PEZ
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Ebay
"What if nothing was ever lost?" -- Ebay
I love Ebay. I am such a junkie, and that can be taken as either "addict" or "junk lover." There's more to my love of it than just the stuff though. The recent ad campaigns have been surprisingly touching to me, especially the one with the guy and his long-lost toy boat. The first time I saw it, I actually teared up. Granted, I was tired, it was late, and I was running a fever at the time, but....
There is such a sense of community on Ebay. It's like a huge garage sale that just goes on and on. With one exception, everyone I've dealt with has been so cordial and polite. They've answered questions, been as careful with their shipping as they might have been with a gift being sent to a far away relative, and sent personable, even chatty emails. Everyone has seemed to care tremendously about maintaining that Saturday garage sale feel, and most go to great extremes to make sure their items are described in painstaking detail to avoid any kind of disappointment on the part of the buyer.
It's funny that you can become connected in this way, even briefly, to people from all over the world in the name of commerce. I'm not sure if this kind of contact is a point for those who argue that technology connects us or serves to distance us from each other. I guess you could argue for both.
I also find it comforting that no matter what a person might like, be it salt shakers, Elvis memorabilia, porcelain dogs, or PEZ, there are about a jillion other people on Ebay who will be into the same thing and have cool stuff you've never seen to add to your collection. I, personally, love PEZ, vintage tablecloths, and old brooches.
Ebay brings up another interesting facet of humanity for me: collecting. It seems that almost every person I've ever met collects something. I wonder what makes us choose one item and then compulsively keep buying variations on the same theme. I wonder what the things we choose to surround ourselves with say about us as people? I guess there is probably some deep psychological reason why this person collects holsteins for the kitchen, Barbies, or clocks. Some psychologist should write a book about that, perhaps. There's probably already an annoying email forward about it. :)
Well, I guess I've probably exhaused this topic, but I just wanted to throw it out there.
I love Ebay. I am such a junkie, and that can be taken as either "addict" or "junk lover." There's more to my love of it than just the stuff though. The recent ad campaigns have been surprisingly touching to me, especially the one with the guy and his long-lost toy boat. The first time I saw it, I actually teared up. Granted, I was tired, it was late, and I was running a fever at the time, but....
There is such a sense of community on Ebay. It's like a huge garage sale that just goes on and on. With one exception, everyone I've dealt with has been so cordial and polite. They've answered questions, been as careful with their shipping as they might have been with a gift being sent to a far away relative, and sent personable, even chatty emails. Everyone has seemed to care tremendously about maintaining that Saturday garage sale feel, and most go to great extremes to make sure their items are described in painstaking detail to avoid any kind of disappointment on the part of the buyer.
It's funny that you can become connected in this way, even briefly, to people from all over the world in the name of commerce. I'm not sure if this kind of contact is a point for those who argue that technology connects us or serves to distance us from each other. I guess you could argue for both.
I also find it comforting that no matter what a person might like, be it salt shakers, Elvis memorabilia, porcelain dogs, or PEZ, there are about a jillion other people on Ebay who will be into the same thing and have cool stuff you've never seen to add to your collection. I, personally, love PEZ, vintage tablecloths, and old brooches.
Ebay brings up another interesting facet of humanity for me: collecting. It seems that almost every person I've ever met collects something. I wonder what makes us choose one item and then compulsively keep buying variations on the same theme. I wonder what the things we choose to surround ourselves with say about us as people? I guess there is probably some deep psychological reason why this person collects holsteins for the kitchen, Barbies, or clocks. Some psychologist should write a book about that, perhaps. There's probably already an annoying email forward about it. :)
Well, I guess I've probably exhaused this topic, but I just wanted to throw it out there.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Wide Open Spaces
"The poetry of the earth is never dead." -- John Keats
Today, I had a dark epiphany about myself. I won't go into the details, but I learned something unpleasant about my personality. I am still processing the information, but I suddenly want to run away. I want to find a place where there is nothing but me and some trees until I get this dealt with.
