I failed to create a New Year's Resolution--largely because I tend to have the same one every year (stop chewing my nails), and then find myself chomping away when things get stressful. So I've decided that Groundhog Day is the perfect opportunity to articulate some larger goals. I give myself until Groundhog Day of '10 to complete them. Unless he doesn't see his shadow, in which case I'm letting myself off the hook.
Tada: GROUNDHOG DAY GOALS OF '09
1. To participate in a piece of theatre that I am truly proud of. Proud of my performance, my fellow cast members, and every aspect of the show.
2. In order to fulfill the first, I must audition more. I loathe auditioning, as most do, and because of this, I tend to under audition. I need to suck it up and realize that it never hurts to try, and even auditioning for shows that I think will be terrible, or shows that I think are beneath me, or out of my league are all helpful steps to becoming a better auditioner for the shows I truly do want to participate in.
3. To find and regularly attend a new church. I have dabbled in local church scene, and largely been uninspired, and, with one particular church--quite scared. I need to get over the bad-experience-induced church-going apathy and keep on trying. That being said, does anybody know of a non-denominational church with a small to medium sized congregation, a blend of traditional and contemporary worship, and a large percentage of young adults in attendance that is less than twenty minutes from West Roxbury and doesn't require driving into the heart of the city?
4. To call my family in Maine more often. Last week, my mother had a heart attack, and I had no idea until after she was out of the hospital and left a message on my voice mail at work casually mentioning it. And it had been probably a week since I had last spoken to anyone from home base. That can be easily remedied.
5. To organize my closets, both in W.Rox and in Maine. I have 1 closet in my entire apartment in West Roxbury. It is not particularly large. I do not possess a lot of clothing, but when one small closet contains an entire wardrobe plus sheets, extra purses, towels, cleaning supplies, and boots--it becomes more cluttered than I'd like to admit. This is easy to remedy with one visit to Target. In Maine, I don't have a closet or a bedroom anymore. But I do have a lot of accumulated stuff that my brothers have in their closets, under their beds, and in the hallway outside of their rooms. I need to buy one of those canvas rolling wardrobes from Ikea or Target, go through my years worth of crap, and somehow make it invisible behind the canvas curtains. This is not an easy undertaking, but it must be done.
6. To initiate conversation with strangers more often. I work in the largest building in Boston, and I take rush hour trains to and from work. I see new people daily, and I very rarely speak to them. I hereby resolve to speak to somebody I'm sharing the elevator with, or crammed next to, or bump into in the hallway.
7. I want to find the perfect pair of jeans to replace my current favorites who are well beyond their peak. They were purchased for $15 at (go ahead and judge) Walmart in Mexico, Maine 6 years ago, and they fit me like no other jeans ever had or have. I still wear them every chance I get, for I know the day will come when I will have to part with them--and when that day comes, I need a flawless replacement. And the hardest part about this goal? They must cost less than $30 (I am adjusting for inflation, and the fact that unlike when I bought my Walmart jeans, I am employed).
8. To cook with the crockpot at least once a month. I have a giant crockpot. I have used it twice in the past two years. Both times, the meals were delicious and simple, but the thought of preparing dinner before I've even had breakfast is never appealing--I do not tend to think ahead when it comes to food preparation. I need to get over my morning laziness so that I can have more time for evening laziness. And stop eating bagels all the darn time.
9. To take a real vacation. I'm not talking flying to a luxury resort in the Bahamas or anything, but I haven't really taken a vacation for the sake of vacation in years. I went to Prince Edward Island for a few days this past summer, but that was for a goal (to see my cousin's play), and the long drive and short visit sort of disqualified it from being a bonafide vacation. I want to go somewhere just to go somewhere.
10. And lastly, but perhaps most importantly, I want to actually get a bra fitting and buy at least two new bras. I am not embarrassed about my boobs (in fact, there is an entire video of a monologue I performed about them two years ago available for download on itunes--thanks, alma matter, for randomly choosing that as a featured video on itunes U), but I am embarrassed that I'm close to 24 and I've never had a real bra fitting experience, and the majority of my bras are ugly, cost $7, and have long since lost all support.
There. Ten goals for 2010. How appropriate.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
on boots, blondes and paper mills
I have a new pair of Baffin winter boots, and I think they are the best invention since Joseph's flax flat bread. When I walked to the train this morning, amidst snow and slippery unshoveled sidewalks, I had no fear of falling. My footsteps might have technically been heavy (they are large boots, after all), but I felt like I was treading very lightly indeed. And that is my product plug for the day. Perhaps they were made lighter by the fact that they were gifted to me, and my bank account did not have to suffer to surround my feet with cushiony warmth.
Do you know what I am not plugging? Being blonde. I committed to change my hair color for my current show long before I realized that I didn't really respect the integrity of this theatre company enough to make such a drastic change. A committment, however, is a committment. And so I find myself sitting at my work desk an altered being. A blonde being. And since making the change, I have only been at work, at rehearsal, or in transit between the two locations--and therefore do not think blondes actually have more fun. They do, however, have need for more conditioner.
