here I come! This should erase the brie and baguette and peanut butter cups I had for dinner last night. Or if not erase, at least beat it down. A related story - after having above mentioned unbalanced dinner, I took Cecilia for a walk down the street and upon returning discovered that my baguette was gone. As Mina seems to have retained her normal weight, we are certain she has hidden it somewhere in the house for later consumption. You know, squirreling things away for the winter. You would think I don't feed her, but I'm certain this instinct is the result of the days that she was known as "Brandy" and lived in a car.

But despite the rain, the missing bread, the fact that I have to go insert C sections into B sections and B sections into A sections, I am in a good mood. Tonight J and I head to Atlanta to see the Pixies in concert. While I was originally not so psyched about this trip, it's grown on me. After all, the Pixies are a great and well-known and important band, even if I don't know all their songs. Anyone I respect musically tells me this. Furthermore I've never been, and although we won't really see the city, we will have the trip there under our belt. Next time it won't be so daunting. "Atlanta?" we'll say. Then hop in the car and go.

But most importantly - adventures are wonderful, whether big or small. Last night I donned a fireman's outfit - the whole thing from big huge pants to jacket to hood to helmet to mask to air tank, and entered a smoke-filled house for thermal imaging training, another perk of my job as a reporter. The smoke was fake, and the boy playing the victim was a healthy teenager, but the experience was still intense. The kind firemen kept asking if I was ok or if I needed a breather from the enclosed, hazy environment. I was sweaty and and my knees hurt from stumbling on them across the uneven floor, but all I could think about was how these people do this in the actual situation - when there is really a fire, they are ready. And so I said, "no" and ventured on, sweeping the thermal camera across the room to identify points of heat, pointing my hose, telling everyone over and over how I just couldn't believe there was this much to it and how much I respected them.

When we return from our journey, I fully intend to write more regularly. Maybe Mina will have produced the stolen loaf. Maybe J will have made another amazing claim, like that he is going into business selling his own hand crafed walking sticks, or that he plans to make his own soda from now on. Whatever the case, funny or serious, the days are full of them, full of adventures.

"Why don't you buy bigger pants?"

Monday mornings sometimes make me want to kick and shout, things a civilized person ought not to do. Coming off a fun and busy weekend is particularly tough and so this Monday morning I allowed myself a somewhat long hot shower after sleeping in until eight.

But then there was still the closet. First, it was cluttered. I had been dumping my worn clothes on the floor, overtop my shoes, all weekend because my parents had been in town and I wanted to keep the bedroom looking neat. The pile in the closet would be quickly remedied I thought, while we could keep up the appearance of neat and tidy girlfriend and boyfriend all weekend. But this morning the pile was there. "Remember me?" it said.

J and I were standing in the closet. The difference between us, besides all the obvious ones, was that he seemed in a good mood while I wanted to throw hard things at the wall for tension release. Nothing was specifically wrong, mind you. Monday mornings depress me for a variety of reasons.

And then, of course, the ultimate annoyance. I felt like a whale. Can you gain 67 pounds in one night? No, you cannot I reasoned. Still, I asked J, "Would it be alright for me to go to work in my underwear?" My underwear, I reasoned, was the only thing I could possibly feel comfortable in as even my jeans that always fit seemed a little tight.

"Yes," J said. "You can." But then made another suggestion.

He said: "Why don't you buy bigger pants?"

What? No. That didn't even make sense, I explained to him. Didn't make sense! Although I had carefully detailed how and why I thought I was gaining weight, the appropriate response is never to suggest someone might go out and "buy bigger pants."

Because if I buy bigger pants, see, then I'm allowing myself to remain in the slightly chubbier state. Absolutely not. Instead what I did find something not so form-fitting to wear, and reminded myself that if I ever wanted to fit into my other more fashionable clothes, I was just going to have to shape up.

