The River

Sara and I (and Brian, but he doesn't come into this story) have lived by the river for nearly two months now, but until this evening we hadn't gone. So today after everyone was awake and fed and had sat around watching the cat and wasting time on the internet for a while, Sara and I changed into swimsuits and headed off down the hill. It's a very short walk--maybe half a mile--and well worth it, because the parking down there is horrendous. We walked past lines and rows of waiting and parked cars, right down to the water's edge, and then upstream along the bank until the people thinned, and we found a spot to leave our towels. The water was deliciously warm, and the rapids relatively soft, and we waded and stumbled and half-swam, laughing, halfway across through the current until suddenly deciding to make camp on a half-submerged boulder. We sat in the sun, half-in the water, and talked and people-watched and drank in this gloriously beautiful setting-sun landscape in our backyard, and after an hour or so we collected ourselves and walked back up the hill toward home.

I hung my wet skirt and sarong on the back deck to dry, and was bombarded by a wave of childhood memories and nostalgia for all the countless days I walked to the pool and walked back, or walked to the creek and walked back, and hung my wet things to dry.

I smell like the river. It is the most perfect smell there is.

Peace and quiet

Or would be, if there weren't a damn TV in the house. But anyway,

I love that all I have to do this evening is eat dinner with my parents, read my book, maybe take a bath. I suppose I may get around to some laundry.

I love that all I have to do tomorrow, unless I decide otherwise, is meet with Beth to discuss graduate school things.


Thank you, laryngitis.




Said laryngitis was contracted thanks to a chest infection I've been working on, and, I suppose, thanks to my stubborn decision to attend the fall staff retreat anyway. Though I sadly abstained from hiking or canoeing or even going for a long walk (possibly unnecessary, but I didn't want to overtax my sick self or, more importantly, end up freezing and far from central heating), I did a few puzzles, read a bit, played some Catan, addressed some envelopes, and didn't get as much sleep as I had hoped. Saturday night we all sat through/participated in a three-hour staff meeting during which we processed the summer, talked about future improvements, and formed a few committees, and Sunday we had a really great Quaker style worship service, spent forever closing up and winterizing Camp, and headed home. Charity, Anna, Jarian, and I stopped to pick (aka pick up off the ground, as very few were on trees) apples, and have dinner at Mellow Mushroom on the way home.

About the dorky and distastefulness

--Seriously, thinking about the whole setup makes me feel like a loser in a sea of losers, but I know that that's my own nonsensical bias and that I should get over it. I just haven't quite managed to do so yet.

But there are a bunch of people I've been emailing, several of whom seem really cool. And I mean, that's cool. But I met one on Friday that I like a lot and will be seeing again tomorrow (and probably Thursday), and now I've got this worry/guilt complex thing about all of the other people I've been talking to that haven't been really given a fair chance yet, and whom I might be about to ditch. But meeting up with them when I really mostly just want to talk to Mark isn't any better than cutting off contact. And cutting off contact with them only to find that it isn't going to work with Mark sounds like a pretty terrible idea as well.


And there's my personal, whiny, Marie-nobody-wants-to-hear-this-ish business.



Love me anyway? And wish me luck at bar trivia, if you don't mind.

Things I've been forgetting.

Last week when I was tutoring Layla out on the dock, I saw something white bobbing in the water under the walkway. It looked like one of those soft, white, round mushrooms (which don't grow in the water, of course), but turned out to be a goose egg. Despite my best efforts, I failed to effectively convey to her that the watery sound from inside the egg meant that it was dead, that it was rotten, and so on. Anticipating the smell and fearing the view I didn't want to crack it, but I allowed myself to be convinced. I carried it away and downwind from the house, stood back, and cracked the shell with a stick. I would have let Layla, but she lost her nerve at the last moment. It seemed that somehow water had seeped into the shell, so what came out was a terrible smell, a piece of embryonic sac, and half a shell's worth of grey liquid. Layla spent the next ten or fifteen minutes telling me that I should have cracked it more gently, though I tried to explain that "baby goose eggs" need to be kept warm in their mother's nest; that all of the goslings had already hatched and didn't she remember them?; that floating in the water for weeks will never let an egg live. She said that she had hoped that if I cracked the shell gently enough, it would turn back into a baby goose.



I and my father went to pick my sister up from the Greyhound station the other night, and from the parking lot I looked up into the night sky and saw dozens of bats swooping and gliding through the air above the baseball diamond. In my experience, bats don't usually soar and glide, actually--they flutter around and frequently change direction to go after insects. It's also rare to have such a clear view of their motions, though, so perhaps I just haven't been as observant as I might. The lights from the stadium shone straight up into the air, and I can only assume that the air was filled with enough light-loving nocturnal insects that the bats could just soar straight through the beams and get a mouthful on each pass. Good on ye, bats! I love 'em.