I am going out on Friday (my one night off from the show in many moons), and hopefully being blonde will be a pleasing experience for the first time since I shelled out the megabucks to be somebody I'm not. Do not get me wrong--the hair looks fine. It looks natural-esque (I have blue eyes and was blonde as a child), but it's just such a significant alteration that I feel like I'm wearing a wig all the time. Mayhaps sometime I will get used to it--just in time to go back to my natural somewhere between brown and dark blonde with hints 'o red color.
I feel kind of petty complaining about my hair and this trainwreck of a show when the economy is nosediving and the news is a series of depressing events. I read the online version of my local paper (the Lewiston Sun Journal out of Maine--I am 45 minutes from Lewiston, but that is still the "local" paper), and this morning there was a headline announcing that NewPage Corp, the owners of the paper mill in the neighboring town of Rumford, is laying off 16% of their employees--both salaried and hourly. That mill quite literally employs the majority of my small town's population. In our town, people either work for the mill, are teachers for the children of the people who work in the mill, or are lumberjacks--cutting down trees destined eventually to go to the mill. Or they're retired. My family is not directly affected by this--my father is superintendent of a nearby school district and my mother is currently unemployed due to her health, but I know that this sort of thing is going to be catastrophic for our humble community. A community that, by the way, probably has a lower household income than is average for the state, even before layoffs.
I'm ashamed to admit that I always sort of romanticized The Great Depression. After all, the leaner times seemed to inspire sort of uprising of community spirit and family closeness and moral strength. But my impression of a sort of warm and fuzzy community brought together by poverty was completely gleaned from novels and films and musicals. Even "The Grapes of Wrath," one of my all time favorites, made me imagine that people were more resilient and family-oriented because of their financial suffering (despite the all together bleak circumstances in the novel).
Instead, I think the fear of economic collapse is making people surround themselves with a protective shell--hardening individuals instead of softening them and melding them with others in similar situations.
I'm just glad I can pray. Oxford County, Maine--you're ranking pretty high on my list of shout outs to God these days.
Do you know what I am not plugging? Being blonde. I committed to change my hair color for my current show long before I realized that I didn't really respect the integrity of this theatre company enough to make such a drastic change. A committment, however, is a committment. And so I find myself sitting at my work desk an altered being. A blonde being. And since making the change, I have only been at work, at rehearsal, or in transit between the two locations--and therefore do not think blondes actually have more fun. They do, however, have need for more conditioner.
I am going out on Friday (my one night off from the show in many moons), and hopefully being blonde will be a pleasing experience for the first time since I shelled out the megabucks to be somebody I'm not. Do not get me wrong--the hair looks fine. It looks natural-esque (I have blue eyes and was blonde as a child), but it's just such a significant alteration that I feel like I'm wearing a wig all the time. Mayhaps sometime I will get used to it--just in time to go back to my natural somewhere between brown and dark blonde with hints 'o red color.
I feel kind of petty complaining about my hair and this trainwreck of a show when the economy is nosediving and the news is a series of depressing events. I read the online version of my local paper (the Lewiston Sun Journal out of Maine--I am 45 minutes from Lewiston, but that is still the "local" paper), and this morning there was a headline announcing that NewPage Corp, the owners of the paper mill in the neighboring town of Rumford, is laying off 16% of their employees--both salaried and hourly. That mill quite literally employs the majority of my small town's population. In our town, people either work for the mill, are teachers for the children of the people who work in the mill, or are lumberjacks--cutting down trees destined eventually to go to the mill. Or they're retired. My family is not directly affected by this--my father is superintendent of a nearby school district and my mother is currently unemployed due to her health, but I know that this sort of thing is going to be catastrophic for our humble community. A community that, by the way, probably has a lower household income than is average for the state, even before layoffs.
I'm ashamed to admit that I always sort of romanticized The Great Depression. After all, the leaner times seemed to inspire sort of uprising of community spirit and family closeness and moral strength. But my impression of a sort of warm and fuzzy community brought together by poverty was completely gleaned from novels and films and musicals. Even "The Grapes of Wrath," one of my all time favorites, made me imagine that people were more resilient and family-oriented because of their financial suffering (despite the all together bleak circumstances in the novel).
Instead, I think the fear of economic collapse is making people surround themselves with a protective shell--hardening individuals instead of softening them and melding them with others in similar situations.
I'm just glad I can pray. Oxford County, Maine--you're ranking pretty high on my list of shout outs to God these days.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
In which I attempt to share my culinary prowess with the world
I think I just discovered the most delicious accidental dinner ever. And, though I am not a frequent preparer of foods that don't fit inside a toaster, I think I am going to share my impromptu recipe with the world (world= nobody).
Annie's Amazing and Alltogether Delightful Dinner
Ingredients:
1/2 Joseph's Flat Bread (Wheat/Flax/Oat)
1-2 Tbs. Crumbled Goat Cheese
1-2 Tbs. Dried Cranberries
1 Medium Sweet Potato, Washed
1/4 Small Onion, Diced
1/4 Cup Frozen Whole Cranberries
1-2 Tbs. Olive Oil
1 Tbs. Cinnamon
1 Tbs. Chili Powder
1 Tsp. Ground Red Pepper
First, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Slice sweet potato into smallish pieces (think french fries), leaving skin on, and put in tupperware. Add olive oil, cinnamon, chili powder, and red pepper to the potato and toss, coating evenly. Place in a roasting pan of some kind, spreading evenly. Sprinkle the onion and cranberries in a lovely pattern. Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until slightly brown.
