I went to a very small private school here in Wilmington from 4th grade through 12th grade. There were roughly 50 kids in my class, a large percentage of whom attended Tower Hill from pre-kindergarten through graduation (suffice it to say, most of us knew each other pretty well by the end of senior year). It was kind of a weird experience for me. My father was really the driving force behind my attendance at the school, wanting what he perceived to be the best education for his kids, and also, I think, trying to fit in to the world of Wilmington lawyers, as an outsider from a working class family in Western New York. My mother, on the other hand, was very uncomfortable with the school and what it stood for (also from a working class family in Western New York, and a social worker to boot). She railed against the elitism mightily, and was a frequent caller to the school, registering her complaints without compunction. And they both were right, in their own way. It was (and is) a great school, with incredible teachers and unbelievable resources. But, it was (and is) homogeneous and elitist. Example 1: there were no African-American kids in my class; Example 2: many people were quite rich. While my family was certainly comfortably upper-middle class, we never went skiing in the Alps over spring break. I know -- boo hoo for me. (I am bummed that I could not make a link work here that I felt illuminated my point perfectly about the continued homogeneity and elitism. In a recent TH publication, there was a very well-intentioned student piece about how the Spanish Culture Club invited a member of the grounds crew to come and speak about the Mexican experience. Wow.)
In spite of the weird family dichotomy, I would say that overall, my experience at Tower Hill was overwhelmingly positive. I liked most of the kids I went to school with, I was challenged academically, and in general, I had fun. That being said, even if I could afford it, I would probably not send my daughter there -- because of the same elitism that made my mom bristle (the apple does not fall far from the tree). And I think that the biggest drawback to my secondary school education was that it kept my horizons very narrow. When it came time to look at colleges, I wanted to go somewhere small where I felt like I could get to know people (and I think subconsciously, I wanted the people at college to be similar to the ones I grew up with). In fact, the idea of a big college in a big city absolutely freaked me out. I ended up applying to 5 small liberal arts colleges in the northeast -- all pretty interchangeable, I think. I ended up at Trinity College in Hartford, CT, largely because the Director of Admissions at Tower Hill had just come from Trinity, so there was a definite push for attendance there, and also because the campus was really pretty when I visited (and again, subconsciously, because a number of kids I knew were going there).
Trinity only has about 2,000 students -- really tiny for a college. Despite the fact that it is downtown Hartford, which has an overwhelmingly minority population, it draws the vast majority of its students from just the kind of elite, un-diverse schools that I myself attended. And when I got there, this was ok, or at least comfortable. But over time, I began to find it incredibly stifling. Again, the educational experience was great -- I had some wonderful (read "liberal") professors who really opened my eyes much more to the world around me. I made a few good friends, drank a lot of beer, and had a decent time. But overall, the four years there left me deeply unsatisfied.
This has been on my mind a lot lately. My 15-year reunion is coming up (which is in itself an answer to the title of my last post), and while I have absolutely no intention of going, the alumni mail has been coming fast and furious. Then, Richard, Lucy and I took a trip to Connecticut last weekend to visit my cousin, Sarah, who lives about an hour outside of Hartford. When we planned the trip to CT, I had no plans to visit Trinity. But Sunday, Sarah had to work, and the weather was beautiful (in fact, I always associate clear fall weather with Trinity), so we decided to make the trip. And I have to say, the campus is still stunning, and being there was much less uncomfortable than I had expected it to be. It was actually kind of fun showing Richard and Lucy around (Richard loved the library, and Lucy loved the cannons). But then, in the car, on the ride back, I read the weekly student paper. And quickly remembered what I didn't like about the school. The article that pushed me over the edge was an opinion piece about why the school needs to bring back the "drunk bus" because the shuttle that they are using now does not allow alcohol on board, so many students would rather risk their lives to walk across campus than pour out their beers. Now maybe, if I were still in the 18-22 demographic, I would feel a sense of outrage about the tragic potential waste of beer, and would be able to ignore the implicit elitism that surrounds any talk of crime on campus. But probably not. And one look at the "campus safety" blotter would surely dispel most fears about "townies," since all reported incidents involved drunk students. The whole thing just pissed me off, and took me back 15 years much more viscerally than the trip to campus itself.
