A Little Sweeter Than Bitter

It was fun meeting Number Ten's P-Units, and not just because they brought a pie and a Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle with them! Her sweet dad even gave me some book recommendations. The only tense moment was when I couldn't come up with a Seventh Sister. (Barnard. Shoot.)

Because I intend to finish off all of my vacations days, I only have 19 work days left! Whoa, dogie! I am looking forward to forgetting how to fax, replace copy machine toner, cower in front of the mean post office lady, fix a paper shredder, and live down to expectations. To be true, though, I've learned a lot that I'd like to remember in this year of generally unsatisfying work, and I've gotten to work with terrific people.

So, the end will be bittersweet. (But a little sweeter than bitter.) And July stretches out in front of me like a blank canvas. An unexplored road. An unclimbed mountain. An unread book. A fresh tube of Listerine toothpaste after an unexpected bite of low-grade Italian-American salami.

Saturday morning I head to Boston to see Hey Man. She says she has plans for us for Saturday evening, which is alarming. I'm not sure I'm still able to party like these fresh college graduates. And I haven't been in a big city since I was in Montreal with my mother (South Hadley doesn't count, right?). I'm actually a little nervous about the traffic, crime, and stylish clothing.

One Year Here, Dear

Yesterday marked my one-year anniversary of Vermont residency. To celebrate, Number Ten and I ate some Brussels sprouts and pistachio ice cream.

Like, mixed together*. It was gross.

Tonight I meet Ten's parents. Fortunately, I have a ready list of conversation topics, including politics, religion, the death penalty, euthanasia, ear mites, sweatshops, irritable bowel syndrome, and the Teletubbies. Number Ten seems nervous, but I can't understand why.

*Mom, I'm kidding.

Weekend Photos

Linksmith ('06)

Route52 ('06)

Rocky South ('05), Number Ten (10), Oldsmobile ('06)

Hey Man ('07)

Tenacious C ('07) and son

I love all of you folks.

So... Much... Driving...

Laurel Parade was a hoot, but it made me realize how much I miss all of the 'Yokers I no longer see on a regular basis. It all felt eerily like it did one year ago. The only new thing was having to convince Number Ten that she didn't need to take a picture of every type of tree on campus.

The next day Number Ten and I drove to Bran Muffin's graduation party out in Cabot, Vermont. We arrived a few hours late, after I had finished getting the time wrong and pulling up at the wrong house. While there, I accidentally ate a piece of pepperoni in the pasta salad that Cara ('05) had assured me was vegetarian. "What is this familiar, yet troublesome, taste?" I asked myself. "Why this sudden deluge of memories of second grade pizza parties?" The Listerine toothpaste could not make its appearance soon enough.

All these road trips! The next time I'm behind the wheel, it better be a wheel of Cabot sharp cheddar cheese. Oh well, at least gas is cheap right now.

The Best Laid Plans of Nice Women

Yesterday Number Ten sent me a copy of my social calendar for the next two months. (Yes, I'm dating another Planner. Is this really going to work out?) Anyway, have a look:

May 25-26: South Hadley, Massachusetts (with Ten)
June 2-4: Boston, Massachusetts (to see Peruvian Hey Man)
June 9-11: Brunswick, Maine (to see Cousin Sarah)
July 1-7: Louisiana (Mom and Dad)
July 13-15: New York state with Ten (Ten's family)
late July: Seattle and Portland? (to see Godfather Peter, perhaps Court-Be-Bort)
August 6: DMS Orientation begins

Also, starting June 15 I'll be living in my new place in Norwich. I'll also be starting a new chapter in my life: The Carbon Footprint from Hell.

All This Marching!

On Monday night, Cara ('04), Number Ten, and I met up for a Thai dinner in Montpelier. Afterward, when we were aimlessly strolling around the bustling capitol city, a few demonstrators asked us to join them in a Take Back the Night march. "Well, why not?" replied Cara, and we soon found ourselves gathering outside City Hall with a handful of other protesters, including The Raging Grannies.

We wound up actually leading the march, walking directly posterior to the cop car. (I wonder if Montpelier has more than one cop car?) I'm not a terrific protester, so the most I could do was throw together a few claps and a little skip every once in a while. My fellow agitators seemed equally uncomfortable, particularly when the camera crews (by which I mean a single cameraman) showed up. I guess we just can't rouse the rabble like we used to.

Speaking of marching, this Friday, Number Ten and I are headed down to South Hadley, Massachusetts. Saturday morning is my alma mater's annual Laurel Parade. I think this event will be a good way to introduce Ten to Mount Holyoke. It's not excessive dorm room drinking, it's not spending 44 hours of the weekend in the library wearing the same clothes, it's not swearing at the cold while lingering far too long over dinner at the student center... it's octogenarians clad all in white, smiling and singing a suffragette song. Boy, am I going to trick her!

I Went to New York and Got Stoned

Yesterday Number Ten and I took the ferry to New York state to visit a couple of her acquaintances in Wadhamshire. We passed a happy afternoon on their lovely estate, strolled around their park, and dined on a robust lasagna before making our departure, full of effusions of gratitude, solicitations for their future good health and happiness, and requests that they write often by letterpost. As a native of Louisianashire, I still consider New York far-away and exotic, and the concept of being in Vermont, then New York, then Vermont lends itself to my own quiet felicity.