Approximately 5 minutes before the potato is done (or even after the potato is done), place goat cheese and dried cranberries inside a folded piece of Joseph's flat bread. Use sandwich griller machine, or frying pan, or microwave, or toaster oven to warm the bread until the cheese is warm and soft.
Place goat cheese sandwich and sweet potatoes on a colorful plate. Enjoy!
I know I did. And it's vegetarian (I am not one, but it makes me feel special). And it includes multiple food groups! And, best of all, it is easy as pie! Easier than pie, come to that. And perfect for 1 person, although there will likely be some sweet potatoes left over for lunch the next day. Huzzah!
Annie's Amazing and Alltogether Delightful Dinner
Ingredients:
1/2 Joseph's Flat Bread (Wheat/Flax/Oat)
1-2 Tbs. Crumbled Goat Cheese
1-2 Tbs. Dried Cranberries
1 Medium Sweet Potato, Washed
1/4 Small Onion, Diced
1/4 Cup Frozen Whole Cranberries
1-2 Tbs. Olive Oil
1 Tbs. Cinnamon
1 Tbs. Chili Powder
1 Tsp. Ground Red Pepper
First, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Slice sweet potato into smallish pieces (think french fries), leaving skin on, and put in tupperware. Add olive oil, cinnamon, chili powder, and red pepper to the potato and toss, coating evenly. Place in a roasting pan of some kind, spreading evenly. Sprinkle the onion and cranberries in a lovely pattern. Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until slightly brown.
Approximately 5 minutes before the potato is done (or even after the potato is done), place goat cheese and dried cranberries inside a folded piece of Joseph's flat bread. Use sandwich griller machine, or frying pan, or microwave, or toaster oven to warm the bread until the cheese is warm and soft.
Place goat cheese sandwich and sweet potatoes on a colorful plate. Enjoy!
I know I did. And it's vegetarian (I am not one, but it makes me feel special). And it includes multiple food groups! And, best of all, it is easy as pie! Easier than pie, come to that. And perfect for 1 person, although there will likely be some sweet potatoes left over for lunch the next day. Huzzah!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sunday?
What a routine it's become. Sunday=inconvenient winter precipitation.
If I ever get to a point in my life when I'm able to be a dual-state resident, I am absolutely going to winter somewhere farther South. Preferably somewhere in the South where there are trees and mountains. Since that is what I miss the most about not living in Maine anymore.
I tend to doubt that will ever be a financial possibility for me, given my particular passions and career goals (read: I have no legitimate career goals, I have impossibly high career dreams), but the thought that someday I could, you know, be a trophy wife or lottery winner or acquire a mysterious financial benefactor, kind of gets me through days like this.
That, and the thought that my upper back might just be thoroughly toned without a gym with all of the shoveling I'm doing this winter. That's an upper.
If I ever get to a point in my life when I'm able to be a dual-state resident, I am absolutely going to winter somewhere farther South. Preferably somewhere in the South where there are trees and mountains. Since that is what I miss the most about not living in Maine anymore.
I tend to doubt that will ever be a financial possibility for me, given my particular passions and career goals (read: I have no legitimate career goals, I have impossibly high career dreams), but the thought that someday I could, you know, be a trophy wife or lottery winner or acquire a mysterious financial benefactor, kind of gets me through days like this.
That, and the thought that my upper back might just be thoroughly toned without a gym with all of the shoveling I'm doing this winter. That's an upper.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Slipnslide
The fact that I made it to the train station this morning without slipping even once on the unforgivably icy sidewalks is a feat I consider to be almost Olympian.
Gary Vaynerchuck is coming back to Boston for the wine expo the weekend of the 24th. My close friend, and one-time WineLibraryTV guest co-host, invited me to go the after party. I have rehearsal all the livelong day, so I cannot attend. I am no longer Olympian.
I am now a pale, wine-less (and slightly whine-y) unsatisfied actor whose greatest achievement for the day was not falling on my butt while walking.
Pretty much, I'm the new Lindsay Lohan sans leggings, lesbian tendencies, and hair extensions.
Gary Vaynerchuck is coming back to Boston for the wine expo the weekend of the 24th. My close friend, and one-time WineLibraryTV guest co-host, invited me to go the after party. I have rehearsal all the livelong day, so I cannot attend. I am no longer Olympian.
I am now a pale, wine-less (and slightly whine-y) unsatisfied actor whose greatest achievement for the day was not falling on my butt while walking.
Pretty much, I'm the new Lindsay Lohan sans leggings, lesbian tendencies, and hair extensions.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
On train crushes, their lady friends, and 128.
Yesterday evening, the train was ten minutes late and my undeclared (and apparently unrequited) train crush was there with an exotic looking woman. It was decidedly not one of my favorite commutes.
On the upside--despite the fact that much of the sidewalk from the train station (Bellevue) to my car parked on the corner of South and Centre Streets was not shoveled, I made it to my car without once faceplanting into the packed-down-by-feet snow.