Ack. This blog has gotten much more strident and self-important than I ever intended. And now I have missed "30 Rock." But I have gotten some very deep and insightful points out into the blogosphere, and I've really made you think, right? You're welcome. (I promise my next post will be short, and maybe even amusing, to reward you for slogging through this one, if you got this far.)
Monday, October 22, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
am i old? wait...don't answer that.
I am 36 (and three-quarters). I have a husband, a kid, a house, a job, and way too many pets (two dogs is two dogs too many, just ask Richard). But, about 90% of my social life is related to spending time with my brother and sister, who are 28 and 25, and their partners, roommates, and friends. (The other 10% of my social life seems to be spent sending facebook messages and blog comments to Jocelyn, who is 23.) And I love this, I really do. But it is sometimes weird. I worry about turning into an old person who is trying too hard to be young and cool and fun. I think I am having an early midlife crisis, probably. I have always been the responsible older sister -- I even drove the carpool when I was in high school, for god's sake. I got married when I was 23, while living in Cecil County, MD, the pinnacle of all that is cool (if you are into Wal-Mart and hunting). Suffice it to say that I did not spend my 20s in hip cities with roommates and trolleys and bars. But maybe I am not so old and desperate -- maybe 36 is the new 26? I don't know.
I do know that this past weekend, after a really long work week, I wanted to go out and drink many beers. So I called Margit and made some plans. I met up with "the kids" (Margit and Marianne, Andrew and Brian) in West Philly and after making and eating some delicious soups (a creamy delicato squash, and a fresh corn chowder -- yay Clark Park Farmers Market) and hearty grilled cheese sandwiches (thank you crusty artisan bread and fresh tomatoes from Andrew's garden), we hit the town.
First, Bob and Barbara's, a hipster dive bar festooned with PBR paraphenalia. I drank several "citywide specials" -- how can you say no to a can of PBR and a shot of Jim Beam for $3? (as a side note on this portion of the expedition, if you are a really overweight guy, don't wear a big football shirt with the name "Jibbles" written on the back -- it's not a good look.) Then, when the boys pussied out at around midnight, Margit, Marianne, and I headed over to the Gayborhood and hit a piano bar (duh) and then the famous lesbian bar, Sisters (finally, after all these years of hearing about it, I witnessed the magic in person). The girls wanted to give me the complete Philly experience, so after closing, we took a cab to South Philly and joined the long line of drunkards at Pat's, for the ultimate hangover prevention -- a "cheesesteak wit whiz." For you west coasters (jocelyn...whatever), that's a cheesesteak with fried onions and yummy yummy cheesewhiz. mmmmmmmm. We then took a cab back to the girls' apartment (during the cab ride, I made Margit text me a message reminding me to see if "Taxicab Confessions" is available on DVD from Netflix...makes it sound like things got racy in cab, doesn't it?) where I crashed in their roommate's bed (thanks Chelsea) at around 3:30 am. Amazingly, when I woke up the next morning, I was not hungover -- I fully credit Pat's for that.
Long story short, I had a really good time. But was it weird? Should I be hanging out with other moms, drinking cosmos, and playing Bunco instead of hitting hipster bars with 20-somethings, drinking cheap nasty beer and making fun of guys named Jibbles? (At the very least, I think I should stay away from the PBR in the future -- it was not friends with my intestines.)
So let me know what you think -- am I a desperate old hag or just a 36-year-old who is young at heart? All opinions are welcome. Unless you think I am a desperate old hag. Keep that to yourself.
