Watch out for that tree!

This blog was supposed to be about the awesome little (40 minute) road trip that W and I took on a whim this Saturday, but that will have to wait.

You see, I'm a little distracted by the giant hackberry tree that fell on my office and partially on my car earlier today.

You see, the day already wasn't going that well. I recently took over doing the finances for the museum on top of everything else. I was excited for the opportunity to learn a new aspect of running a business, but I think I was a little too confident. There are some days when I just key in a few numbers and hope for the best.

Well, its not that bad, but it seems like it to me through the number haze.

When the tree fell, I was on the phone with my treasurer attempting to explain the financial reports that I barely understood myself. And then I heard scratching over my head. At first, it sounded like a very large animal was doing calisthenics in the attic and then it was pretty obvious that a tree was falling on the roof. My coworker ran out the door and started yelling about "a tree!" and "our cars!" as the tree slid off the roof and came to rest on my car. By this point, I was crouched under my desk attempting to put on my boots and coat while hanging up with my treasurer and chanting Hail Marys.

I thought my coworker and I were going to be crushed by a tree--she by the trunk because she was standing outside and me by the collapsing roof. Luckily, none of the above happened. Thank goodness.

My car is okay, too--just a few scratches and some pretty gnarly dents. But it runs and is safe, so I'm okay with that.

It did take the tree company an hour to cut my car out and there is still half of a tree laying on the office roof, but all is well that end's well. The roof is not badly damaged and that makes one less tree to worry about come derecho season. Positivity!

But after it all happened, I started to feel really sorry for myself. It is so hard for me these days to have something like this happen and to not take it personally. I can't help but feel like the universe is moving against me. Its like its trying to show me (and, boy, has it) that I am not where I should be. (And, I totally agree.) I know that I can take these circumstances (did I mention the other two trees that have fallen on the property; or the hardwood floor that had to be replaced; or the two--not one but TWO--cars that hit my previous museum during my tenure; I could keep going) any number of ways. Maybe, its my attitude. Maybe, its my location. My job. Who knows?

I know its not W. He is my everything.

Then, W and I decided we needed Mexican for dinner to help me properly wallow in my self-pity, and it was just awful. The extra large bowl of pico de gallo that I like to shove my face in tasted like soap. Soap! Can you develop that aversion to cilantro overnight?! I hope not! And then, my hard shell beef taco was cold. I had to send it back. I've never even heard of sending food back at a Mexican restaurant.

I took it personally.

And then, there's the cold. Not that I want to talk about it, but it's really freaking cold. Like the Jesus statue on my favorite trail is wearing red gloves it's so cold.

told you...

Our radiators can't keep up, so it is perpetually 60 degrees in our apartment. Luckily, we have an oil heater that I can practically sit on and a heater in the bathroom wall.

So, I'm getting over it all. Right now. Eating chocolate and watching The Biggest Loser. Because, is there any other way to watch The Biggest Loser?

I realize that things could be much, much worse and that is why I am now sitting cozily on top of my heater in doubled-up pajamas and gloves and a hat talking to you all. The pity party is over.

Want to really know what got me out of my funk? Firstly, we are toilet training our cats. Yes, we are teaching them to use the toilet instead of a litter box. Secondly, it is going quite well and we are not at all embarrassed. I mean, we are banking on being litter free in a month. Two cats and litter free?! Miracles!! Tonight was a first for this whole process though. It was the first time that both of the cats and one of us had to use the bathroom at the exact same time. (Oh yeah, there's only one toilet!) I won't say which one of us it was.................... but I got a major kick out of the frantically meowing and pacing cats and the unfortunate human bathroom occupant, the object of the meowing and pacing and door scratching.

I also have something exciting to look forward to this weekend! I am hosting a little Golden Globes party on Sunday. There will be these cheese puffs and this artichoke and feta tart and this raspberry tart. I can't wait to get baking and cooking!

-b

One More Gratuitous Running Post

Are you sick of the running posts yet?

I hope not because you should know that I don't have a life, friends, a husband (well, med school just has most of him), a hobby, children, etc.

What do I have?

My cats. But they hate me, so they don't really count.

TV. There is always TV.

And running.

Yep. That about sums it up.