In other news, I vehemently loathe people who drive ridiculously fast in the breakdown lane during rush hour, especially when the traffic really isn't all that terrible. I swear, trying to get off or or at any exit with those effers is legitimately life threatening. If I had a bigger car, I'd be one of those traffic vigilantes who drives halfway in the breakdown lane at a reasonable pace so that people can't do that. Vigilantes in the left lane? Annoying. In the breakdown lane? Amazing.
I'm hoping that tonight I learn (a la Geraldine Granger in Vicar of Dibley) that my train crush's woman friend is his sister. Because my first train crush must have switched train times, or been laid off, or moved, because he ceased taking my train. My second train crush I discovered in the winter time, and learned come spring that lurking beneath his trendy leather gloves was a wedding ring. Third time is the proverbial charm, right?
On the upside--despite the fact that much of the sidewalk from the train station (Bellevue) to my car parked on the corner of South and Centre Streets was not shoveled, I made it to my car without once faceplanting into the packed-down-by-feet snow.
In other news, I vehemently loathe people who drive ridiculously fast in the breakdown lane during rush hour, especially when the traffic really isn't all that terrible. I swear, trying to get off or or at any exit with those effers is legitimately life threatening. If I had a bigger car, I'd be one of those traffic vigilantes who drives halfway in the breakdown lane at a reasonable pace so that people can't do that. Vigilantes in the left lane? Annoying. In the breakdown lane? Amazing.
I'm hoping that tonight I learn (a la Geraldine Granger in Vicar of Dibley) that my train crush's woman friend is his sister. Because my first train crush must have switched train times, or been laid off, or moved, because he ceased taking my train. My second train crush I discovered in the winter time, and learned come spring that lurking beneath his trendy leather gloves was a wedding ring. Third time is the proverbial charm, right?
Friday, January 9, 2009
An open letter to the skies
Dear Atmosphere and all other weather related Spheres in the Sky,
WTF?
Love,
Annie
I realize this is a pre-emptive complaint. And, really, it's January in New England, so I shouldn't get my panties in a twist over impending precipitation; however, I am thoroughly annoyed that it should snow on yet another Sunday. I have rehearsals on Sundays. And as unrewarding as this show is proving to be, I'm a good actor. Not necessarily talent-wise (who am I to give myself that sort of label?), but responsibility-wise. I feel tremendous amounts of guilt skipping a rehearsal because my faithful Civic can't make the trek. I don't want to be seen as pulling a Piven.*
If the powers that be would actually cancel a rehearsal because of the weather, I would be tickled, nay, THRILLED--I'd dutifully work on my lines/blocking/harmonies in my apartment. Yet with all of the inefficient leadership supporting this show (glossing over scenes and songs that seriously need to be retooled, spending the first half hour of every rehearsal just gossiping, a complete lack of communication, etc.), it would be too much of a waste of time to cancel a rehearsal, even if many cast members have to drive upwards of thirty minutes on a good day to get there. Seriously--if we just got down to business at all subsequent rehearsals immediately, and then actually spent the entire alloted rehearsal time actually rehearsing, we would more than make up for it.
What was I complaining about again?
Oh yeah, the weather. That's all. I hate snow (and if you added a "this" after "hate" and changed the "n" to an "h," that might be just as true).
TGIF.
*Pulling a Piven: Creating a barely legitimate excuse to get out of a commitment, ie feigning a sushi overdose, pissing off David Mamet, and being replaced by William H. Macy.
WTF?
Love,
Annie
I realize this is a pre-emptive complaint. And, really, it's January in New England, so I shouldn't get my panties in a twist over impending precipitation; however, I am thoroughly annoyed that it should snow on yet another Sunday. I have rehearsals on Sundays. And as unrewarding as this show is proving to be, I'm a good actor. Not necessarily talent-wise (who am I to give myself that sort of label?), but responsibility-wise. I feel tremendous amounts of guilt skipping a rehearsal because my faithful Civic can't make the trek. I don't want to be seen as pulling a Piven.*
If the powers that be would actually cancel a rehearsal because of the weather, I would be tickled, nay, THRILLED--I'd dutifully work on my lines/blocking/harmonies in my apartment. Yet with all of the inefficient leadership supporting this show (glossing over scenes and songs that seriously need to be retooled, spending the first half hour of every rehearsal just gossiping, a complete lack of communication, etc.), it would be too much of a waste of time to cancel a rehearsal, even if many cast members have to drive upwards of thirty minutes on a good day to get there. Seriously--if we just got down to business at all subsequent rehearsals immediately, and then actually spent the entire alloted rehearsal time actually rehearsing, we would more than make up for it.
What was I complaining about again?
Oh yeah, the weather. That's all. I hate snow (and if you added a "this" after "hate" and changed the "n" to an "h," that might be just as true).
TGIF.
*Pulling a Piven: Creating a barely legitimate excuse to get out of a commitment, ie feigning a sushi overdose, pissing off David Mamet, and being replaced by William H. Macy.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Is it Spring yet?
I hate winter. I know, I know, I shouldn't be living in New England, then. The fact is, the only time I find snow acceptable is between Thanksgiving and New Year's. After that, I'm ready for the big thaw. Which is unfortunate, since many years, things haven't even completely frozen over by then.