I do know that this past weekend, after a really long work week, I wanted to go out and drink many beers. So I called Margit and made some plans. I met up with "the kids" (Margit and Marianne, Andrew and Brian) in West Philly and after making and eating some delicious soups (a creamy delicato squash, and a fresh corn chowder -- yay Clark Park Farmers Market) and hearty grilled cheese sandwiches (thank you crusty artisan bread and fresh tomatoes from Andrew's garden), we hit the town.
First, Bob and Barbara's, a hipster dive bar festooned with PBR paraphenalia. I drank several "citywide specials" -- how can you say no to a can of PBR and a shot of Jim Beam for $3? (as a side note on this portion of the expedition, if you are a really overweight guy, don't wear a big football shirt with the name "Jibbles" written on the back -- it's not a good look.) Then, when the boys pussied out at around midnight, Margit, Marianne, and I headed over to the Gayborhood and hit a piano bar (duh) and then the famous lesbian bar, Sisters (finally, after all these years of hearing about it, I witnessed the magic in person). The girls wanted to give me the complete Philly experience, so after closing, we took a cab to South Philly and joined the long line of drunkards at Pat's, for the ultimate hangover prevention -- a "cheesesteak wit whiz." For you west coasters (jocelyn...whatever), that's a cheesesteak with fried onions and yummy yummy cheesewhiz. mmmmmmmm. We then took a cab back to the girls' apartment (during the cab ride, I made Margit text me a message reminding me to see if "Taxicab Confessions" is available on DVD from Netflix...makes it sound like things got racy in cab, doesn't it?) where I crashed in their roommate's bed (thanks Chelsea) at around 3:30 am. Amazingly, when I woke up the next morning, I was not hungover -- I fully credit Pat's for that.
Long story short, I had a really good time. But was it weird? Should I be hanging out with other moms, drinking cosmos, and playing Bunco instead of hitting hipster bars with 20-somethings, drinking cheap nasty beer and making fun of guys named Jibbles? (At the very least, I think I should stay away from the PBR in the future -- it was not friends with my intestines.)
So let me know what you think -- am I a desperate old hag or just a 36-year-old who is young at heart? All opinions are welcome. Unless you think I am a desperate old hag. Keep that to yourself.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
eating pancakes but missing the omelette?
Since Jocelyn announced that she is not blogging about food (I think "Dustbin" should keep his opinions to himself, personally. I enjoyed hearing about heirloom tomatoes and Humboldt fog cheese....), I have decided to take up the challenge for today. Let me preface this by saying that, obviously, I like food (my blog is named "eat cake," for God's sake. More on that later.) but I wouldn't consider myself a "foodie." I was raised on standard 1950s middle class white people food -- pot roast, meatloaf, ham and scalloped potatoes, and for some added foreign flair, American Chop Suey or Spanish Rice. As an adult, I would say that I have become a pretty good cook, and have definitely expanded my food horizons. I make a mean tagine-cooked chicken, lemon, and olives, and made the most ridiculously delicious chicken and mushroom pie (without a recipe, even) a few weeks ago.
That all being said, I still love me some old school comfort food, particularly breakfast. And even better than breakfast, "breakfast for dinner." And what's the best breakfast for dinner food of all? Pancakes, of course. There is a proud tradition of pancake-eating in my family -- my father once ate 17 pancakes at brunch at the Hotel duPont's Green Room ("But they were silver-dollar pancakes!" my father will say to defend his gluttony). Suffice it to say, I have eaten a lot of pancakes in my life -- have I mentioned that I like to eat?