Friday, just before the goose egg incident, Sara and Brian and I went to see the VMFA Picasso exhibit in its dying days. I don't love Picasso particularly, but as ours was the only museum on the East Coast to get the exhibit, and as Mr P is super duper famous and influential and all, I felt that I should go. It was good. I mean, he's talented, you know. Also, he really likes boobs. A lot. Just a heads-up, there.

Saturday S and B and I went to an herb farm and took in a talk about beekeeping and met up with Anna and her friend Amy, who seemed pretty cool. Anna and Amy and I accompanied the beekeeper back to his hives and watched him replace the queen and the observation frame and essentially got another lecture lesson about beekeeping, which was really cool. We ate some lavender iced cream and some honey iced cream and some chocolate iced cream, and I (and possibly Brian, but not while I was looking, not that I was looking often) helped Sara pick out a bunch of herbs and tomato plants and suchness for a hopeful new garden for her family. We got variegated basil, among other things. Not elfin thyme, though, despite my rabid support. Sara and I also bought fricking adorable beeswax candles in the shape of a little bear with his arms around a beehive (the stereotypical old beehive shape, rather than the more practical but significantly less cute boxy hives of today) and with a relatively large bee perched on the outside of the hive. They smell like honey of course, thus making me want to consume honey, and they are unreasonably cute, and I can't understand how Sara plans to actually use hers as a candle. I'm pretty sure I could never set that thing on fire.

Also on Saturday with S and B: impromptu (for us) fish fry; Strawberry Fields Festival where were sold unsprayed strawberries, spinach, kale, and no free kittens. Lovely. And buying cookie dough and cooking cookies not-as-long as the wrapping says, thus producing perfect soft, gooey cookies. And Kelly and Junior happening to be near my house, and being convinced to come over, and Sara and Brian leaving to dinner.

Saturday sans Sara and Brian: Hanging out with Kelly and Junior, and retrieving Chloe from the bus stop whilst they take in Picasso in all his slightly obscene glory.

Sunday: church with Chloe and Junior (who opted to stay, possibly partially because he seems to really, really love the couch in our basement. It really is excellent for sleeping), and an afternoon spent with my excellent cousin Sara (not to be confused with the Sara of Saturday), talking and reading magazines and rifling through items destined for the Goodwill.

All in all, quite a nice weekend.

I think there may have been other stuff, but I am not sure. I may have forgotten still.


Song I've been playing on repeat for a couple of days now (I haven't watched all the way through this video, so I apologize if there is any unforeseen weirdness):

Just an observation

This whole "having a social life" venture might be fun, but it's rather exhausting thus far. And that's all I have time to type right now. Going to be late to my aunt's if I'm not careful.

Jumble sale:

I love this cat, but her claws-in-the-leg habit is beginning to try my nerves--particularly when combined with the paws-draped-across-the-keyboard habit. Once I attempted to remove her from said keyboard, and she snagged one of the keys (F7, if you must know) and tore it loose. Awesome. Luckily, the keys can be reattached to my keyboard. I did not expect this, and I was pretty excited. Thank you, Compaq.


I still want to write poems, but don't have any poems queuing up to be written. This is pretty much the story of my life. Creative energy - creative ideas = irritated boredom.


I was just perusing some stranger's facebook photo album, and decided that I (/we? Me and Sara? Me and Kelly? Me and [ ]?) need to have a party with a photo booth. For this to happen though, I need to live somewhere with less furniture. Or I guess the booth could center around some furniture. Whatever. Draped sheet plus camera plus whatever: photo booth. It would be good times.



I am tired, but I still need to walk Miley. Gosh, that sounds familiar. I've already taken her twice today actually, but the first two were both quite short. More like tide-her-over pee breaks than actual walks. And the weather's really nice, so I guess it's okay.

I went to a movie (The King's Speech--quite good!) today with a friend and former counselor of mine. I've seen her a total of four times since I was ten or eleven, and those all within the past six months. She's great--smiley and friendly and fun. After a few minutes of awkwardly positioned post-movie talking out in front of the theater, we went to a nearby barbecue (is it wrong to want to spell that "barbeque"? Spell check says so.) place for margaritas and hush puppies. We talked about Camp, among other things, and it turns out that as a camper she received a super patch* every single year. I, though I tried my best, received a super patch not even once.** I was a nice kid, liked everything we did, didn't fight, and (to the best of my memory) followed directions. I didn't even fight back if other kids gave me a hard time. My friend, on the other hand, was a part of such adventures as "smoking under the bridge" and "naked sunbathing at the lake." Super patch. Apparently I was the subject of such patch-voting discussions as "well she seems really nice, but how do we know she's nice when we're not looking?" No super patch.