This extremely rational loathing of the season is particularly strong now that I live on the corner of two streets that are subject to winter weather parking bans. Maybe someday I'll get to City Hall to get a resident sticker (problematic, since my address is West Roxbury, but the resident parking streets are Rozzie); however, considering that would require me taking a bit of PTO at work, I am inclined to instead panic over every storm and park on the one street that isn't resident-only or parking-ban prone, and get scolded by one of its residents, Ms. Don't Park Across from My House Lady (she scared me so much the first time, that I didn't think I could park on that street ever again...and then in the midst of one snowstorm, I asked a man who lived on that street if he knew of any good parking places, and he told me that his street was perfect....rendering that lady a complete and utter PITA).
So far this winter, my parking experiences have been rather painless--a miracle, really, considering the amount of storms we've already had. Still, I have one winter traveling story that I shall now recall (buckle up, folks).
My family lives in rural Maine. The Western foothills, as it were, and not particularly near anything of note. I was able to obtain a few days off for Christmas, and made my way North. Christmas Eve rolled around and lo and behold, there were threats of ice storms coming from the TV. My family, long time Maine drivers, seemed unconcerned, since it hadn't begun in the afternoon, and decided that driving the 45 minutes of back roads (and I mean, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods back roads) to and from Christmas Eve service would be completely achievable.
I should mention that I am the oldest of seven children, all of whom were home for Christmas, and the family car is a Kia Sedan.
It was decided that, since one of my brothers had taken his large SUV to his girlfriend's house for dinner, I would be the second driver. Two brothers piled into my Honda hatchback, and the rest somehow crammed themselves into my parents' car. I followed my father along the twists and turns, and despite a few slips and slides up and down hills (some roads are rarely plowed, it would seem), we made it safely to church just as the rain began.
Before we left after the service, I told my father that my car is terrible in winter weather, and that I would have to go unbelievably slow in order to assure a safe return, since the rain was now begin to ice over. He suggested that he would follow behind my car, so that if anything were to happen, they'd be there to help out. I told him I'd rather him not follow me, since it makes me nervous to have other people scrutinize my driving from behind (also, I hadn't slept much the night before, and was in a foul mood). He insisted, I obeyed.
Sometimes, fathers really do know best. About 6 miles or so from home, I was only going about 10 MPH, as I descended a slight hill on the backest of back roads when all of the sudden things were spinning around, and I found myself face first in a snowbank. Thankfully, I had been going slow enough that the impact hadn't harmed the body of the car (though cosmetically speaking, nothing would bother me, Ethel the Civic has had a lot of trauma in her day); more importantly, my brothers (aged 21 and 18) and I (age not important, though dangerously close to 24 these days) were unscathed. But my car was half way down a banking (filled with slush and about 3 feet of snow), and there was no getting her out.
Because my father had been following me, he pulled over and informed me that he had hit the same ice and almost plowed right on into me, so we should definitely not be waiting near the car. So we walked down to the nearest driveway (about 150 feet or so away from the car, at the bottom of the hill), as I proceeded to get all weepy. Nobody was home at the house, which was the only house for quite a ways. It was, after all, about 8 PM on Christmas Eve. Most people aren't spending it in snowbanks.
In an unlikely turn of events, nobody had their cell phones on them--except for me. It should be noted that my father, mother, and two of my brothers all own and regularly carry cell phones. Because they live in rural Maine, they have services that actually work there. My phone, however, is on permanent roam anywhere north of Portland (and we certainly are north of Portland). I had one battery bar left, as I winced and called AAA. First of all, the operator had no idea how to find me. I was on a rural route (quite literally, RR 14o, in fact), and not at all in Massachusetts. I was informed that it would be 2 hours before a tow truck could get to me.
It was still raining, mind you, and there was no place to go for cover. There are no street lamps, so the only light was coming from the emergency flashers on my half-buried car. It was determined that, rather than make my parents and three siblings who were crammed in the back wait for 2 hours in the storm, that they would go home and my father would come back in his Jeep to check on us, and possibly just take us home should AAA never arrive.
So they drove off, leaving me with two brothers and nothing to do but wait.
Eventually, an SUV coming from the opposite direction pulled over. A man and his wife, probably in their upper forties, asked us what happened. After I explained, they said that the town (Canton, Maine) was terrible about sanding during storms, and this had happened before when it's been icy. They said they knew the people who lived in the house we were standing in the driveway of, and lead us up to their garage to get some shovels out. We found two, and my brothers each took hold of them. The couple suggested we that go shovel out the front of my car, so that when someone comes to pull us out, it would be easier. They said they would call the town to have them sand, but even better--they would call a neighbor who happened to have the tools and vehicle necessary to yank me on out of that ditch.
Soaking wet, and shivering, my brothers and I began to walk on the side of the road up to my unfortunate little car. About halfway up, a car came from the other direction down the hill. It hit the ice--and began sliding right at us. It was something out of a movie--headlights coming helplessly directly at three bewildered youths on some abandoned road. "JUMP!" I yelled, and all three of us, and the shovels, went running and flying down into the banking below as the driver miraculously regained control of his car and avoided taking us all out in some sort of Christmas Eve tragedy.