If you are a Wilmingtonian, you know about the Ranch House (fondly referred to as either the Raunch House or the Roach House....you get the idea, right?). The Ranch House has recently been re-opened as Lucky's Coffee Shop -- with a full 50s retro makeover. Our old neighbor Mickey is one of the owners, and our old friend Davey is one of the cooks, so we have been going there quite a lot. Every Thursday evening before Lucy's ice skating lessons, in fact. The atmosphere is great, and the food has been good (the homemade non-Sysco chocolate cake is super-tasty), and the coffee is way better than your typical diner joe. But tonight, in the mood for some stick-to-your ribs comfort food before I headed to the 40 degree ice rink, I ordered the short stack with sausage, and reached Pancake Nirvana. Seriously. The pancakes were just unbelievable tasty -- not too sweet and not too thick and full of cute little bubbles. And once topped with butter (butter makes everything better) and maple syrup with some unidentifiable fall spice, the pancakes soared to new heights. And deserved a blog, Dustbin be damned.
That all being said, I still love me some old school comfort food, particularly breakfast. And even better than breakfast, "breakfast for dinner." And what's the best breakfast for dinner food of all? Pancakes, of course. There is a proud tradition of pancake-eating in my family -- my father once ate 17 pancakes at brunch at the Hotel duPont's Green Room ("But they were silver-dollar pancakes!" my father will say to defend his gluttony). Suffice it to say, I have eaten a lot of pancakes in my life -- have I mentioned that I like to eat?
If you are a Wilmingtonian, you know about the Ranch House (fondly referred to as either the Raunch House or the Roach House....you get the idea, right?). The Ranch House has recently been re-opened as Lucky's Coffee Shop -- with a full 50s retro makeover. Our old neighbor Mickey is one of the owners, and our old friend Davey is one of the cooks, so we have been going there quite a lot. Every Thursday evening before Lucy's ice skating lessons, in fact. The atmosphere is great, and the food has been good (the homemade non-Sysco chocolate cake is super-tasty), and the coffee is way better than your typical diner joe. But tonight, in the mood for some stick-to-your ribs comfort food before I headed to the 40 degree ice rink, I ordered the short stack with sausage, and reached Pancake Nirvana. Seriously. The pancakes were just unbelievable tasty -- not too sweet and not too thick and full of cute little bubbles. And once topped with butter (butter makes everything better) and maple syrup with some unidentifiable fall spice, the pancakes soared to new heights. And deserved a blog, Dustbin be damned.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
undergarment update
I threw caution to the wind and wore the red underwear today...(ok, all the black pairs are in the dirty clothes basket)....and honestly, it just felt all wrong, like my ass knew the undies weren't black. I know, too much information. Sorry.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
classy
I have a funny, and embarrassing, story to tell, so what better place to do it than on a public blog?
Some background....about five years ago, I found this underwear that I really liked, and decided that I would buy about a million pairs of it, all in black. Over time, I have added to my stock, but always the same underwear, and always in black. (Well, that's not totally true. I did buy a red pair once but never wore it...too flashy.) While I have added to the collection over the last few years, I rarely get rid of a pair -- after all, they are black, and they hold up very well. However, for some reason, some pairs are more comfortable than others, but this seems largely dependent on the pair of pants that I am wearing at the time.
Last Friday, I was at work, and the pair of underwear that I was wearing, indistinguishable from the other 20 pairs in my drawer, was just not right -- it was riding up and generally annoying me. So, classy chick that I am, I went to the bathroom and removed the offensive undies, tucked them in my pocket, and spent the rest of the workday commando. Later that evening, I spent a brief moment wondering where precisely I had put the underwear when I went back to my office, but...like a squirrel with a shiny thing...my brain moved on to some other critically important thought (stopping global warming? troop withdrawal from Irag? ending homelessness?) without resolving the underwear mystery.
Flash forward to Monday. Seeking refuge from the constant interruptions in the office, I packed up my laptop and the grant proposal I was working on (which I should be working on right now instead of crafting this highly intellectual blog post), and headed off to the Trolley Square Brew Ha Ha. After about 4 hours and several cups of coffee (and multiple trips to the bathroom, natch), I got up to pack up my belongings and head back to the office. When I leaned down to grab my computer bag, there, staring at my from under my table, was, yes, you guessed it -- my underwear. If you know me, which you do if you are reading this, you are probably not very surprised.