And with that, exited the closet and trudged through another Monday and reasoned happily that by Tuesday, I'd be back to my old self.

listen to the dog!

mina_tee
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

We all know Mina is smarter than just about any creature on earth. And Mina says: Vote Kerry! Good girl, Mina. Good dog.

can't ignore the obvious question

An important question: did I, mistakenly, buy decaf coffee? The thought resonated throughout my morning drive punctuated by intense, not run of the mill, yawns. I write a lot about coffee. I think a lot during the morning drive. Whether I did or not - buy decaf - will be resolved when I arrive home this afternoon and check it out. It's one of the day-to-day items that my life is filled with now. I feed the dogs. I make the coffee. I keep the kitchen clean. I spend time with my boyfriend - and of course - this year, more than any other, I'm into politics. The way it falls in among the rest of my habits and activities intrigues me. I want to buy one of those hip shawls. I want a new president. Etc.

I was resolved not to talk about politics on this blog, as Jen, Jess and I have one designed specifically for that purpose. Check out www.politikitten.com - we've got a blog and much more on that site and you can make comments or let us know if you've got something to say. However, with last night's debate and impending election, I feel obliged to write about the subject at hand.

No questions asked I'm a Democrat and after hearing Kerry's points last night I can also say I'm proud to side with Kerry and his ideas. He laid them out and in my opinion made a much stronger case than our current president. That aside I feel there is one important point that was brought to light last night and is constantly discussed between friends of mine and even the media - but which has not been answered. Simply put: the president went to Iraq to fight "the war on terror." What's up?

The "war on terror" is certainly a noble idea. I'll admit I'm one to embrace peace-loving views and wish there was another way. I don't know if there is and I know I for one have had some contradictory thoughts. After 9/11 I was ready to get over there and fight myself. I was angrier than I'd been, perhaps ever, concerning global issues. I thought more about terrorism than ever before.

And so we...went to Iraq. I know perfectly well that the Democrats, the people of America, and specifically John Kerry (last night) have questioned President Bush on this matter. The fact that there was intelligence suggesting weapons of mass destruction is another point entirely that I feel the president brings up whenever he is questioned on methods for fighting terrorism. But Iraq didn't attack us, also pointed out last night. I don't get it - why doesn't he answer the actual question? Why IRAQ? HOW is the war on terror a being fought there? Whether or not Sadaam was a threat, whether or not the president was supported by members of Congress - given the OK to go to war if it was inevitable - doesn't concern me as much as this very simple issue.

While I cannot question the president directly I can question his followers and concerning Iraq the response is usually something regarding wanting a leader who stays true to his convictions rather than a "flip-flopper." Ok then. Fine. Not even addressing why I believe Kerry thought out the complicated issue in a much more thorough way. But, ahem, why did we got to Iraq? Silence. Repeat above excuse. Remind about the weapons of mass destruction intelligence.

I have yet to hear someone explain to me the reasons we are fighting terrorism in Iraq. The president should have an answer to this this very simple, very direct question - or at least have the decency to admit that this war is dealing with seperate issues. There was bad stuff going on in Iraq! Everyone knows. There is bad stuff going on there now - and that is a different story. But why can't people see that the plan to go to Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11? I cannot, in my heart, believe that the president has a case for a connection between the two issues - a real, legitimate connection that makes this war understandable as a "war on terror."

I'm not even getting into statistics here, more complicated numbers, issues, or other fears I have about the current regime leading our country. I just want Mr. President to explain to me, to us, point by point, how the war in Iraq has something to do with terrorists - specifically the ones that attached our country. It's that simple. That, or I want him to stop attempting to connect the two and further confusing an already confused public. If he could do this, he just might win my vote.

Kidding, friends. The man has no chance with me. And I hope his chances are diminishing with many undecided voters in this country who watched last night's debate. Sure, he's steadfast, but about what?

I could go on for many paragraphs, but will give it a rest. It gets tiring. Luckily I got a cup of coffee from across the street that was absolutely not decaf and I'm waking up.