At this juncture, I feel that a "WTF" is fairly well justified. Not that I'm bitter, or anything.



I suddenly want a pretty red party dress. Also: the ability to wear heels without pain/messing up my feet for days. And I don't want to hear any of that crap about "it hurts everybody's feet." I feel that the underlying message there is "suck it up." And I'm not saying that "it hurts everybody" isn't true. I'm just saying that if you wear painful shoes because they look hot (ESPECIALLY if you do this on a regular basis), then, well. I don't like calling people names. But that is a completely moronic thing to do.



I came across this picture earlier while perusing a few mom blogs. (Sorry it's so small, but if you're using Chrome or Firefox then ctrl [plus] + should help with that.) Some people are just so crafty. I think this shot is so cool. Can you see how they put it together? I had to look carefully before I figured it out.



A somewhat more coherent group of thoughts:


What is lonely? Am I?


The other day, at Northstar, Theresa made a good point, I think, if it can be called that. Maybe it was a claim. Maybe it was a statement of scientifically researched fact. "By the time we are five, we have already formed opinions of ourselves"--and we spend the rest of out lives trying to prove (or, imo, disprove) them. She asked us what our words were. A few people threw some out: pushover. Abandoned.


Stupid.


I nearly cried, hearing all the words spoken, but for almost an hour I couldn't think of what mine might be. For a while I thought maybe I didn't have one. Then, suddenly, near the end, it came to me:


Misfit.


And suddenly I remembered all the times I was made fun of in elementary and middle school, all the times I felt like I was watching life through a glass, all the times people tried to speak to me and I, confused and afraid, treated them with disdain.

In my life, I've had trouble with depression. A lot of trouble. There were times when the only thing that kept me alive was the fact that I was afraid my baby sister would find me if I ended it. I could not bear to do that to her. But every time I slipped or was thrown or threw myself into another wave of depression, the symptoms were different. One episode I would lose weight. The next I would gain it. One time I was totally unable to focus on even the simplest of tasks. Another time I felt that I was losing my short-term memory. One week I felt pretty okay, but was completely unable to sleep at night, and unable to stay awake during the day. Every time I would isolate a symptom, it would stop occurring. Not immediately, unfortunately, but in the next episode, it would be gone, or different. It was like my body or brain were trying to hide the depression from me, or trying to convince me that it wasn't there.

I feel that those last two paragraphs are linked. I don't know exactly how, but it seems like, even if I am an introverted person, there is something that I'm not seeing. Something that I'm hiding from, or hiding from myself.


Of course, I do tend to go through episodes of extreme frustration and feelings of being trapped and completely unsatisfactory and hopelessly lost and apathetic and incapable of making a life for myself that I will find pleasing and fulfilling and useful. The feeling arises that I will never learn to make room in my life for artistic endeavors, and that all of my dreams of photography and papier mache sculptures and wire lampshades and mixed media paintings and interior design will come to naught. That is one of the most reliable self-doubts. Another is that I'll never again have my own space to do with what I will. Or that I'll have it, and do nothing with it. Because I'd rather sit and stare into space than actually create anything. Or that I'll never find love. Or that I will. Or that I'll settle for someone with whom I am poorly matched, the way I might have done with David, had he allowed it. Sometimes I want things to be true so badly that I make myself believe them. Like me and David--even though, from the beginning, I promised myself that I wouldn't do that again. Mental snares die hard.

And following the above train of thought, the one about depression and introversion and deeply hidden secrets, I can feel one of those episodes coming. Perhaps it really is, or perhaps I only feel it because I was following one of the paths that can lead there. Maybe it can be averted. Maybe it's all best left alone, and maybe my mind will untangle itself in its own time. Maybe one day on a walk or in a dream or on the phone, I will suddenly stand still and look up to the sky, or bend down to the ground, and find myself holding the key. Right there in my hand.





























*At the time, kids who behaved, were kind, had a good attitude, etc most of (as in, more than 50% of) the time were given a patch. Kids who behaved and so on almost all the time were given a special, much-coveted super patch.

**Kelly says that I got one once, but I really think I'd remember. She got one every year, so I also think she might just be trying to make me feel better and/or make me shut up about never having gotten one.

These things happen, I guess.