I use Webshots for my screensaver and wallpaper on my computer. I have put it on every computer I've ever had. I love the scenic nature shots. They remind me there are so many beautiful places in the world to see.
I wish I could just dive into the screen like a figure in a surrealist painting or a cartoon character. Wouldn't it be amazing to escape like that? There are two pictures in particular that call to me. One is this avenue of oaks and the light streaming through them is golden. I want so much to be walking beneath those oaks and hear the sound of wind rustling their leaves.
Another is a beach somewhere in Costa Rica. As a general rule, I am not a beach person, but this shot is at sunset and the purples and reds make it look like a scene from another world. I want to go sit there in that twilight and let the waves gradually eat away this problem like a sandcastle at high tide.
I think I'm going to go take a long, hot shower and walk on my beach and down my tree-lined path in my mind. Perhaps the solace of nature can be gained vicariously.
Today, I had a dark epiphany about myself. I won't go into the details, but I learned something unpleasant about my personality. I am still processing the information, but I suddenly want to run away. I want to find a place where there is nothing but me and some trees until I get this dealt with.
I use Webshots for my screensaver and wallpaper on my computer. I have put it on every computer I've ever had. I love the scenic nature shots. They remind me there are so many beautiful places in the world to see.
I wish I could just dive into the screen like a figure in a surrealist painting or a cartoon character. Wouldn't it be amazing to escape like that? There are two pictures in particular that call to me. One is this avenue of oaks and the light streaming through them is golden. I want so much to be walking beneath those oaks and hear the sound of wind rustling their leaves.
Another is a beach somewhere in Costa Rica. As a general rule, I am not a beach person, but this shot is at sunset and the purples and reds make it look like a scene from another world. I want to go sit there in that twilight and let the waves gradually eat away this problem like a sandcastle at high tide.
I think I'm going to go take a long, hot shower and walk on my beach and down my tree-lined path in my mind. Perhaps the solace of nature can be gained vicariously.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Poetry
"Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes." -- Carl Sandburg
I submitted three poems to a local literary contest. It's been a long, long time since I've submitted anything for competition. I'm not sure how polished they are. I wish more than I can say that I still had a mentor to help me revise. My college creative writing teacher was amazing. Everyone probably thinks theirs was wonderful, but this professor didn't pull any punches, and he helped me burn away the dross.
It's a local contest, and most of the things I've written are NOT local material, so they might go over like the proverbial lead balloon. I don't know. I'll throw them out and see if they survive.
I haven't written anything new since I left Japan. I have often thought that poetry has to live on pain, and I decided a long time ago that I'd rather be happier than a great poet. I'm not going to chase the knife's blade to fill my bottle with heart's blood ink.
Still, I have ideas in my head, and I need to channel them. Maybe this will revive the juices. My best poems are about my travels. For some reason, I draw a lot of inspiration from the places I go. I guess the travel poems become the souvenirs I'll never break, sell, or give away.
I have to keep it short tonight because I'm so tired. Maybe there will be more tomorrow.
I submitted three poems to a local literary contest. It's been a long, long time since I've submitted anything for competition. I'm not sure how polished they are. I wish more than I can say that I still had a mentor to help me revise. My college creative writing teacher was amazing. Everyone probably thinks theirs was wonderful, but this professor didn't pull any punches, and he helped me burn away the dross.
It's a local contest, and most of the things I've written are NOT local material, so they might go over like the proverbial lead balloon. I don't know. I'll throw them out and see if they survive.
I haven't written anything new since I left Japan. I have often thought that poetry has to live on pain, and I decided a long time ago that I'd rather be happier than a great poet. I'm not going to chase the knife's blade to fill my bottle with heart's blood ink.
Still, I have ideas in my head, and I need to channel them. Maybe this will revive the juices. My best poems are about my travels. For some reason, I draw a lot of inspiration from the places I go. I guess the travel poems become the souvenirs I'll never break, sell, or give away.