We continued to walk up the road, only this time when we saw the fog illuminate in the distance, we knew to pre-emptively head down the banking. This time, the driver could not regain control, and about 20 feet above my car's flashing lights, another car began blinking as it discovered it, too, had spun around and gone halfway down a ditch.
Now we have two cars down a ditch. The SUV couple decided that enough was enough, and went to drive up the street to where the closest neighbors were to ask them to put their car out with flashing lights so that people would know that it is dangerous ahead. As they left, my brothers began shoveling. I watched. And started to feel really, really hot, about to vomit, dizzy, and blacking out around the corners. I've only fainted twice before (once after giving blood, and once when bleeding profusely after a bagel-slicing incident went awry), but I knew that was what was about to happen. I sat down into the snow and shoved my face into the white stuff, hoping to snap myself out of it.
The SUV couple returned, and soon after, a Jeep with a rope tow and silent elderly driver with a cigarette in his mouth arrived to the relief of us all. Since I was sitting in a stupor with my face in the snow, SUV man got out and asked if he could drive the car while cigarette man towed me on out. I mumbled something, probably a "yes, please," but could just have easily been something about Christian Bale or bunnies. Either way, he got in the driver's seat, and my car was, with a few quick tugs, removed from the snowbank of doom, as the SUV man drove my car safely into the driveway where we had stood for so long before.
Just when I was beginning to think the ordeal was over, about three steps into walking down to my car, I lost my footing and fell completely flat and sprawled out in the middle of the road. Head and tailbone thoroughly pavement-smacked. Contents of my purse flying everywhere. Rain now falling directly onto my face. Despite the pain and the surprise and the weariness and the sheer embarrassment of it all, I had to laugh, collect my things, and continue walking.
As the Jeep yanked the other car out, I got on my cell (now flashing "low battery") to call home to inform them that, if my dad hadn't left home yet, he didn't need to. He had, of course, it was now 9:15 or so. I tried to call AAA to cancel their service, and my phone shut off. So, shivering, wet, with numb extremities and a head rush, my brothers and I blasted the heat in the car and waited for my father to come.
About 20 minutes later, he did. Just after a sand truck, thanks to the call of the SUV people, went past. In what might have been the cutest thing ever, he had brought all of the extra blankets in the house with him, assuming we had been standing out in the rain all of that time.
My brother offered to drive, an offer I normally would not have taken up (I'm nervous about other people driving my car because it has no power steering and is a bit of a tricky little beast), but gratefully accepted. Not going above 15 MPH (I gasped aloud whenever he would begin to accelerate), and my father's trusty Jeep's lights right behind us, we finally, finally made it home. At 10 PM on Christmas Eve.
I have never been in the Christmas spirit as much as I was when I got home and changed into warm, dry clothes and drank some wine that my mother had opened for our return home. It was my own little Christmas miracle. I was George Bailey coming home at last.
A large part of that Christmas miracle was the SUV couple. They got the road sanded, got us shovels, got us safely out of the ditch, and gave me comfort when I was losing my mind. I never got their names or address, and I desperately wish that I had--a gift basket of thanks would no doubt be on their front door by now. I think they represent, in a huge way, the generosity of the Maine people. Here in Massachusetts (at least in the greater Boston area), if I went off the road, and halfway into a ditch, I have a feeling people who would drive by would just honk because I was somehow in the way. There is little doubt in my mind that nobody here would give up an hour of their evening on Christmas Eve to help a slightly incoherent out-of-state stranger get out of a ditch.
This extremely rational loathing of the season is particularly strong now that I live on the corner of two streets that are subject to winter weather parking bans. Maybe someday I'll get to City Hall to get a resident sticker (problematic, since my address is West Roxbury, but the resident parking streets are Rozzie); however, considering that would require me taking a bit of PTO at work, I am inclined to instead panic over every storm and park on the one street that isn't resident-only or parking-ban prone, and get scolded by one of its residents, Ms. Don't Park Across from My House Lady (she scared me so much the first time, that I didn't think I could park on that street ever again...and then in the midst of one snowstorm, I asked a man who lived on that street if he knew of any good parking places, and he told me that his street was perfect....rendering that lady a complete and utter PITA).
So far this winter, my parking experiences have been rather painless--a miracle, really, considering the amount of storms we've already had. Still, I have one winter traveling story that I shall now recall (buckle up, folks).
My family lives in rural Maine. The Western foothills, as it were, and not particularly near anything of note. I was able to obtain a few days off for Christmas, and made my way North. Christmas Eve rolled around and lo and behold, there were threats of ice storms coming from the TV. My family, long time Maine drivers, seemed unconcerned, since it hadn't begun in the afternoon, and decided that driving the 45 minutes of back roads (and I mean, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods back roads) to and from Christmas Eve service would be completely achievable.
I should mention that I am the oldest of seven children, all of whom were home for Christmas, and the family car is a Kia Sedan.
It was decided that, since one of my brothers had taken his large SUV to his girlfriend's house for dinner, I would be the second driver. Two brothers piled into my Honda hatchback, and the rest somehow crammed themselves into my parents' car. I followed my father along the twists and turns, and despite a few slips and slides up and down hills (some roads are rarely plowed, it would seem), we made it safely to church just as the rain began.