This week I've dreamed about ghosts and dead bodies. Last night I became so infuriated (set off by Miley, but it couldn't have all been about her) that I had a complete meltdown. My mother woke up because I had been driven from my bed and was huddled in the middle of the living room floor, weeping with rage and frustration. Having woken her up made me feel like such an infant, but I was glad to have someone awake nearby who wasn't insane with anger.

I just don't deal with anger and frustration. I try to, but what I often end up doing is convincing myself that they don't exist and then stuffing them away. I don't know how to do it differently. And bedtime is a crappy time for me anyway, because so often I can't fall asleep, and then I sleep too long. I love actually sleeping, but the beginning and the end of it are the worst.

So I get stressed out at bedtime, especially when I've had a run of rough nights, which I have. And I get frustrated about walking this dog that isn't even mine, especially when my brother keeps switching the times around, which he has. And God knows what else it was about. But I was on the edge when I got into bed, and then.


And then I realized that there was pee in my bed.

Here's something to know about me: if I am asleep or trying to sleep or just waking up, I will try to sleep through anything. In Zimbabwe I tried to stay asleep when there were ants swarming all over my face and upper body, until I woke up enough to convince myself that that was a completely insane idea. So. Pee.

I tried to sleep on the other side of the bed. But I couldn't sleep. I've been a bit of an insomniac lately anyway, and I was too angry to fall asleep. Probably within minutes I was shaking with rage and trying to tear apart the sweatshirt that I was wearing.

Obviously the answer here would be to kick the dog out of my bed (she was in my bed! What was I thinking? I have a completely irrational and inexplicable guilt complex when it comes to dogs.) and change the sheets, but once I've committed myself to going to bed, for some reason I have this stubborn attachment to not getting up again. Maybe this is because I'm already so restless at night that I'm afraid I'd truly never sleep if I let myself get up and do things after I had gone to bed. Anyway, after a while (an hour? Hour and a half? Half hour?) I threw myself out of bed and stormed into the living room, struggling not to tear the house apart or grab the dog by her hind legs and swing her into a wall.

This is why it is a really good idea to learn to actually manage your anger. I am aware that I am painting myself here like a completely insane person--but I'm not. I get this angry, oh, maybe once a year. I hate being angry, so, generally, I don't get angry. People actually comment sometimes on how ridiculously patient I am. And that's how I want to be, and that's how I am the vast majority of the time. But every once in a while circumstances all collude and catch me when I'm exhausted and stressed and hormonal and all the sudden I'm sitting on my hands on the edge of the tub, grinding my teeth, shaking with rage, trying not to speak or rip the toilet seat cover from its hinges and smash the bathroom with it.

I've never broken anything or hurt anyone in anger, by the way. I think the worst I've ever done is kicked my closet door or thrown a shoe at it. I just apparently have not learned to notice the steam rising and vent it before I pass the point of no return.  And like many people, my family is my weakness here. There are wonderful things about family, but no one can find and push all of your buttons the way they can. Last night it was like I was an elevator, and they walked in and just wiped their hands straight down the button panel and watched every single one light up.

I've mentioned before that I sometimes dream of having a soundproof room just for me, with blank walls and filled with breakable objects for me to throw at them or rip apart. This goes back to my being an INTP/INFP, and how we INT/FPs, though we feel deeply, tend to be extremely reticent when it comes to showing emotion. Or registering emotion, in my case. Anyway, the anger vent room fantasy:

I went to bed early tonight (9pm!) and set an alarm to get up at 11 and walk the dog. While I was dozing I had a dream that someone kept bringing things into the walkway outside my door and smashing them or ripping them apart and leaving them strewn all over the ground--pyrex dishes, furniture, and so on. Maybe my subconscious is telling me something.


Writing all this down makes me want to apologize. Anger of that magnitude is such a terrible thing, and it twists everything in its path and leaves me so shaken. I got out of bed today a little after one (I couldn't fall asleep until about six am) and I felt like an invalid recovering from a horrible illness. I felt pale and fragile and quiet. We went to the park today with Miley, and that helped some. The air helped, and the calm water and the quiet park, and the sun gilding the bare branches and vines as it slipped down into the cold grey river.

On a more mundane note,

Kelly and Junior and I hung out with Laura and Jen today, for the first time in AGES. We had a very slow-in-arriving lunch downtown, and then met Jack at the always lovely Belle Aisle. Gorgeous. We rock-hopped for quite some time, I found a hypodermic needle in the sand, Kelly and I argued about whether I should be able to swim in my clothes before getting back into her car, etc. Eventually we (all dry from the knees up, unfortunately) donned our shoes again and trooped back to the cars. I may see Laura and Jen again tomorrow. The rest of us migrated to Kelly's for dinner. All in all, it was a nice day.