Some background....about five years ago, I found this underwear that I really liked, and decided that I would buy about a million pairs of it, all in black. Over time, I have added to my stock, but always the same underwear, and always in black. (Well, that's not totally true. I did buy a red pair once but never wore it...too flashy.) While I have added to the collection over the last few years, I rarely get rid of a pair -- after all, they are black, and they hold up very well. However, for some reason, some pairs are more comfortable than others, but this seems largely dependent on the pair of pants that I am wearing at the time.
Last Friday, I was at work, and the pair of underwear that I was wearing, indistinguishable from the other 20 pairs in my drawer, was just not right -- it was riding up and generally annoying me. So, classy chick that I am, I went to the bathroom and removed the offensive undies, tucked them in my pocket, and spent the rest of the workday commando. Later that evening, I spent a brief moment wondering where precisely I had put the underwear when I went back to my office, but...like a squirrel with a shiny thing...my brain moved on to some other critically important thought (stopping global warming? troop withdrawal from Irag? ending homelessness?) without resolving the underwear mystery.
Flash forward to Monday. Seeking refuge from the constant interruptions in the office, I packed up my laptop and the grant proposal I was working on (which I should be working on right now instead of crafting this highly intellectual blog post), and headed off to the Trolley Square Brew Ha Ha. After about 4 hours and several cups of coffee (and multiple trips to the bathroom, natch), I got up to pack up my belongings and head back to the office. When I leaned down to grab my computer bag, there, staring at my from under my table, was, yes, you guessed it -- my underwear. If you know me, which you do if you are reading this, you are probably not very surprised.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
america's funniest home videos...
...is damn funny. And I have an inexplicable love for Tom Bergeron. Does this all make me a bad person? It does, doesn't it.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
endless possibilities
The other day, Lucy said to me, "I know what I am going to be when I grow up." And attentive mom that I am, I popped my head up from my facebook account and said, "Oh really? What are you going to be?" To which Lucy replied, "An artist." (brief digression...I understand why author Cormac McCarthy writes all his dialogue without quotation marks -- punctuation is kind of a pain.)
Now at various times in the recent past, Lucy has wanted to be: a veterinarian -- until she helped our friend Andrea clean out the disgustingly stinky ears of my mom's new (pre-owned, but without Honda's generous 200-point certification) dog; a professional ice skater -- but since she only takes one lesson a week and never practices, this seems unlikely; and of course, a rock star -- she and her friend Dylan have even started a band, but Lucy plays no instruments, and Dylan can only play two chords on his guitar, and thus, one song ("What amazing song could that be?" you are asking yourself. Well, America's "A Horse With No Name," of course. What seven-year old's musical repertoire would be complete without that classic? It's in your head now, isn't it? Sorry. Really. Welcome to my world.)
But an artist? That was new. But then Lucy went on to explain why she thought this was an appropriate career path. "Well, Mom. You just said that you liked that picture that I drew of Erica today. You said you thought it was really good. So I think I might be an artist."
Wow. Imagine how this could apply in adult life. You change the big water bottle in the cooler at work (which I have to do all the time because the women I work with are little girly babies), and someone compliments you on how strong you are, and you think, "You know, you're right. I am really strong. I think I might quit my job as an __________ (insert unsatisfying job here), and become a professional weightlifter, or maybe a lumberjack." Or you drive through West Philadelphia to the Vietnamese deli for a tofu hoagie, and your husband comments on your excellent navigational skills (this part of the story is ripped from the headlines, as they say on Law and Order), and you decide right then and there to leave everything behind to become a long-haul truck driver, or a navigator on the space shuttle. The possibilities are endless.