(We've also been reading Pride and Prejudice in our spare time.)

Last night at the soup kitchen I spoke to a male guest who told me he was worth trillions in exotic stones. I heard him out, and I have to say, he was nothing if not convincing. He keeps the stones in a tan bag hanging from his belt. At the end of our conversation he handed me an "orange quartz, worth 1.7 trillion dollars."

Needless to say, I inhaled sharply, pocketed the stone, and chose my words carefully. "That's the most generous present I've ever received, friend. Thank you. My own mother won't even send me an Easter basket."

He Just Doesn't Fall Well With Me

Well, I do hope Heaven was everything Jerry Falwell was expecting. Somehow I can't help but hope that he gets rainbow-colored wings and a halo that looks something like this:



Also severe diarrhea.

Well Aren't We Efficient?

Word of the Day: Craugh

Craugh (intransitive verb): To laugh and cry at the same time.

So, today I went down to the Upper Valley (that sounds funny) to see about getting me some housing. I looked at apartment after apartment, but none really compared to the first one I had seen. It's a cute efficiency in Norwich, Vermont, about three miles from campus. It's within walking distance of the town pool (a dammed up stream) and the country store, and it's on a two-mile running loop.

After coming to my decision, I went to my future landlord's house to drop off my deposit. Then I left.

And backed over his mailbox.

The terrific noise, his mail scattered all over the street, the gaping hole in his front yard, the passersby staring at me with curiosity... Something told me it was time to craugh.

Fiddlehead: the Other F-Word

Rocky, Olds, and I spent our Saturday morning gathering supplies for a late lunch which was to consist of a salad, olive bread, goat cheese, and homemade rhubarb ice cream. Unfortunately, we never got to the ice cream, never mind to the rest of the day. About twenty minutes after finishing our salad and bread, we had this exchange:

Olds: Would it be okay if I sat down for a second?
EFC: Sure. Rocky, do you feel a little bit like you could throw up?
Rocky: Would it be bad if I said I did?
EFC: Actually I feel like I'm going to throw up too.
Olds: I feel like I'm going to throw up too!

We did not have to think hard to determine the culprit: the fiddleheads we had bought from a (clearly depraved) woman at the downtown farmer's market.

I called Poison Control, where I was informed that we should have boiled the fiddleheads for 20 minutes before eating them. I do wish the woman at the farmer's market had mentioned this to us, especially since I explicitly said to her, "This is our first fiddlehead experience" and she told us to "just saute them a little."

We spent the rest of the day feeling like we were going to throw up at Number Ten's house, feeling like we were going to throw up in T-Babe, feeling like we were going to throw up at the Mobil Short Stop, actually throwing up on some rocks in my backyard, feeling like we were going to throw up in my bed, and feeling like we were going to throw up on the sofa bed in the living room, where we finally retreated to watch a movie and remain near the bathroom.

Although the Poison Control man told us that our flu-like symptoms would last 12 hours, I awoke this morning to more symptoms and a mad dash to the toilet.

Needless to say, this isn't exactly how I envisioned my fun weekend with Rocky and Olds. But, golly, if I had to be a complete slave to my gastrointestinal affairs with two people, they are the ones I would have picked. Our miserable afternoon and evening were peppered with long laughing sessions about the mess we had gotten ourselves into. Except for a few grim chats about whether we might actually die, we have remained as upbeat as we could have under the circumstances.

You Guest It

Most delightfully, I am presently preparing for two out-of-town visitors! Rocky South ('05) and Oldsmobile ('06) are driving up from Massachusetts to pass a sunny Vermont weekend with me. We've been trying to work this visit out for a long time, so it's hard to believe they'll be here in a little over an hour.

Monday I'm going to take off work and drive down to New Hampshire to meet with five (!) different landlords about six different apartments. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those days that leaves one's (fake) smile muscles sore. I'll do my best to look like someone who doesn't forget to leave the stove on or bring the recycling out in her underwear.

In other news, one reason my mom's Mother's Day present might be late is that I sent it to her street address in Shelburne, Vermont. Oh, shoot! I wonder if that's what happened to my Easter Basket?

EFC Attempts Voice-Recognition Software

Below, update using voice recognition software. It doesn't seem to be working that well, but at least I can now use my hands to do other things like. Yet, I don't happened the second offering, at least I could do the mockery nova mockery. No the Macarena Atlantic's note no the Macarena dance right. What I'm saying is that now I can update my blog into the Macarena at the same time. Good grief, and give a bit of a idea of I. Sarandon surrender no surrender. I surrender.

Your Ology is My Ology

Not everyone experiences Asparagus Pee, so friends who tell you they don't may not be lying. (Although they probably are.) While the ability to produce Asparagus Pee varies genetically, so does the ability to actually smell Asparagus Pee. Therefore, just because a person believes his or her urine is odorless doesn't mean it actually is.