Side note: my wrist is evidently still fractured, and is displeased with all this climbing around and general usage of my right wrist/hand/arm. Every time I sit on the floor and try to stand, or sit in a chair with arms and try to reposition myself, I am not-so-gently reminded to stay the hell off my ulna.

Thursday atthe beach. So to speak. I actually stayed in the house mostly.

Tonight I was straightening up downstairs and saw a flash outside, and realized that there was a storm out at sea. I ran upstairs to tell everyone what was going on (because lightning storms are exciting, ok??), and then, of course, picked up my camera and headed out to the beach. At first I tried taking pictures. I knew deep down that this was a huge waste of time, especially with a little and somewhat old Sony Cybershot pocket camera like mine, but I couldn't help trying. Eventually I started walking down the beach, and eventually I (mostly) gave up on the camera. I stopped 15 feet short of the pier and stood where the waves could wash up to just below my knees and studied the water and sky. I was trying to compose poems and paintings and drawings in my head. I was thinking of the "no man is an island" quote, and how it's all wrong--how we're all islands. How I'm standing here on the shore of mine, and by reading the wind and waves and sky I can tell there's a storm out there, but I can't really see it. I can't really experience it. It's like trying to read another person's mind. We can't really ever get in on what's going on--we can only read the weather and the waves and try to figure it out. I stood and watched the lightning, and the overlapping waves around my feet, and the foam, and the raw, powerful storm waves crashing against the pier for a long time. I turned to leave, and then turned back, realizing I'd never gone all the way to the pier. I went and stood next to a piling, and then saw a bolt sticking out about 2.5 or 3 feet from the ground. It was very tempting. I think I actually said aloud, "that is very tempting." And then I climbed up and sat on top of it, one of the shorter support pilings, barefoot and dirty with my skirt (ok, skort) pushed up to my hips and my legs and arms wrapped around the main pillar. (That was the only way. Those things aren't really big enough to make good seats, and they are severely lacking in comfortable foot rests.) Even just adding five or six feet to your vantage point can seem to change everything, can't it? I think I sat up there for at least 30 or 40 minutes, getting my clothes covered in mouldy, soggy old wood and watching the waves crash and run up the beach and splash under my feet. It was pretty awesome, not gonna lie.

Then on the way back I overshot the house by ten minutes, and then it started to rain. Luckily I realized that I'd overshot, and then didn't pass it a second time. That would've been pretty aggravating. But it was ok!


Earlier today, after I tried/pretended to nap for four hours or so, most of us went to paint pottery. Brian drew this super sweet cartoonish lumberjack and snowy tree and house on a mug, and outlined it all in black. I took a picture, but I took it on my camera and we all know how I feel about going to all that trouble of putting the memory card into the reader and then plugging it into the computer. Such a hassle. Maybe later.

I painted a tree and a waterfall and a Bible verse and some birds--so unlike me, I know. I guess none of you reading this (except possibly David) see much of the stuff I tend to paint, but trees and waterfalls are popular themes. Bible verses and birds are not unheard of. I was under pressure, okay? Anyway I took pictures of that on my phone, so here you go:

The other side has a waterfall on it. And another bird, that time flying. Also, obviously (?), this will look rather different after it's glazed. The tree branches will probably be showing through, for one, the blues will be far darker, and the bird might have faded into the tree. Whoops. I am crossing my fingers and hoping that "different" means "better." Anyway, the verse is "Beloved, let us love one another--for love is of God, and everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God." I John, 4: 7-8. I think I'll be gifting this to the kitchen at Camp because evidently charging $16 for a mug plus $7/day for "studio time" doesn't leave enough profit margin for this pottery place to buy dishwasher- and microwave-safe glazes. Classy.















Before she went to bed, Sara's mom told me to go to bed soon, "because you want to be happy tomorrow." Today, as I believe I mentioned, I was very tired and sunburned and stayed inside. Am I not allowed to be a night person? Am I not allowed to be an introvert? Are those things not okay? She, bless her, is type A. I guess they are not ok.  Hopefully, despite having another late night, I can be 'happy' tomorrow. Aka get up and go to the beach, I suppose. And I think I'll need to be leaving tomorrow evening, which sort of stinks, but I'd really rather not be in traffic Saturday morning. Even if I hit traffic tomorrow night, I'd prefer that in hopes that my car will be less likely to overheat and pop yet another leak in the radiator hose. I guess we'll see, kiddos. I guess we'll see. Goodnight all.

Well,

I suppose trying to be fully present here at Camp ends up meaning that I'm largely absent from the cyberspace world. I guess that's okay, but I'm sorry if anyone finds it frustrating.