But for better or worse, now that I am an adult (and Jocelyn, in response to your Peter Pan blog post, I don't think anyone ever really feels like a grown-up), the possibilities just don't feel as possible as they did when I was seven (I wanted to work in a pet store. I guess this is actually an attainable goal. Does anyone know if PetSmart is hiring?). I have been thinking a lot about this lately, largely due to recent employment-related anxiety. If I really put my mind to it, could I quit my job, sell my house, and pack up the family for a big move to England, and a job in a coffee shop? Could I hop off the career path, go to grad school for an art degree, and then live the bohemian life of an artiste? And perhaps more importantly, do I really want to? I don't know the answer to this. I would say that I am 95% satisfied with my life -- love my family, house, and creature comforts -- but that 5% dissatisfaction (or maybe just curiosity?) is always in the back of my mind, nagging at me. Maybe this is just a natural resistance to growing up.
I do know for sure, though, that if Lucy wants to be an artist...or a veterinarian...or a rock star, I will be behind her 100% of the way. (Maybe only 95% for ice skating....that is just so not my scene.)
Now at various times in the recent past, Lucy has wanted to be: a veterinarian -- until she helped our friend Andrea clean out the disgustingly stinky ears of my mom's new (pre-owned, but without Honda's generous 200-point certification) dog; a professional ice skater -- but since she only takes one lesson a week and never practices, this seems unlikely; and of course, a rock star -- she and her friend Dylan have even started a band, but Lucy plays no instruments, and Dylan can only play two chords on his guitar, and thus, one song ("What amazing song could that be?" you are asking yourself. Well, America's "A Horse With No Name," of course. What seven-year old's musical repertoire would be complete without that classic? It's in your head now, isn't it? Sorry. Really. Welcome to my world.)
But an artist? That was new. But then Lucy went on to explain why she thought this was an appropriate career path. "Well, Mom. You just said that you liked that picture that I drew of Erica today. You said you thought it was really good. So I think I might be an artist."
Wow. Imagine how this could apply in adult life. You change the big water bottle in the cooler at work (which I have to do all the time because the women I work with are little girly babies), and someone compliments you on how strong you are, and you think, "You know, you're right. I am really strong. I think I might quit my job as an __________ (insert unsatisfying job here), and become a professional weightlifter, or maybe a lumberjack." Or you drive through West Philadelphia to the Vietnamese deli for a tofu hoagie, and your husband comments on your excellent navigational skills (this part of the story is ripped from the headlines, as they say on Law and Order), and you decide right then and there to leave everything behind to become a long-haul truck driver, or a navigator on the space shuttle. The possibilities are endless.
But for better or worse, now that I am an adult (and Jocelyn, in response to your Peter Pan blog post, I don't think anyone ever really feels like a grown-up), the possibilities just don't feel as possible as they did when I was seven (I wanted to work in a pet store. I guess this is actually an attainable goal. Does anyone know if PetSmart is hiring?). I have been thinking a lot about this lately, largely due to recent employment-related anxiety. If I really put my mind to it, could I quit my job, sell my house, and pack up the family for a big move to England, and a job in a coffee shop? Could I hop off the career path, go to grad school for an art degree, and then live the bohemian life of an artiste? And perhaps more importantly, do I really want to? I don't know the answer to this. I would say that I am 95% satisfied with my life -- love my family, house, and creature comforts -- but that 5% dissatisfaction (or maybe just curiosity?) is always in the back of my mind, nagging at me. Maybe this is just a natural resistance to growing up.
I do know for sure, though, that if Lucy wants to be an artist...or a veterinarian...or a rock star, I will be behind her 100% of the way. (Maybe only 95% for ice skating....that is just so not my scene.)
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
good intentions
I have nothing but the best intentions. I fully mean to RSVP to every party that Lucy is invited to the minute the cards come, and then wait until the last day. I really want to write thank you notes to tell people how perfect their gifts were, and how happy I am they thought of me...but then time slips by and it seems like it is too late. I pack my bag with work at the end of the day, and then leave the bag untouched by the front door until it's time to go to work again (seemingly minutes after I have gotten home).