I still don't like running, but the act of going for a run has gotten easier. I even want to run most of the time. One mile in and I would swear on W's life that I actually never ever wanted to run in the first place and will never ever run again from that point forward.

But I would be lying.

source

Let's talk about this sudden transformation from running-hater to running-tolerator.

Last Thursday was a busy day. I have two parties at work this week, so I was scrambling all last week weeding the gardens, washing china and crystal, taking reservations, etc. I was also trying to get everything squared away so that I could leave at noon on Friday to go out of town for a wedding. I didn't end up leaving work on Thursday until 4:30, which put me walking into the apartment at 4:45. I had a Junior League fundraiser that night at 6 and I had to be there at 6 sharp.

Well, I got home and decided that I needed to go for a run. In fact, I needed--no, wait for it--wanted to do 3 miles.

Who am I????

This meant that I would have to run, cool down, shower, make myself presentable and be out the door by 5:55.

THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN THE PERFECT DAY TO SKIP RUNNING.

What has happened to me?!?!

Before, I would have been rejoicing for such a perfect excuse to not run.

But, nooooooo. This new B wants to run.

I was pumped. I was feeling good. I ran.

And, it sucked. It sucked so bad.

My legs felt like lead pipes. My shins were throbbing. Compartment syndrome crossed my mind as tingles ran up the fronts of my legs threatening to rip open the skin.

I was sputtering. I was limping. I was grunting, dragging my left foot behind me.

But, I was still running, or at least attempting the motions. I was determined to maintain the high that got me out there in the first place.

It didn't work.

source

After the first mile, I thought I would just quit. I rationalized with myself that I didn't really have time to run 3 miles, cool down, shower and get to the fundraiser by 6. I was crazy to think I could manage it. I should just stop now.

But, I didn't. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to finish.

I, too, no longer know myself, apparently. I think I was abducted by aliens or brainwashed or SOMETHING. There is no explanation.

Anyways, I didn't quit. I kept going. Sure, it wasn't my best time, but I finished without dying or worse, stopping.

(Sidenote: Why is it that on those days when you are most pumped to run, you SUCK the worst of your entire life? I blame Newton and his damn laws.)

And then I barely made it to the fundraiser on time, but I was showered and dressed!

Sure, I was sweating clear through my dress and cardigan. Yeah, I was gulping mini bottles of water as everyone else around me sipped their Chardonnays. And I was definitely in the corner dabbing tinted moisturizer on my cheeks to cover the purple-lobster-face-running-induced splotches that plague me. BUT, I was there. AND, I had not made an excellent excuse not to run.

It was a proud moment.

Skip to Monday afternoon--TRAINING DAY ONE.

A day that will now forever live in infamy as THE DAY I TOLD THE WORLD I WOULD START TRAINING AND I DIDN'T. I didn't even run. I didn't even walk.

I am disgusted with myself.

Again, aren't you all just so impressed by my level of commitment to absolutely nothing (except W.. and reality TV)??

I had every intention of running, y'all. Swear. But it was raining. No, pouring. Sure, on my drive home, I passed a few (real) runners, jogging it out on the path, drenched, hair plastered to their skulls, shirts attached to them like shrink wrap, shoes squelching from the flood. I admired them. I thought that maybe I was one of them. Heck, I planned to join them in about ten minutes. High fives were definitely in order. I was a runner, gee dee it.

What I am is a big chicken. I got home. Quickly donned my running gear. Tied my shoes. Put on my IPod arm thingy. Zipped up my rain jacket. Descended the steps. Took one look out the door and slowly turned and made my way back up the stairs. Unzipped my jacket. Took off my IPod arm thingy. And vacuumed the whole apartment.

source

That counts as cardio, right?

Of course, by 8pm, mid-dinner, the sun was out and the earth was smiling. Argh.

Mother Nature! I recycle! Cut me some slack!

So, I didn't run on Monday. And on Tuesday, I worked a dinner party that I had planned, washed dishes, crystal and silverware for, set the tables and chairs for, weeded the garden and pulled all 150 dead tulips for, cleaned the museum and bathrooms for, bartended, semi-waitressed, attended, and then led tours of the museum at the end. That took about 14 hours.