What did I last say? Something about the library? Whatever. The older boys' session is usually my favorite, and though I can't really call it "favorite" before working any other sessions this year, it's been pretty good. We have a lot of guys up for CiT (counselor-in-training, special leadership-type program), which is great. I might have to see if I can be one of the cit counselors next year. I am too tired right now to worry about capitalization.

The 'High Adventure' camping/tubing trip had a lot of good points, but will hopefully be improved with better planning for next time. And as I said, it was exhausting. I am exhausted. Also, I jumped awake at 3:45 this morning and thought we were still on the river, all spread out and trying to sleep. I was getting so angry about it, too--"this is why we have to find campsites in advance! This is why we need to keep the kids together!" Stress dreams. Fantastic.  Eventually, thankfully, I realized that I was awake and in my bed in the staff shack. That doesn't always happen, so I'm glad it did. I had crazy dreams all night though.

Yesterday pretty much sucked. But then, parts of yesterday were really nice, so it's difficult to generalize much. Getting everyone and everything together, two groups sharing one campsite and not enough vehicles, was pretty hectic and confusing and stressful. Then when we got back, everyone scattered, and I was (or felt that I was) blamed. And I was livid. I mean livid. I stomped around. I threw my water bottle in front of a camper. I yelled at people. Eventually I had to hide in the craft shack and sort beads, in hopes that this would help me calm down, and I ended up sobbing hysterically. I think perhaps this had been building up for a while. And it wasn't just that I felt like I was unjustly blamed for everyone's kids running everywhere. (By the way, I was put in charge of this trip, and I have never been in charge of a camping trip with kids before.) It was also that, for some reason, the past two days have been increasingly bad in terms of missing David. And then Victoria, trying to help me feel better, told me that he missed me too, and that's about when I started crying hysterically. Good. Good. Good times. Thanks.

But since I couldn't bring myself to go to dinner, Charity had me drafted to help her drive back out to Lake Moomaw to pick up the canoe trailer, as it is missing a hitch pin and she wanted help in case it came unhitched. Again. (She substituted an open padlock, which held pretty well.) Also we both were at the ends of our respective ropes and needed to get the hell out of camp. It was really nice. As it turned out, pretty much all the canoe tie-downs needed to be retied, so it was good that both of us were there. That lake is so beautiful, and so is the drive. It was a really nice little break.

Tomorrow, obviously, is the fourth. I'm supposed to go down to the beach to meet Sara & co, but I may have to postpone it a day to sleep and wait out traffic. The question is, what do I do for the fourth if I'm not driving six hours to Nags Head? There's always the option of staying here and watching the fireworks in Millboro, or I could drive home and attend the "America's Goddamn Birthday" party being thrown by some guys I knew in college. That would break up the drive, which would be nice, but I'd also probably be up late. Hm.

What passes for a bachelorette party around here (and I mean that affectionately)

Kings Dominion: thumbs up.

The watery bits of Kings Dominion: double thumbs up.

Being a girl who is pretty much incapable of nail painting, makeup application, and hair styling: thumbs undecided.


Rehearsal dinner is tomorrow! Or rather, tonight. Guess I better finish polishing those lamps. And figure out what I'm doing with my hair. And find my shoes. And find someone who is capable of applying a French manicure. And and and.

I feel like going to bed but I don't feel like it. Possibly this has to do with the fact that I love sleeping but can never fricking fall asleep anymore. But on the plus side, I found my benadryl today. I hate to misuse the stuff but as I said, I can never fricking fall asleep lately.

I did go to church with my parents today, but didn't talk to the woman about the apartments. I'm not sure whether she was there. I did sort of bond a little though with the mother of a kid Chloe acted with, which is a suppose a little odd. Our two families talked for a while though after the service was over, and that woman is hilarious. Unfortunately though I was sort of reaffirmed in the idea that the church in which I grew up is not really the church I want to be attending. That makes me sad because it means a lot to my dad, and I know a lot of people there (obviously), and going there would be so much more convenient than looking around for another church. But that's life.

The strawberry picking outing was a success, though it was really more like strawberry gleaning than picking. Have you ever experienced that horrible phenomenon of the siren strawberry call? There you are in your chosen row, bent down, berry basket grasped in one hand, the other hand deep in the sweet, green leaves. You drop a clutch of red heaven into your basket. You straighten, stand, gaze out across the strawberry fields. There. There it is. The shiniest, reddest, roundest, most beautiful strawberry ever born. You bound across the rows, filled with joy. You stop. Bend. Grasp. Lift.

The back side is rotten.