I have to keep it short tonight because I'm so tired. Maybe there will be more tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Shakespeare
"Education is a better safeguard of liberty than a standing army." -- Edward Everett
I am trying to make some 80-odd tenth graders see the beauty and power of Shakespeare. It's hard to convince kids who have trouble with the slippery subtleties of Standard English that it's worth hacking through the archaic vocabulary to get to the character and plot gems beneath. I honestly can't blame them for their reluctance. For them, it's like studying a foreign language. We're approaching it in that way. I think in another two generations, a total re-evaluation of our high school teaching canon is going to be necessary, or a new way of approaching this material is going to have to be developed. We don't expect regular students to approach Chaucer or the Pearl Poet in their original idiom. I don't know how much longer Shakespeare is going to work that way, either.
I will probably get about a million responses to this attacking me for not taking the "intellectual high road" that maintains the almost holy virtue with which some people try to endow Shakespeare. To stave some of that off, I want to say how much I enjoy his works. I find his puns funny. I love the fact that so much of his humor is earthy and aimed at the common man. I love his flawed heroes and heroines. I love the freshness of his plots, even after 400 years of badly-done performance, adaptation, and reinvention. I love the originality of his images, his comparisons, and his poetry. I think my students should be exposed to him to open their minds and make them consider some of those immortal issues he uses as themes. All that being said, Shakespeare, while inspired, is not divine, and many of my kids really, really hate him.
When there's a language barrier of the magnitude I'm talking about, no comprehension happens. Granted, there needs to be more effort on the part of many of my students. That would help. However, many are trying very hard and are running up against language so complex and incomprehensible that it might as well be Latin or Provencal. It's not just Shakespeare. Other, later works have defeated my kids. Poe was problematic. His syllable heavy prose needed translation for them. I can't imagine trying to get through Hawthorne, yet I know they'll have to meet him next year in eleventh grade. It's not a fault of the work. I refuse to call it a "fault" in my kids. They simply aren't ready for this stuff.
This brings me to the core of my dilemma, and the dilemma all the English teachers I've spoken with lately have also expressed. Do we try to find readings that are on their level, or do we press on, knowing that much of what we do will have to be simplified and stripped down to be comprehensible? When my kids came to me, many of them were reading 3 or more grade levels behind. (Shocked gasp--for shame--bad teachers--poor educational system) Regardless of the whys, which I ABSOLUTELY am not getting into tonight, I have to try to figure out what to do with them where they are. I'm taking the strip it down and do the best we can approach because I believe they can do it with help, but I can't say it's not a hard path.
Is it right to try to give them this stuff when it's so far above some of them? Am I trying to feed a bottle baby solid foods? They're not babies, and they are so conscious of being behind. I want them to keep reaching up and to see that although it might be hard, it's by no means out of their reach. I just have to keep reminding myself that their struggles are going to build proficiency. It's very hard.
Mostly, I want them to have a good experience with the work. One bad experience with literature is enough to turn these fragile new readers away from it for good. I want them to come away with a sense of control and (God help me for using edu-lingo) empowerment. They should never have to be afraid of the printed page. It should always be a source of pleasure and growth. So, we are carefully walking through the streets of ancient Rome hand-in-hand. I am doing the very best I can. I only hope it's going to be enough.
I am trying to make some 80-odd tenth graders see the beauty and power of Shakespeare. It's hard to convince kids who have trouble with the slippery subtleties of Standard English that it's worth hacking through the archaic vocabulary to get to the character and plot gems beneath. I honestly can't blame them for their reluctance. For them, it's like studying a foreign language. We're approaching it in that way. I think in another two generations, a total re-evaluation of our high school teaching canon is going to be necessary, or a new way of approaching this material is going to have to be developed. We don't expect regular students to approach Chaucer or the Pearl Poet in their original idiom. I don't know how much longer Shakespeare is going to work that way, either.