I planned to skip out at about 3pm, mid setup, for a quick 3 mile jaunt to begin my training. Well, at 3pm, I, being the only employee and sole party planner, giver and one of the 18 attendees, was elbows deep in toilets and lemon/lime slicing and silver polishing. No run for B.

I got home at 10pm and was dead-tired.

But I told the Internet I would start training this week!!!!

I decided I would start training on Wednesday.

WRONG. I slept through three alarms, rushed to get ready. I had another event to manage and attend--a meeting and luncheon. I spent most of the morning attempting to get 3 laptops connected to the internet--unsuccessfully--while also fielding the meeting attendees and checking the reservation list, collecting checks, pointing out the bathrooms, etc. Let's not talk about how the venue crammed us all into a back room that they had forgotten to tell us about that was blazing hot, adding to the already boiling tempers.

Did I mention that W is in his general surgery rotation now, so has been getting up at 4:15am? Did I mention that I am not sleeping very well because of this?

source

I was so tired and could only think about the mountains of dishes and crystal and silverware from the previous evening's dinner party that were just waiting to be washed.

The meeting and luncheon finally ended but not before it was interrupted THREE times by this poor woman who had to go through our meeting room to get to the handicap bathroom. I felt so bad for her as she was horrified. But what was she to do? Of course, none of us were upset with her but that paired with the jigglier than jello quiche and iceberg--GASP--lettuce that we were served for lunch and the last minute room switch and the LIMITED internet access that really meant NO internet access was enough to put us all over the edge.

I just wanted to go home and curl up with one or two cats and watch reruns of House Hunters International. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had stemware to wash. Which I did. Then, I went home and crashed until W came home and whisked my poor tummy off to its weakness: pizza.

So, I ate it and am currently suffering, but it was delicious and worth it.

Today, the museum is being rented for a fundraiser, which is less work for me--once I finish drying all of the washed dishes and silverware--but it means that I am here for another 14 hour day.

Cue violin.

My fingers are prunes and my running shoes are so very empty.

TOMORROW. I will run tomorrow!

NEXT WEEK. I will start my training next week!

Did I mention I turn 26 on Sunday? I kind of like having weeks like this before one that promises to be so special! I wonder what W has planned?!

-b

When I Grow Up

I get asked a lot:

you could do this for the rest of your life, right?

"no, absolutely not!"

 

if w wasn't in med school and you all didn't have to move, you could see yourself in this position for 10+ years, couldn't you?

 "no, no, no, no"

bri, what is your dream job? 

"have a seat"

WV sunset from our little porch.

Let's start at the present with my current job. I run a very small house museum. And by small, I mean that I am the only full-time employee--in fact, the first full-time employee... ever.

I fully recognize how incredibly lucky I am to even have a job at this tough time--especially one that sort of fits in with my BA in Historic Preservation. I honestly had zero interest in museums prior to my internship-turned-contract-project-assistant-position at Historic Columbia Foundation back in 2009. If I am being perfectly honest with you, I really don't enjoy visiting most museums. My museum, however, is of the variety that I rather enjoy. Its a historic house museum that was first built in 1834. Its interpretation is as a house in western Virginia, occupied by a middle to upper class family during the 1830s and 1840s, which means it is furnished as such (with some truly impressive antiques in fact).

I am honored to work for such an establishment, but that does not mean that it is my dream job.

You see, the "house" part of my job is really the only thing to which my education relates. Ideally, after graduation, I would have tried to get a job with a Historic Preservation consultant, a State Historic Preservation Office or an architect specializing in historically-minded projects. I did not want to continue my education. I was way too antsy to get out into the workforce--a choice I still support. I think I was on the proper course with my position at HCF, but med school changed my circumstances drastically and I suddenly found myself living in a very small town in WV happily taking on the Executive Director position at the county historical society that owned and operated a house museum. I like to say that museums chose me. And in a town of maybe 3,500, the fact that I found any job, let alone one somewhat related to my field is a MIRACLE.

Back to the questions above. They are mostly asked by my very thoughtful and very supportive board members, who would like for me to stick around for the next decade or so. They ask me these questions often as if they can sense my restlessness and doubt. Am I happy? Yes. My life is wonderful. Am I fulfilled? Professionally? I'm not sure.