That was pretty much the story of today, only for the most part the bushes were scrawny, and almost all the strawberries were past their prime or rotten. I did manage to nearly fill my basket though. Also, there was a man from Turkey (via Russia) with his family! So I got to talk ESL stuff for a little while with a genuine ESL learner. Technically not ESL though I guess, as English is more like his fourth or fifth language, not his second. But still. Good times.

Back at the take-your-money building we found that they were selling cider slushies. Why have I never heard of these before? This is the best idea ever, ever. Ever. It was hot as all get-out today. Chloe got peach. I got apple. It was so good. I can't even find words to describe such gustatory beauty and wonder. Cider slushies.

The beach with Kelly and Sara and Brian was nice. There were some fish sculptures and more fish in bas-relief along the boardwalk, all of which I liked and none of which I photographed. I burned a little, despite a shiny new bottle of spf 30 Hawaiian Tropic sunscreen. In retrospect, it probably would have helped if I hadn't gotten into the water 15 minutes after applying said sunscreen. It also would have helped if I had ever convinced myself to put more sunscreen on after swimming. Are there really people who do that? I guess there are probably lovey couples who use frequent sunscreen application as an excuse to keep their hands all over each other, but I mean other than them. Is there anyone who doesn't find sunscreen application such a massive pain in the butt? I am trying to recall an occasion upon which I put sunscreen on more than one time, but I'm drawing a blank. I guess that's bad.


Through the storm clouds rolling in tonight the moon looks like a black eye. Like somebody walked up and punched the night sky in the face--that or the night sky got dehydrated and sunburned at the beach* and then passed out in the bathroom, which is how I got my last black eye. That's not very glamorous though, and somewhat less badass, so maybe we should look for another explanation.



















*Not today. Several years ago.

Thanks to everyone for thus far not egging my house, even though I whine all the time. I really appreciate it.


Today started out super sucky, with lots and lots of moping. Listening to the AM 910 sports radio personalities talk on and on and freaking on about LeBron James and basketball and even fricking Red Stripe beer (on sports radio? Seriously?) really didn't help. Eventually though I cut out the moping--work is good for that, thank goodness--and had a reasonably enjoyable rest of my last day. I sold $70 worth of grouper! And $68 worth of Canadian salmon. Go me. Bank after work, Patient First after bank, driving fast with the windows down, eyeing men in pickup trucks and on motorcycles, singing with Damien Kulash.

I have decided that I love Patient First. I came in with no appointment, checked in, checked up, got two x-rays, talked to a radiologist, and walked out only 90 minutes older and $20 lighter. Yes. I am a fan. Turns out that my ankle may indeed have been broken last year, but my wrist probably is not. I almost wish it had been the other way around--not that my wrist were broken, but that I had gotten an x-ray for the more serious injury when it was fresh. I hope that my ankle will stop giving me trouble someday, but I'm not holding my breath.

My birthday presents from Sara came in the mail today! Everything I need to make wire jewelry, except talent! Very exciting.

Lastly (so far), I've been making a list of stuff-to-do options for when Larry and Ryan visit, and for when Chris visits, though less so for Chris as he'll be recouping still, and has already been to DC and stuff. L and R on the other hand have never been here, and I doubt they've been to DC or to an Atlantic beach.

List. Feel free to add suggestions. Even if you're one of those sneaky non-noting readers! I could overlook your presence just this once, if you have anything to add. I'm talking to you Johnny, David, Andrew, maybe Inigo, and whoever the heck else is lurking around. Ahem. List:


Monticello
Mt Vernon
Jamestown
Williamsburg

Va Beach
Nags Head

Camp/Jimmy and Missy's
Carter Mountain/berry picking
Canoe?
Hike?

Maymont
Pony Pasture
Bell Isle
Canal Walk/Tredegar/Poe Museum
Byrd

DC/Museums

Aaaand I am 24! Happy birthday to me!



For some reason this year I am suddenly very excited about my birthday, but at the same time I don't really have any plans. This is upsetting to me--more so than is probably normal and more so than I'd like to admit to myself. I just am bad at planning things, at knowing what I want, etc. It doesn't help that (no guilt trips here, I promise) most of the people I'd most like to spend my birthday with are unavailable to me. It happens, I guess. But Kelly and Jr and I took the dogs to the park today, and that was fun. I'm hoping not to wake up covered in poison ivy--but at least if I did, I feel like Sara and I would be sort of even. Jellowjackets and poison ivy are comparable, right?





I caught a frog today--first of the season.
I heard a cicada yesterday--same deal.
Tonight we have the exhaust fan on, for the first time this year. I get excited about these kinds of things. Happy. Happy about anything that means that summer is coming again. (Everything, that is, except ticks and poison ivy.)



