Archive: March 2007

Williamsburg, Virginia, Day 1:
Right now, JG and I are sprawled out on the wide expanse of a king-sized bed; he’s watching the UCLA/Florida game and I’m clicking away happily on a laptop. We’re enjoying a night of leisure after a less-than-smooth day of travel.

JG calculated that the trip would take us about five hours. We’d leave at 10am, stop for lunch after getting past DC, and arrive at our hotel around 3pm. That would leave time for an early dinner and he could catch both of the semi-final games tonight. No problem. We packed the car, loaded up the CD player, and we were off. Yay for vacation!

Well. Several spats of traffic, including one 15-mile stretch that took over an hour to cover, left us roasting hot, starving, and cranky. We grabbed fast food for lunch, but the fatty, fried fakeness made us even crankier because we felt like tubs of lard. And then we hit more traffic. Ugh. Five hours stretched out to seven.

Thankfully, our hotel room is comfortable – if a little brightly botanical for my tastes – and the internet access is free! Yes! To top off the night, for dinner, we found a fabulously local Italian place within walking distance. It was crammed full of people and JG overheard a guy at a neighboring table saying that he was waiting for a certain waitress because she’d been serving him for 30 years. The food was so tasty (and cheap!) and we were grateful for the brief walk back to the hotel. The ride down here was tiring and frustrating at times, but now that we’re settled in, I’m excited for everything we have planned. The weather should be gorgeous and I’m armed and ready with my camera.

Bring it on, Williamsburg.

Some weeks go by when you don’t have enough to do in the hours you have. You find yourself staring at the wall, wondering what movies are playing, and remembering that you should have called that guy about the thing. Other weeks are just right: you accomplish exactly what you intended to do in just about the time you had anticipated. Then there are weeks like the one I’ve had and there is no way you can finish everything you need to do in the time you have. Sure, the week passes quickly, but it’s kind of a curse because the time is running out!

There is a light at the end of this tunnel and I like to call it vacation. Yay! Next week is JG’s school’s spring break, so on Saturday, we’re packing up the Subaru to head off to Williamsburg, Virginia. The loose plan so far is to visit the historical section, eat at a recommended barbecue joint, and take a spin at Busch Gardens, with some lazing by a pool and reading scattered in there for good measure. We’re also going to visit with a high school friend of JG’s; she got engaged recently and we haven’t seen her since then, so it’ll be nice to hang out.

But honestly, my brain is fried. Thank goodness my to-do list at work is down to 2.5 items, or else Friday would be a very bad day. I can hardly string these sentences together, much less make the all-important packing lists because – gah! I haven’t packed yet! I don’t even know if I have to do laundry! My brain is so numb that I can’t even absorb the true gravity of those words. They’re just running into my skull and bouncing off. Thud.

In an effort to stop the insanity, I offer the following anecdote, without even a hint of a transition.

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Last night, I was telling JG about a dream I had had the night before. I’m sure I’ll go into more detail with this topic in the future, but the back story is that I am very uncomfortable around big dogs and JG has been lobbying hard for the cause of He Wants a Dog. Anyway.

RA: So, I was wrestling with this huge dog and I was really really scared.
JG: Oh, man. Did you wake up?
RA: No, I noticed that the fur didn’t seem right. It was actually a person in a dog suit.
JG: Ah. Were you winning? Was the person you-sized or me-sized?
RA: Definitely you-sized.
JG: So you were definitely not winning.
RA: Right. But I don’t remember who won. I probably didn’t, but at the end, the person took off the dog suit … and it was you!
JG: Oh. I see why it was me-sized.
RA: Yeah. So, could we not talk about getting a dog so often? It is clearly causing me some anxiety here.
JG: Okay, okay.

During the day, like so many other working stiffs, I sit in front of a computer and type away at a keyboard. My morning routine of consists of work e-mail, personal e-mail, and Google Reader. After time away from my desk, I jiggle my mouse to deactivate my screen saver and check to see if any e-mails have come in during my absence. My music library has been uploaded to my hard drive and my PDA syncs with my mail server to keep track of calendar items and send me alerts. I’m not as technologically-adept as some, but I am pretty wired. Even if I don’t like coffee.

When I get home from work, I dive right into personal e-mail and blogs that may have updated throughout the day. I work on future posts, correspond with friends, upload photos, or shop online. I realized that, in total, I can spend up to twelve hours in a day staring at a glowing computer screen, positioning my fingers on the raised bits on the F and J keys, and hearing the tap-dance rhythm of the keyboard.

Twelve hours is a bit much, I decided.

On Saturday, I took a break from using my computer. I slept in. I baked carrot cake cupcakes for my book study meeting and a loaf of weekend bread for JG. I read two hundred pages of my current book and cooked dinner. That was it. No e-mails sent, no Submit Purchase buttons clicked, and no glazed eyes in the aura of the laptop. I felt like I accomplished things – real, tangible things, not just pointing and dragging and touch-padding. There’s something to be said for actual accomplishment, I think.

Now, I’m back to the workweek and the busy thrum of the Information Super Highway, but I won’t hesitate to take a scenic detour every so often.

When I was a little girl, I hated to dry the dishes from the dishwasher. My parents refused to use the heated drying cycle of the dishwasher, so it was my job to wipe off each dish before putting it back. To make the task go faster, I’d put on “dish music” and sashay on the ceramic tile with my dish towel waving. Each season had its dish music: fall was Aaron Copland, winter was The Nutcracker, spring was Canadian Brass, and summer was the Boston Pops. In response to my parents’ puzzled glances, I’d say matter-of-factly, “Kitchens were made for dancing,” and spin more pirouettes in my socks.

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When I moved into my first apartment, JG came over occasionally to have dinner and hang out away from his dorm. Sharing the scant countertop space, we tossed salads and cooked pasta as we slid over the worn linoleum. Because I was just out of school, I couldn’t afford cable or internet access, so my only form of entertainment was the radio. (When a friend visited me, she exclaimed, “What is this, 1925?”) Dinnertime was about the same time that Delilah came on, so “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Butterfly Kisses,” and “My Heart Will Go On” were usual audio fare during the meal preparations. If I heard the opening measures of a standard like, “The Way You Look Tonight,” I’d take up JG’s left hand in my right and sway to the beat of the music. At first, he was taken aback by the whole thing, but I’d just power through, saying firmly, “Kitchens are made for dancing!” The way I saw it, the other square footage of my apartment was a sea of tan carpet, but the kitchen gave us just enough room for a private dance floor. I’m sure Delilah would have approved.

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When JG and I settled on our first house, where we live now, we decided to have dinner at the house that night. I packed a crate with the microwave, a plastic container of chili, a bag of baby carrots, two bowls, and two spoons, and we were off. We ceremoniously used our new key to get into the house, which turned out to be inhospitably cold because the heat had been off for the whole day. I plugged in the microwave and set up bowls of chili to warm up when JG swept me up and started spinning me around on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. Thrown off, I asked what he was doing. JG dipped me and said, “Kitchens were made for dancing, of course.” And we savored our first dance as homeowners until the microwave beep signaled that dinner was ready.

Sunday Scribblings #52: In the Kitchen