Before we left after the service, I told my father that my car is terrible in winter weather, and that I would have to go unbelievably slow in order to assure a safe return, since the rain was now begin to ice over. He suggested that he would follow behind my car, so that if anything were to happen, they'd be there to help out. I told him I'd rather him not follow me, since it makes me nervous to have other people scrutinize my driving from behind (also, I hadn't slept much the night before, and was in a foul mood). He insisted, I obeyed.
Sometimes, fathers really do know best. About 6 miles or so from home, I was only going about 10 MPH, as I descended a slight hill on the backest of back roads when all of the sudden things were spinning around, and I found myself face first in a snowbank. Thankfully, I had been going slow enough that the impact hadn't harmed the body of the car (though cosmetically speaking, nothing would bother me, Ethel the Civic has had a lot of trauma in her day); more importantly, my brothers (aged 21 and 18) and I (age not important, though dangerously close to 24 these days) were unscathed. But my car was half way down a banking (filled with slush and about 3 feet of snow), and there was no getting her out.
Because my father had been following me, he pulled over and informed me that he had hit the same ice and almost plowed right on into me, so we should definitely not be waiting near the car. So we walked down to the nearest driveway (about 150 feet or so away from the car, at the bottom of the hill), as I proceeded to get all weepy. Nobody was home at the house, which was the only house for quite a ways. It was, after all, about 8 PM on Christmas Eve. Most people aren't spending it in snowbanks.
In an unlikely turn of events, nobody had their cell phones on them--except for me. It should be noted that my father, mother, and two of my brothers all own and regularly carry cell phones. Because they live in rural Maine, they have services that actually work there. My phone, however, is on permanent roam anywhere north of Portland (and we certainly are north of Portland). I had one battery bar left, as I winced and called AAA. First of all, the operator had no idea how to find me. I was on a rural route (quite literally, RR 14o, in fact), and not at all in Massachusetts. I was informed that it would be 2 hours before a tow truck could get to me.
It was still raining, mind you, and there was no place to go for cover. There are no street lamps, so the only light was coming from the emergency flashers on my half-buried car. It was determined that, rather than make my parents and three siblings who were crammed in the back wait for 2 hours in the storm, that they would go home and my father would come back in his Jeep to check on us, and possibly just take us home should AAA never arrive.
So they drove off, leaving me with two brothers and nothing to do but wait.
Eventually, an SUV coming from the opposite direction pulled over. A man and his wife, probably in their upper forties, asked us what happened. After I explained, they said that the town (Canton, Maine) was terrible about sanding during storms, and this had happened before when it's been icy. They said they knew the people who lived in the house we were standing in the driveway of, and lead us up to their garage to get some shovels out. We found two, and my brothers each took hold of them. The couple suggested we that go shovel out the front of my car, so that when someone comes to pull us out, it would be easier. They said they would call the town to have them sand, but even better--they would call a neighbor who happened to have the tools and vehicle necessary to yank me on out of that ditch.
Soaking wet, and shivering, my brothers and I began to walk on the side of the road up to my unfortunate little car. About halfway up, a car came from the other direction down the hill. It hit the ice--and began sliding right at us. It was something out of a movie--headlights coming helplessly directly at three bewildered youths on some abandoned road. "JUMP!" I yelled, and all three of us, and the shovels, went running and flying down into the banking below as the driver miraculously regained control of his car and avoided taking us all out in some sort of Christmas Eve tragedy.
We continued to walk up the road, only this time when we saw the fog illuminate in the distance, we knew to pre-emptively head down the banking. This time, the driver could not regain control, and about 20 feet above my car's flashing lights, another car began blinking as it discovered it, too, had spun around and gone halfway down a ditch.
Now we have two cars down a ditch. The SUV couple decided that enough was enough, and went to drive up the street to where the closest neighbors were to ask them to put their car out with flashing lights so that people would know that it is dangerous ahead. As they left, my brothers began shoveling. I watched. And started to feel really, really hot, about to vomit, dizzy, and blacking out around the corners. I've only fainted twice before (once after giving blood, and once when bleeding profusely after a bagel-slicing incident went awry), but I knew that was what was about to happen. I sat down into the snow and shoved my face into the white stuff, hoping to snap myself out of it.
The SUV couple returned, and soon after, a Jeep with a rope tow and silent elderly driver with a cigarette in his mouth arrived to the relief of us all. Since I was sitting in a stupor with my face in the snow, SUV man got out and asked if he could drive the car while cigarette man towed me on out. I mumbled something, probably a "yes, please," but could just have easily been something about Christian Bale or bunnies. Either way, he got in the driver's seat, and my car was, with a few quick tugs, removed from the snowbank of doom, as the SUV man drove my car safely into the driveway where we had stood for so long before.
Just when I was beginning to think the ordeal was over, about three steps into walking down to my car, I lost my footing and fell completely flat and sprawled out in the middle of the road. Head and tailbone thoroughly pavement-smacked. Contents of my purse flying everywhere. Rain now falling directly onto my face. Despite the pain and the surprise and the weariness and the sheer embarrassment of it all, I had to laugh, collect my things, and continue walking.