I will probably get about a million responses to this attacking me for not taking the "intellectual high road" that maintains the almost holy virtue with which some people try to endow Shakespeare. To stave some of that off, I want to say how much I enjoy his works. I find his puns funny. I love the fact that so much of his humor is earthy and aimed at the common man. I love his flawed heroes and heroines. I love the freshness of his plots, even after 400 years of badly-done performance, adaptation, and reinvention. I love the originality of his images, his comparisons, and his poetry. I think my students should be exposed to him to open their minds and make them consider some of those immortal issues he uses as themes. All that being said, Shakespeare, while inspired, is not divine, and many of my kids really, really hate him.
When there's a language barrier of the magnitude I'm talking about, no comprehension happens. Granted, there needs to be more effort on the part of many of my students. That would help. However, many are trying very hard and are running up against language so complex and incomprehensible that it might as well be Latin or Provencal. It's not just Shakespeare. Other, later works have defeated my kids. Poe was problematic. His syllable heavy prose needed translation for them. I can't imagine trying to get through Hawthorne, yet I know they'll have to meet him next year in eleventh grade. It's not a fault of the work. I refuse to call it a "fault" in my kids. They simply aren't ready for this stuff.
This brings me to the core of my dilemma, and the dilemma all the English teachers I've spoken with lately have also expressed. Do we try to find readings that are on their level, or do we press on, knowing that much of what we do will have to be simplified and stripped down to be comprehensible? When my kids came to me, many of them were reading 3 or more grade levels behind. (Shocked gasp--for shame--bad teachers--poor educational system) Regardless of the whys, which I ABSOLUTELY am not getting into tonight, I have to try to figure out what to do with them where they are. I'm taking the strip it down and do the best we can approach because I believe they can do it with help, but I can't say it's not a hard path.
Is it right to try to give them this stuff when it's so far above some of them? Am I trying to feed a bottle baby solid foods? They're not babies, and they are so conscious of being behind. I want them to keep reaching up and to see that although it might be hard, it's by no means out of their reach. I just have to keep reminding myself that their struggles are going to build proficiency. It's very hard.
Mostly, I want them to have a good experience with the work. One bad experience with literature is enough to turn these fragile new readers away from it for good. I want them to come away with a sense of control and (God help me for using edu-lingo) empowerment. They should never have to be afraid of the printed page. It should always be a source of pleasure and growth. So, we are carefully walking through the streets of ancient Rome hand-in-hand. I am doing the very best I can. I only hope it's going to be enough.
Monday, February 14, 2005
The Flu and The Birthday
"Eat right, exercise regularly, die anyway." -- Unknown
Two different kinds of flu have been going around school, and have managed to wipe out about half our students. I caught one strand of it myself last Wednesday, and it knocked me down for four days. I'm only just now beginning to get back on my feet again.
I haven't been sick like this since I had some kind of whacked out Asian flu in Japan. I came home from school when classes let out on Wednesday, and I'm kind of amazed and frightened to say that I have no recollection of the drive home except that I remember yelling along the way because the fever was making my legs ache so badly. Hmmm....hand of God, anyone? The next two days passed in the same sort of hazy, medicated and unconscious manner. I got a lot of good sleep, and my cats were thrilled beyond belief to have an overheated and totally supine presence in the bed twenty-four-seven.
I managed to come around for my birthday on Sunday. It wasn't bad. This is the first one in quite a long time that hasn't been total crap. I'm hoping this is the start of a new trend...sickness ends...birthday doesn't suck.... good things ahead.
Some of my friends in a class I teach brought me a huge birthday cake on Sunday. It was so sweet and unexpected. I was able to share it with several other people at the church, and it was really nice.
The weather today was so great and springy. I was able to open the windows of my room to let some of the contagion out. As I was driving home, I realized how comfortable I was with the world in general. Even though I am still rundown from the flu, for the first time in a long time, I felt good about being who I am and doing what I'm doing where I'm doing it. I don't know if my birthday gift from God was the wisdom to be at peace in my own skin AT LAST, or if this is just a sickness-induced lull, but I'm looking forward to the year ahead.