My answers above are definitely not the ones that I voice. But being the honest person that I am, for better or worse, I tell them gently that if my circumstances were different (ie: I didn't have a husband in med school in WV), I probably would not be running a house museum--or any museum for that matter. I probably would not be in the non-profit sector either. I can honestly say that "breaking even," "we don't have the money to fix that gigantic hole that could potentially ruin everything we stand for," and "in the red" are phrases that are voiced entirely too often in the non-profit world, and it makes me crazy. Admittedly, I write grants on the side for non-profits but not because I necessarily like it. I just seem to have a knack for it. But, I think the non-profit ideology of "breaking even" is completely out-dated and irresponsible. Off my soap box. I was also recently asked by another local museum to escort some early wedding dresses and Lincoln campaign posters to DC for conservation. Um, conservation consultant is definitely a job I can see myself doing. Ironically, its all about museums and dealing with things that I have only recently learned by trial by fire--but a free trip to DC? Sure! (And, I'm taking Cap! Girl's weekend in DC, baby! Stay tuned.)

Sunset in my hometown taken this weekend on our trip south. Post to follow.

So, what is my dream job you ask? Well, it really is more of a dream than anything else. I feel completely naive and nervous about putting this on the interweb, but here goes.

I would love to be a buyer/stylist specializing in historic preservation ventures and focusing mostly on interiors.

I know. Its a job that doesn't really exist--at least, not in those exact words that I have been able to find. Until this morning.

I was perusing Apartment Therapy--one of my favorite design blogs--and ran across this house tour. It is a gorgeous house in London, so take a look and enjoy. Anyways, one of the things about these house tours (I also love Design*Sponge's Sneak Peaks--highlight of my Monday) that I like nearly as much as seeing these incredible spaces is seeing the people behind the beautiful designs. The owner of the house, Katharine, pretty much has my exact dream job. Its one of the first times I have actually seen spelled out exactly what I would like to do for, well, ever. The only thing about it is that Katharine has the education, experience, connections, etc. that has allowed her to be successful in such a position. I have none of these things--but I've got dreams, baby!

And so, until the skies open and the sun pours down in radiant shafts on me as the angels sing their choruses, revealing the perfect path to my forever job, I will stick to what I know, which unbelievably is now.... museums!

What's your dream job?

-b

8 Year Olds (AKA Birth Control)

Yesterday, I stayed at work until 7:15pm so that a cub scout troop could tour the museum as a part of their meeting.

I should have known that mixing psychotic mutants rambunctious little boys with 200 year old antiques within a 176 year old house was probably a terrible not such a good idea.

They started to arrive one-by-one with their hostages parents. I should have known by the complete mental absence of the parents that these children would be bona fide hellions.

If there is one thing Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel have succeeded at, it is the disillusionment of our society into thinking that 8 year olds are:

1. clever
2. witty
3. in control of their own bodies
4. adept at adult conversation
5. humanoid

LIARS.

(source)

Two of them were chasing each other around, literally throwing themselves at one another, firing pretend finger guns. They then proceeded to argue about which one of them was indeed dead. "YOU are bleeding from your neck, because I blew off your face, you sorry mother effer!" This outburst was followed by maniacal laughter and a very decent pirouette (or jump-for-JOY!-I-murdered-you!).

The other arrival was running in circles, like a hamster but without the wheel, breathlessly chanting devil worship.

Are these kids on meth? They must crumble it in their Cinnamon Toast Crunch while their parents aren't looking. Sneaky beasts.

I retreated inside the house to escape the West-Nile-carrying mosquitoes and to await the arrival of the other spawn. I took that time to say a quick Prayer for safety. St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil....

Five minutes later, they had all arrived. Seeing my pale face staring at them from the front window, they all simultaneously broke into a gallop towards the house, the porch of which they reached in a singular jump from 6 feet below, like those Twilight kids. The grubby band then began pushing its weight against the front door.

I'm not entirely sure, but haven't you learned by 8 years old that doors with knobs tend to require the turning of the knob to open?

I stood inside working up the nerve to open the bulging door. I had to act fast, the hinges were creaking. I guess they figured that their combined weights paired with the energy from their spinning heads (a la The Exorcist) were no match for the nearly 200 year old door, which continued to hold strong. Suckers.