This week, I have so much work to do, and feel certain that there are not enough hours in the week to get it all done. So, of course, before I left the office today, I filled my bag with files and lugged it home, and now...wait for it....I am watching "Pushing Daisies" and blogging. (And will be watching "Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" at 9, and "Top Chef" at 10.) And believe me, tomorrow, when the clock ticks toward 5 PM, I will be so annoyed with myself for leaving my files untouched. (However, since I have started taking anti-anxiety meds, I don't get nearly as disgusted with myself as I used to. Maybe this is a good thing?)
What can I do about this? Stop procrastinating? Stop worrying about procrastinating (more meds would probably be necessary)? I think for now, I will just zone out in front of the TV, and put off the worrying until tomorrow.
This week, I have so much work to do, and feel certain that there are not enough hours in the week to get it all done. So, of course, before I left the office today, I filled my bag with files and lugged it home, and now...wait for it....I am watching "Pushing Daisies" and blogging. (And will be watching "Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" at 9, and "Top Chef" at 10.) And believe me, tomorrow, when the clock ticks toward 5 PM, I will be so annoyed with myself for leaving my files untouched. (However, since I have started taking anti-anxiety meds, I don't get nearly as disgusted with myself as I used to. Maybe this is a good thing?)
What can I do about this? Stop procrastinating? Stop worrying about procrastinating (more meds would probably be necessary)? I think for now, I will just zone out in front of the TV, and put off the worrying until tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
into the breach
I am just a copycat. Jocelyn started a blog, and hers is so interesting and fun to read, it made me want to have a blog too. Of course, I am pretty sure that my narration of life as a 36-year old working mom in Delaware will be nowhere near as exciting as what JoJo writes about her life as a 23-year old single gal (don't you just hate that word?) living with her mom in Napa, California. (When you write it like that, it doesn't really sound that exciting. Sorry JoJo.) But I will try.
It turns out that I actually signed up for a Blogger account in November 2004. Honestly, I don't remember doing it, and never posted anything but a test message. It is telling though, that I named that blog Aghast, only days after the 2004 presidential election. And although I have remained aghast at what has happened politically, I have clearly not been aghast enough to blog about it....Maybe now that we are heading full-bore into the new election cycle, my aghasted-ness will return.
But for now, I think the point of this blog will be to share whatever random things I might think are interesting that can't be summed up in the "About Me" section of my facebook page (I am currently addicted to facebook. Big time.). I will try not to borrow too heavily from my favorite book, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, in which the author (Amy Krouse Rosenthal) describes her life in alphabetic entries (the entry that made me know that Amy and I were destined to be best friends was the one in which she talks about her love for the way NPR correspondent Sylvia Poggioli says her name – I have always loved that too, and wait with bated breath for stories from Rome. It was awesome when they were picking the new pope - Sylvia was on-air daily.).
It looks like this blog may be a little bit digressive, so bear with me.
It turns out that I actually signed up for a Blogger account in November 2004. Honestly, I don't remember doing it, and never posted anything but a test message. It is telling though, that I named that blog Aghast, only days after the 2004 presidential election. And although I have remained aghast at what has happened politically, I have clearly not been aghast enough to blog about it....Maybe now that we are heading full-bore into the new election cycle, my aghasted-ness will return.
But for now, I think the point of this blog will be to share whatever random things I might think are interesting that can't be summed up in the "About Me" section of my facebook page (I am currently addicted to facebook. Big time.). I will try not to borrow too heavily from my favorite book, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, in which the author (Amy Krouse Rosenthal) describes her life in alphabetic entries (the entry that made me know that Amy and I were destined to be best friends was the one in which she talks about her love for the way NPR correspondent Sylvia Poggioli says her name – I have always loved that too, and wait with bated breath for stories from Rome. It was awesome when they were picking the new pope - Sylvia was on-air daily.).
It looks like this blog may be a little bit digressive, so bear with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