Two different kinds of flu have been going around school, and have managed to wipe out about half our students. I caught one strand of it myself last Wednesday, and it knocked me down for four days. I'm only just now beginning to get back on my feet again.
I haven't been sick like this since I had some kind of whacked out Asian flu in Japan. I came home from school when classes let out on Wednesday, and I'm kind of amazed and frightened to say that I have no recollection of the drive home except that I remember yelling along the way because the fever was making my legs ache so badly. Hmmm....hand of God, anyone? The next two days passed in the same sort of hazy, medicated and unconscious manner. I got a lot of good sleep, and my cats were thrilled beyond belief to have an overheated and totally supine presence in the bed twenty-four-seven.
I managed to come around for my birthday on Sunday. It wasn't bad. This is the first one in quite a long time that hasn't been total crap. I'm hoping this is the start of a new trend...sickness ends...birthday doesn't suck.... good things ahead.
Some of my friends in a class I teach brought me a huge birthday cake on Sunday. It was so sweet and unexpected. I was able to share it with several other people at the church, and it was really nice.
The weather today was so great and springy. I was able to open the windows of my room to let some of the contagion out. As I was driving home, I realized how comfortable I was with the world in general. Even though I am still rundown from the flu, for the first time in a long time, I felt good about being who I am and doing what I'm doing where I'm doing it. I don't know if my birthday gift from God was the wisdom to be at peace in my own skin AT LAST, or if this is just a sickness-induced lull, but I'm looking forward to the year ahead.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Dreams
"I am accustomed to sleep and in my dreams to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake." -- Descartes
I have always had vivid dreams, and most of the time, they stay with me long past waking. I don't know why this is. I have one friend who almost never remembers any of her dreams. Maybe it has something to do with how deeply one sleeps. She always slept like a rock, and nothing, not even people pounding on the outside walls of our apartment (another story, dear reader, another story) would wake her. I, on the other hand, sleep fairly lightly, especially if I'm in a place I don't know well. Maybe that's why the dreams stay with me.
My dreams have always been odd. That's no doubt due to my reading tastes and my overactive imagination. I've never minded it, and frequently wished that I could just get the images on paper and into publication. I remember a friend of mine telling me he could make a fortune if he could just hook me up to a machine that would turn that stuff into print.
Lately, my dreams have been dark and wild in a way they haven't been in years. The last two nights have been especially strange. Maybe it's because I'm flirting with a sinus infection and my routine's been off. I wonder if it's not something to do with the phase of the moon or some other ambient factor, though, because one of my students told me about a weird dream he'd had, and there just seems to be "something" in the air.
Last night's dream took place, as dreams will, in several places, jumping around. The dominant image I remember was a platform-type tree house with fabric walls that was where I was staying for the summer. There was a storm coming in, but several people who I knew in the dream, but have no idea whom they might be in the real world, were in the tent, too. It was like some kind of summer camp/retreat. I remember the lushness of the color. Everything was too rich, like fruit just before it becomes overripe. The light flickered through the trees and traced patterns on the white fabric of the tree tent's walls. I remember everything. The beds were metal cots with squeaky springs. The linens were old, soft, and white. I had an old quilt on the bed like the one my great-grandmother made. There was a windchime we'd hung from a treebranch. That was one of the primary sounds in the dream. It played three notes over and over.
There were other platforms up in the trees. There were several together, and one of them had a Japanese-style tub. That part I can trace to the source. Hardly a shower goes past that I don't miss my deep tub from Japan. The other parts are a mystery.
My platform tent was on the outskirts of the camp. The others kept trying to get me to move in closer, but I liked the tent I had. They were worried that something was coming with the storm. The thing I remember most was knowing they were right, knowing I should have been scared, too, and knowing that I wanted to meet what was coming more than anything else I could think of.
When the storm came, the white fabric of the tent was magically waterproof. (How convenient.) I sat on the old quilt and waited for the something to arrive. The sound of the windchimes multiplied and another sound like 100s of bamboo windchimes joined them. The sounds were soft at first, and I remember hearing some of the others calling me to run because "he" was coming.