I braced myself, turned the knob, and pushed against the door to stop them all tumbling in on top of each other, which I am sure was exactly what they were hoping might happen. I gently released the door, held up my hands, palms facing out (that's less threatening to wild animals and rabid dogs, right?), and threatened them all to within an inch of their precious, young lives.

I swear I saw the parents taking notes.

I Google-d "8 year old boys". This is what I got.

(source)

Threats completed, I asked them to place their hands on their chests. One of them started reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, mechanically. The others joined in, all set to the tune of a funeral march. This was creepy.

"QUIET!" I shouted. "With your hand on your chest, say, 'hello'."

"HEEELLLOOOOOO," they all shouted in unison.

Demons.

"Did you feel the vibrations from your chest in your hand?"

They nodded, strangely quiet. I am sure they were all thinking, What the EF is this crazy lady talking about?

(Of course, all 8 year olds cuss like a drunk Lindsay Lohan. Have you met one that doesn't? Honestly?)

"Now," I said, "look at the walls and the ceiling."

They looked around. Did they actually look vulnerable, a bit nervous, I thought. I was getting to them!

I continued, "The walls are made of plaster, which is basically dried mud. The vibrations from your loud voices will cause the plaster to crack."

I finally had their full attentions. They silently observed the walls.

"If the walls start to crack from you being too loud, the ceiling could fall down on us."

"And kill us?" One of them asked.

"Exactly," I said.

The parents' faces shone with admiration for my excellent scare tactics. Well done, their smiles said to me, well done.

I then tried to actually instill a few interesting facts into their ice-filled brains.

"The architecture of the house is based on ancient Greek temples; notice the columns."
"See how big the windows are? There was no electricity back then. They had to take advantage of sunlight and even moonlight at night."
"There is no kitchen in the house. Meals were cooked in a separate building for fear of fire and to keep the house from getting hot."

"Any questions?" I am an idiot.

A million little, dirt-stained claws shot up into the air. "Mee, me, me." "I do, I dooooo, I do-do." Snickers from the bunch of them for that clever quip.

"Are there ghosts?" "Is it haunted?" One little jerk even claimed to "feel" something like a "presence" (his word!) in the general vicinity of his forehead, which he indicated with a flourish of his hand. I resisted the very strong urge to thump him soundly between the eyes.

"Has anyone died in here," was the most popular question.

One kid, so determined to make himself heard, jumped up and with a heavy landing that shook the window panes and made me clutch the door frame in case the floor gave way, bellowed, "HAVE LOTS OF PEOPLE DIED IN THIS HOUSE?!?!?!?!"

"YEAH, yeah, yeah." "Has anyone!??!" "Has anyone died in this spo-oky house?"

I took a deep breath, bent forward to their level and met every pair of beady eyes with my own.

"Yes, lots and lots of 8 year olds. Next question."

Funny, there were no more questions.

The tour continued. The next two rooms were pretty easy. They thankfully hadn't broken anything. They didn't even try to touch anything! Strangely, unnaturally, I could feel my heart beginning to thaw towards them.

And then.

And then, the troop leader's very own son--the one who felt the "presence" (little drama queen)--proceeded to hike up his leg and fart right as I was gaining the attention of his fellow scouts as I explained the lack of indoor plumbing. Poetic, right?

What did his mom, the said troop leader, do when her son released his dead soul amongst the living in the form of the foulest odor you have ever encountered? She let out a snort of laughter and ran out of the room.

It was then that I decided, SCREW it. The rest of the tour consisted of me telling them how unimportant children were to these early pioneers.

"And why did mommies and daddies have so many kids back then," I asked sweetly.

Blank stares.

"FREE LABOR."

One brave, blonde soul, who was actually kind of adorable, asked, "You mean like slaves? Kids were slaves?"

"EXACTLY."

Cue witch cackle.

OK, maybe I was too quick to judge. I think I would love all 8 year olds, if they were as hilarious as the one who drew this picture of her sister at college.

(source)

 

I hope by the time I have an 8 year old, there are places to send them far, far away until they are once again suitable for human interaction.

-b

*Editor's note: Most of this account has been slightly embellished. No 8 year olds were harmed in the making of this post.