As the Jeep yanked the other car out, I got on my cell (now flashing "low battery") to call home to inform them that, if my dad hadn't left home yet, he didn't need to. He had, of course, it was now 9:15 or so. I tried to call AAA to cancel their service, and my phone shut off. So, shivering, wet, with numb extremities and a head rush, my brothers and I blasted the heat in the car and waited for my father to come.
About 20 minutes later, he did. Just after a sand truck, thanks to the call of the SUV people, went past. In what might have been the cutest thing ever, he had brought all of the extra blankets in the house with him, assuming we had been standing out in the rain all of that time.
My brother offered to drive, an offer I normally would not have taken up (I'm nervous about other people driving my car because it has no power steering and is a bit of a tricky little beast), but gratefully accepted. Not going above 15 MPH (I gasped aloud whenever he would begin to accelerate), and my father's trusty Jeep's lights right behind us, we finally, finally made it home. At 10 PM on Christmas Eve.
I have never been in the Christmas spirit as much as I was when I got home and changed into warm, dry clothes and drank some wine that my mother had opened for our return home. It was my own little Christmas miracle. I was George Bailey coming home at last.
A large part of that Christmas miracle was the SUV couple. They got the road sanded, got us shovels, got us safely out of the ditch, and gave me comfort when I was losing my mind. I never got their names or address, and I desperately wish that I had--a gift basket of thanks would no doubt be on their front door by now. I think they represent, in a huge way, the generosity of the Maine people. Here in Massachusetts (at least in the greater Boston area), if I went off the road, and halfway into a ditch, I have a feeling people who would drive by would just honk because I was somehow in the way. There is little doubt in my mind that nobody here would give up an hour of their evening on Christmas Eve to help a slightly incoherent out-of-state stranger get out of a ditch.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Just call me Mr. Kotter...
...And welcome me on back.
I wish I could say I had a legitimate reason to have inexplicably quit blogging with nary a warning. Technically, I suppose I could say that and y'all would never know since the Internet is ambiguous like that; however, I'd like to think that I am above lying. Unless it is to children.
The truth is, I was lazy. Well, I am lazy. But now I slightly more motivated. It's a new year. I'm about to get a new hair color. I am unstoppable, or at least slightly-harder-to-stop.
And what is bringing me out of posting slump? A tight-knit community full of idiots, farmland, and (in one particular household) chocolate crunchy bars.
"But, Annie," you begin, after looking in the upper left hand section to remember what my name is, "I thought you lived in West Roxbury? Idiots and chocolate bars abound, but farmland seems an odd description."
And that is when I tell you that I am speaking of someplace fictional. Someplace glorious. Someplace that is not in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, or even this country.
I am writing, of course, about Dibley. "The Vicar of Dibley" is a long-running BBC program helmed by Richard Curtis that you might have seen, might have heard about, or might know nothing about. I recently discovered this gem of a program while flipping through channels, and with one brassy laugh from star Dawn French, I became smitten.
I implore you to Netflix, BPL, or otherwise obtain this series on DVD if at all possible, and give it a thorough viewing. If not within your means--you are in luck. PBS (both WGBH and NHPTV) around here airs it on at least a weekly basis. Tuesday evenings, for example, NHPTV (channel 11, see how easy I am making this for you...) airs it in a lineup of Britcoms. Practically nothing else is on Tuesday evenings, so you have no excuse to skim by it.
This show warms the cockles of my heart (if such a sensation actually exists). It's cold out today, and there's an ice storm coming tomorrow--a little cockle-warming could do you good.
More posts, less TV-centric content to come. I hope.
I wish I could say I had a legitimate reason to have inexplicably quit blogging with nary a warning. Technically, I suppose I could say that and y'all would never know since the Internet is ambiguous like that; however, I'd like to think that I am above lying. Unless it is to children.
The truth is, I was lazy. Well, I am lazy. But now I slightly more motivated. It's a new year. I'm about to get a new hair color. I am unstoppable, or at least slightly-harder-to-stop.
And what is bringing me out of posting slump? A tight-knit community full of idiots, farmland, and (in one particular household) chocolate crunchy bars.
"But, Annie," you begin, after looking in the upper left hand section to remember what my name is, "I thought you lived in West Roxbury? Idiots and chocolate bars abound, but farmland seems an odd description."
And that is when I tell you that I am speaking of someplace fictional. Someplace glorious. Someplace that is not in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, or even this country.
I am writing, of course, about Dibley. "The Vicar of Dibley" is a long-running BBC program helmed by Richard Curtis that you might have seen, might have heard about, or might know nothing about. I recently discovered this gem of a program while flipping through channels, and with one brassy laugh from star Dawn French, I became smitten.
I implore you to Netflix, BPL, or otherwise obtain this series on DVD if at all possible, and give it a thorough viewing. If not within your means--you are in luck. PBS (both WGBH and NHPTV) around here airs it on at least a weekly basis. Tuesday evenings, for example, NHPTV (channel 11, see how easy I am making this for you...) airs it in a lineup of Britcoms. Practically nothing else is on Tuesday evenings, so you have no excuse to skim by it.
This show warms the cockles of my heart (if such a sensation actually exists). It's cold out today, and there's an ice storm coming tomorrow--a little cockle-warming could do you good.
More posts, less TV-centric content to come. I hope.
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