Suddenly, I saw him walking through the rain and trees. He was walking slowly and touching the leaves. The wet didn't seem to touch him. When I saw him, I knew him. I knew he was coming to see me, even though he was wondering around seemingly without purpose. I knew his face. He was beautiful. I knew his walk, graceful, silent, ground-eating without effort. More than anything, I wanted to talk to him. I had to hear his voice.
That, of course, was not to be. The strident pulse of my alarm clock went off before I he got further than the base of the tree in which my platform stood. I guess I'll never know what he sounds like. Maybe one day I'll write a voice for him and finish his story.
I have always had vivid dreams, and most of the time, they stay with me long past waking. I don't know why this is. I have one friend who almost never remembers any of her dreams. Maybe it has something to do with how deeply one sleeps. She always slept like a rock, and nothing, not even people pounding on the outside walls of our apartment (another story, dear reader, another story) would wake her. I, on the other hand, sleep fairly lightly, especially if I'm in a place I don't know well. Maybe that's why the dreams stay with me.
My dreams have always been odd. That's no doubt due to my reading tastes and my overactive imagination. I've never minded it, and frequently wished that I could just get the images on paper and into publication. I remember a friend of mine telling me he could make a fortune if he could just hook me up to a machine that would turn that stuff into print.
Lately, my dreams have been dark and wild in a way they haven't been in years. The last two nights have been especially strange. Maybe it's because I'm flirting with a sinus infection and my routine's been off. I wonder if it's not something to do with the phase of the moon or some other ambient factor, though, because one of my students told me about a weird dream he'd had, and there just seems to be "something" in the air.
Last night's dream took place, as dreams will, in several places, jumping around. The dominant image I remember was a platform-type tree house with fabric walls that was where I was staying for the summer. There was a storm coming in, but several people who I knew in the dream, but have no idea whom they might be in the real world, were in the tent, too. It was like some kind of summer camp/retreat. I remember the lushness of the color. Everything was too rich, like fruit just before it becomes overripe. The light flickered through the trees and traced patterns on the white fabric of the tree tent's walls. I remember everything. The beds were metal cots with squeaky springs. The linens were old, soft, and white. I had an old quilt on the bed like the one my great-grandmother made. There was a windchime we'd hung from a treebranch. That was one of the primary sounds in the dream. It played three notes over and over.
There were other platforms up in the trees. There were several together, and one of them had a Japanese-style tub. That part I can trace to the source. Hardly a shower goes past that I don't miss my deep tub from Japan. The other parts are a mystery.
My platform tent was on the outskirts of the camp. The others kept trying to get me to move in closer, but I liked the tent I had. They were worried that something was coming with the storm. The thing I remember most was knowing they were right, knowing I should have been scared, too, and knowing that I wanted to meet what was coming more than anything else I could think of.
When the storm came, the white fabric of the tent was magically waterproof. (How convenient.) I sat on the old quilt and waited for the something to arrive. The sound of the windchimes multiplied and another sound like 100s of bamboo windchimes joined them. The sounds were soft at first, and I remember hearing some of the others calling me to run because "he" was coming.
Suddenly, I saw him walking through the rain and trees. He was walking slowly and touching the leaves. The wet didn't seem to touch him. When I saw him, I knew him. I knew he was coming to see me, even though he was wondering around seemingly without purpose. I knew his face. He was beautiful. I knew his walk, graceful, silent, ground-eating without effort. More than anything, I wanted to talk to him. I had to hear his voice.
That, of course, was not to be. The strident pulse of my alarm clock went off before I he got further than the base of the tree in which my platform stood. I guess I'll never know what he sounds like. Maybe one day I'll write a voice for him and finish his story.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Random musings from a day out of school
"Day, n. A period of twenty-four hours, mostly misspent." -- Ambrose Bierce
I went to get my CPR certification renewed today. I had to take a full day off work to go do it, and I spent the better part of the day cooped up in a too-cold room around gray-speckled plastic folding tables watching students from the local community college nursing program rudely sleep through the presentation. If I'm ever really sick, I hope that none of them is ever in charge of keeping me alive. Everything I did could have been done in about 30 minutes, but par for the course, it went on for 4 hours instead.