I, unfortunately enough, am one of those individuals who can both produce and detect Asparagus Pee. I mention this because last night Number Ten cooked dinner for a friend and me, and what did she serve? You guessed it.

If I were to ask Ten why she thought it appropriate to feed us a green of such a private and delicate nature, she would probably reply "Because it's chock full of folic acid and phytonutrients, because it's good, because it can be grilled." Something like that.

Ha! She probably expects me to fall for that hook, line, and sinker, like the time she convinced me to pay her three marbles and a broken kite for the privilege of whitewashing her entire front-yard fence while she sat on a barrel in the shade and ate an apple.

But I'm on to her.

Feeding someone asparagus for dinner is like giving someone a magazine subscription for Christmas. In the latter case, once a month the receiver is reminded of your wonderful generosity and thoughtfulness (despite the fact that you are half a decade too old for Seventeen. Although maybe you wouldn't mind reading about The Most Perfect Pair of Jeans For Your Unique Shape.)

It's the same with the asparagus. You can bet your boots that Number Ten is counting on me remembering her finely prepared dinner every time I relieve myself for the next 12 hours, which will be over 24 times.

Oh, Number Ten. You're so transparent.

What A Bunch of Heathens

Tonight I went to a talk at my church called "UU Views on God," at which five members of the clergy shared their personal views on the divine. They pretty much dealt with the issue by synonymizing God: "the lack of separation," "interrelational liveliness," "erotic somesuch," "a really exceptional burrito," "what you pray to when you can't find your wallet."

Actually, that last one was mine. Anyway, in the course of the discussion I was reminded of a Jack Handey Deep Thought:

"I'll be the first to admit that my idea of God is pretty different. I believe in a God with a long white beard, a gold crown, and a long robe with lots of shiny jewels on it. He sits on a big throne in the clouds, and He's about five hundred feet tall. He talks in a real deep voice like "I...AM...GOD!" He can blow up stuff just by looking at it. This is my own, personal idea of God."

What's Going On?!?

I still haven't showered!

Is this a depressive episode? Laziness? Unconscious (but commendable) water conservation?

I spent last night in a strange house, on a strange sofa, in someone else's sleeping bag. Typically upon returning home from such an evening I would have had the shower running before I had even put down my overnight bag. From whence derives this Hygiene Hiatus?

Hi, I'm EFC, FirstLouisiana ThenCollegeMassachusetts NowNon-ProfitVermont. You?

Nothing on this planet can make me feel as "peopled out" as a medical school admissions event. All the smiling, all the names, all the thirty-second life histories, all the awkward silences. All the ginger ale. Nevertheless, I'm really glad I went to the Admitted Students' Weekend. My future classmates seem great and the current students seem laid back and happy.

Most of the events were lectures and Powerpoint presentations, with the exception of one hopping party at which I was decidedly not hopping. (I'd venture to say that I will never be comfortable dancing to Timbaland in a room full of strangers.)

In other news, I haven't showered in 36 hours, a record I haven't met since summer camp in the early 90's.

In other news, I evidently came by my compulsive planning honestly. My mother is already requesting information from retirements homes. She is 49.

You're Not The Floss of Me

Management at Agent Yellow's workplace gave her a plant for Administrative Professionals' Week. A plant! All I got was a few requests to send faxes, half of an old Chinese chicken* dish, and the February issue of Reader's Digest. (Needless to say, I can't wait to tell my co-workers about this plant.)

Speaking of work, Monday evening I went to an office party at a local restaurant. Here's a tip, readers! Never start an office party off with a poppy seed muffin. You will spend the rest of the evening talking to your co-workers with a black seed in your teeth.

I finally got my snow tires taken off yesterday, so now it's really spring! (Except that it's 39 degrees outside and I've worn a coat to work every day this week.) This morning, injustices of injustices, I must bring T-babe back to El Tire Warehouso to get his lug nuts tightened. Poor thing, he's dreading it.

*No, I'm still a vegetarian.

Happy May Day!

This is a particularly happy first of the month, since I'm back on the Internet. Hear hear! Thanks to Number Ten's mom, who has given me her old laptop, I'm back in business. What a maternal specimen! Rumor has it she even sent Number Ten an Easter basket last month.

Ok, I'm done with the Easter basket thing now. Forgive me, Mom. (As I've forgiven you for not sending me an Easter basket last month.)

Friday I'm taking off work to go down to Dartmouth for Accepted Students Stopover. There I will meet some future classmates and begin snooping around for a place to live come August. A big, roomy place in which I will be able to fit my bed, my one bowl, and my happy light.

In other news, Agent Yellow has finished Boot Camp and is tougher than ever, this time with a certificate of completion to prove it. (Blog readers, you know me. I have no intention of letting Yeller be the only one in this apartment with a certificate of completion. I want to make myself my own certificate to hang next to hers. I just can't think of anything I've completed in the last six months, including my taxes and shaving my legs.)

Tonight Number Ten and I are going to a lecture on Lime Disease. I'm sure I will leave with a renewed vow to eat fewer green citrus fruits and to abstain from margaritas.