I was writing the other day, and posted it somewhere else, about how I want to make paint, and paint my face and my body. But for what? To do what? To go where? I don't know, and I don't know why. I just do. I just want colors all over me. I want colors all over everything, and I want to sculpt some stuff. This is a thought that has just come into my mind, so please excuse the unformed (no pun intended) nature of the idea. Just stuff. Clay, paper mache, wire, I don't know. I want to take things in my hands that don't look like much of anything, and then I want to bend and roll and squeeze and mold them until, possibly, they do look like things. I need to do something with my hands.

Despite my efforts to relax my grip and be calm, I am back to nausea. The morning was going along decently well--I went outside, walked down to the cave dig and looked in, said hello to the horses (who were a little annoyed that I hadn't brought food), sat with Princess (the goat) who has hurt her front legs somehow, and sat with Kelly and the cats for a little while in the sun. We came in and I opened m computer to check on something which I forgot before I had even logged on, and I read my facebook newsfeed, saw a completely innocuous notification, and suddenly wanted to throw up. Again. It's probably time to eat but I'm still sort of nauseated. I've decided to adjust the settings of who I can see and who I can't on the newsfeed, because I cannot handle this.

Yesterday

Just a few notes:

This top-secret craft project I am working on--it is a masterpiece. I think it's going to end up like Roger the papier-mache dinosaur--i.e., it will be so awesome that I won't want to give it away to its intended recipient. Hopefully I'll be able to let go of it though, eventually.

Last night I took Miley and Little Bit for a walk around 9, and it was gorgeous out. Miley was mostly behaving (that is, pulling like a maniac most of the time but not barking much) and Little Bit (whose leash we lost a few weeks ago) was feeling very spry and was frolicking around happily. The night was clear and the air was clear and the moon was almost full, and the light shining through the bare branches left very little doubt in my mind as to the inspiration for mithril. I mean, seriously, I was walking and trying to describe the color and the light in my mind, and I thought, "Silver? No. The color is too dull and the metal isn't quite right. Oh! Mithril! It is exactly like Mithril!" Which makes sense of course, since mithril "mirrors only starlight, and moonlight."

Lastly, here is an exchange that took place between my mother and father and myself last night at dinner. I have to say that my part in the silliness was completely accidental.
Mom: [something about frankincense].
Dad: That's myrrh-der!
Me: Really?
Dad: What? That was gold!
Me: Dad, that last one was the straw that broke the camel's back.
har har.

Basketball weekend pt 2.

Little Women always makes me cry.


Did I mention the VCU game already? It was alright. I didn't actually pay attention to the game at all. We all got there, and then Tim got there! I had forgotten he was back in the country! And then Jesse came too! It was so great to see them. Then I was hungry and, though there was no re-entry allowed, Jenny had extra tickets. So China and Arnita and I went to Subway, and met Taylor (another camper) there. The game ended later and I got home later than I had expected, but I finally got out of town around 8.

Drove to Front Royal (known affectionately by those with addictions to nicknames as "Froro") Saturday night, and we didn't get off to a great start. I had been sort of fighting off negativity for a few days, and David was struck with it all at once, so we found ourselves both suddenly rather low and negative.

We made it through though, and Sunday we got up at 9 and drove to Alexandria to catch the metro into DC and watch the Wizards game. We had planned to get there an hour early and get some autographs, but it didn't work out. We thought that leaving at 10 would get us there by 12, but it didn't. We barely made it to the game. The game was really a good one (though the Wizards lost by 5), but David was very disappointed over the autographs. I hope he gets a chance to get them someday.

From the game we went go the Winchester Red Lobster for dinner, and that was alright. I mean, going to the game and riding the metro and having dinner with David were great. It's just that the "2 people for $30" menu at Red Lobster leaves something to be desired.

Little Women is making me cry again. The night wind blew, and Beth passed gently away.


Sunday night we watched "Happy Texas," which Suzanne lent me a week or two ago, and it was really good. Much better than I expected. In fact, I may have to buy a few copies to give to people.
David was still feeling sad though, and had kind of a rough evening. We talked a lot and played with the cats some and went to bed. This morning he woke me but I didn't get up for breakfast; I slept until the urchins were in classes, then got up and went over to nap until 10:30. It was nice. It was hard to leave for work in Richmond. I don't like leaving him.


Little Women: again making me emotional. Such a good movie.



Noticed while watching Little Women: there is something very...luscious? Romantic? Ah. Very sensual about eating fruit. Particularly orange sections.