I bought myself a new microwave today. On the global scale of indulgences, I'm sure it doesn't rate very high, but I love it. It's brushed stainless steel, and it looks so nice. My old microwave had gotten very scary. Paint was coming off the inside, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get it clean anymore. I microwaved a potato in it tonight for its inaugural run. It cooked the whole potato. That combined with the lack of the bright orange glow coming out of the back.... just kidding. It's great. Now, though, I want the refridgerator that matches.
I have gotten very deeply into my kitchen. For the first time in a long time, I feel like cooking and taking care of the house. I have been looking around on eBay for brightly colored 50's tablecloths, and I recently bought the cutest dropleaf table that I'm trying to refinish. I wish I knew more about tools and such so I could make some big changes, but that's not an option right now.
The house we were in for the CPR training was fabulous. It's a turn-of-the-century two story in an area with a lot of historic, but slightly run-down, houses that are being reclaimed by dentists and other businesses. The Red Cross just got this one and is still in the process of finishing things. The ceilings were about 20 ft, and coffered. The window hardware, the light switches, and even the fireplace lamps were all original. I know I was drooling. What would it be like to live in one of those wonderful old palaces? Even the downstairs, off the kitchen bathroom was amazing. It had a pedestal sink with some of the neatest hardware I've ever seen, modern or vintage. I wish I could have stuck it the whole thing in my purse and walked out. Since the sink stood about 3 1/2 feet tall, I don't think that would have worked. Someday, I hope I can find fixtures like that for my own house.
Now, even though I have huge, vast amounts of school work waiting, I'm going to take a shower and read for awhile. Of course, tomorrow I'll have to play catch-up, but I think it's worth it on a rainy night like tonight.
I went to get my CPR certification renewed today. I had to take a full day off work to go do it, and I spent the better part of the day cooped up in a too-cold room around gray-speckled plastic folding tables watching students from the local community college nursing program rudely sleep through the presentation. If I'm ever really sick, I hope that none of them is ever in charge of keeping me alive. Everything I did could have been done in about 30 minutes, but par for the course, it went on for 4 hours instead.
I bought myself a new microwave today. On the global scale of indulgences, I'm sure it doesn't rate very high, but I love it. It's brushed stainless steel, and it looks so nice. My old microwave had gotten very scary. Paint was coming off the inside, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get it clean anymore. I microwaved a potato in it tonight for its inaugural run. It cooked the whole potato. That combined with the lack of the bright orange glow coming out of the back.... just kidding. It's great. Now, though, I want the refridgerator that matches.
I have gotten very deeply into my kitchen. For the first time in a long time, I feel like cooking and taking care of the house. I have been looking around on eBay for brightly colored 50's tablecloths, and I recently bought the cutest dropleaf table that I'm trying to refinish. I wish I knew more about tools and such so I could make some big changes, but that's not an option right now.
The house we were in for the CPR training was fabulous. It's a turn-of-the-century two story in an area with a lot of historic, but slightly run-down, houses that are being reclaimed by dentists and other businesses. The Red Cross just got this one and is still in the process of finishing things. The ceilings were about 20 ft, and coffered. The window hardware, the light switches, and even the fireplace lamps were all original. I know I was drooling. What would it be like to live in one of those wonderful old palaces? Even the downstairs, off the kitchen bathroom was amazing. It had a pedestal sink with some of the neatest hardware I've ever seen, modern or vintage. I wish I could have stuck it the whole thing in my purse and walked out. Since the sink stood about 3 1/2 feet tall, I don't think that would have worked. Someday, I hope I can find fixtures like that for my own house.
Now, even though I have huge, vast amounts of school work waiting, I'm going to take a shower and read for awhile. Of course, tomorrow I'll have to play catch-up, but I think it's worth it on a rainy night like tonight.
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