This is what happens when a) things get slow at the library b) Tim Burton makes a rather different version of "Alice in Wonderland" c) the librarians look for any opportunity to have a party.  Running the risk of looking 'mad as a hatter,' we appropriated the children's story hour room for our own celebratory purposes yesterday.  Our resident artist supplied the magnificent plethora of table decorations. 

(Incidentally, we also did a bit of research and discovered to what the phrase 'mad as a hatter' refers.  Apparently in the early days, the outer pieces of felt on men's hats were treated with mercury, a highly toxic substance which poisons slowly in increasingly mad stages.  Those who wore the hats were generally (comparatively) safe, but those who made the hats, the hatters, handled the treated fabric day in and day out, absorbing the mercury through their skin.  Therefore, most hatters went mad, hence the Mad Hatter.) Anyway, here are a few (or rather many) pictures of the decorations. We never figured out if the fish was 'One Fish' or 'Two Fish,' he's clearly not 'Red Fish' or 'Blue Fish.' The debate is still open.

After visiting the website of the Irish government, I know what I want to do for a living.  I want to be one of the photographers hired to help promote tourism in Ireland.  Everyone talks about their dream job-I think I've finally found mine. 

Ever since I can remember, Ireland has always held some mysterious fascination for me.  I think that is where my obsession with travel started.  Seriously, though, looking at these pictures, can you blame me?  Many places hold quite a bit of history, but for some reason, it seems as if Ireland has held onto its history in a more immediate way.  If fact, I was looking at different colleges in Ireland the other day and nearly all of them included classes, sometimes a major, in the Gaelic language.  This was particularly interesting since I remember seeing when I was a child a re-run of an episode, that looked like it was filmed in the early 80's or so, of National Geographic in which the narrator said that, except for the oldest generation in the most rural parts of Ireland, the Gaelic language was beginning to die out and would soon be lost forever, helped in no part by the fact that during the years prior to the creation of the Republic of Ireland, it was illegal to converse in anything but English. 

In the famous library at Trinity College in Dublin.  Ireland and books.  All anyone could ask of mortal life.

This is actually not in Ireland; it is the house C.S. Lewis bought outside of the town of Oxford, England.  This is my desktop picture to keep me motivated to not give up on my dream of travelling one day.  (I know, I know, the whole 'English/Irish' thing, I probably shouldn't.  But, hey Lewis is one (if not my most) of my favorite authors and he was Irish, so......)
If those haven't convinced you, perhaps this will.

Valentine's Day approaches.  ("The British are coming! The British are coming!)  When did Valentine's Day become such a test of patience?  Besides, testing my social patience is as pointless as training a rottweiler as a seeing eye dog.  Just kind of goes against nature.  Plus, as I explained last year, Valentine's Day has been taken entirely out of historical context and convoluted beyond historically accurate recognition.  Therefore, for the sake of our children's education we should completely eradicate this senseless holiday.  In their best interest.  And for the sake of their teeth.  Also, I hear that childhood obesity is reaching epidemic proportions-no need to pull out the tofu-dogs, just eliminate Valentine's Day.  Anyway, believe it or not, I don't necessarily hate Valentine's Day.  I just hate having to be conscious for Valentine's Day.  I'm truly glad other people thoroughly enjoy this amorous holiday, I personally just don't care.  If I don't care that they do care, they shouldn't care that I don't care, correct?  It's only polite.  I mean, really, it's Valentine's Day for heaven's sake.  Be kind and return the favor of ignoring me. Aside from that, by the time the holiday rolls around, I am entirely prejudiced against it.  Beginning in late January the Valentine's Day commericials for jewelry begin, and, truthfully they make me physically sick.  Seriously.  Diamonds?! On Valentine's Day?!  I'm sorry, but unless it is a multiple of ten anniversary, an engagement, or the death of a relative, diamonds should not pass hands.  Period. 
            It's not the whole "single's awareness" thing; it's just I've always hated public displays of affection and sentimentality.  And pink.  Pepto pink.  Some pink is cool, but not the kind which leaves the jingle from the Pepto Bismol commercials playing on repeat in my head for the rest of the day.  But, being single, you are often mistakenly perceived as an object of pity.  People want to give you suggestions as to how to 'catch a man.'  Well, personally, if he's running, I probably don't want that one after all.  Unless it was Paul Newman.  Or James Mcavoy.  Or Johnny Depp.  Or Mr. Knightley.  Or Darcy.  Or C.S. Lewis.  Or Mike Rowe, then I wouldn't have to get a new driver's license.  I'd even take Edmund Bertram if I didn't have to run too fast, even if he was an idiot.  So, checking my e-mail the other night and stumbling across this article was like saying, "Oh, look, rolling your eyes too many times really does make them stick."  I am now wall-eyed, my friends.  But the title was irresistible.  Dating Advice: 7 Mistakes Single Women Make.  The inspiration came from the author of the article reading some random advice book.  First of all, my take on advice books and survival shows is this: in case of fire Stop, Drop and Roll.  Anything else, use common sense.  When common sense isn't to be had, trust your instincts of self-preservation.  If those don't kick in, it doesn't really matter what love-life advice you get, does it?  The species won't last long in that line anyway.  So, I'll address a few of the mistakes which amused me the most.  I know everyone is simply thrilled.

1. We feel entitled.
Gottlieb: “Women try to be good friends to each other. We say, ‘You deserve this, you’re so great! You’re such a good catch! Any man would be lucky!’ [Men don’t say that to each other.] We are good catches, but we also are human and we’re not perfect and somebody’s going to have to put up with us for the rest of his life. And we forget. My dating coach said, write down all the reasons a guy would not want to date you.

3 things about this-A) I hope men don't say that to each other, that would just be, well, weird.  B) a 'dating coach'?!!!!  Since when has there been such a thing as a 'dating coach'?  What, is that like a physical therapist for the socially inept?  (And I can say that because I am socially inept, but I deal with it the traditional way-I have a well-stocked bookshelf.)  C)"...write down all the reasons a guy would not want to date you."  Great. Thanks.  I know most of my flaws and suspect the rest.  Thanks for reminding me.  That would be one reason why I'm not dating.  I know my limitations, and I have enough sense to realize it would be unfair to inflict them on some poor unwitting man.  Which is why I don't date.  Again.  Thank you for that painful reminder.  I'll just go back to my books now, thanks. 

3. We’re judgmental.

Gottlieb: “The guys I interviewed for the book said women judge them so much. Women gave me 300 reasons they wouldn’t go on a second date with a guy, and men gave 3. When guys are ready for that stage of life, they find someone who is good enough that they’re totally in love with—but that person may not seem to the outside world to be as appealing in superficial ways—maybe she’s not as accomplished or funny as the last girl. Whatever he sees in her, he does. Guys don’t sit and micro-analyze a woman the way a woman would with a man. He knows she’s not as hot as the last girl he dated, but that’s okay. She’s hot enough.”

I wasn't even going to touch this one, but couldn't resist.  First and foremost, the last two lines- I'm sorry, but what? So, it's okay that your wife isn't as hot as the girl before her?!  Oh. No. Secondly, just simply being 'good enough'?  Frankly, that's insulting.  No wife should tell her husband that, and no husband should say that to his wife.  That's like saying "Well, you're not what I'd hoped for, but I suppose I can settle."  If that isn't romantic, I don't what is.  Secondly, I'd like to know what those three reasons men gave are.  A brain? Maturity? An average decible voice? A distaste for daisy dukes and tube tops?  Sober?  Sane?  Responsible?  Who knows......

7. We think he needs to share every interest.

Gottlieb: “We say, ‘I’m a writer, but he doesn’t read! I’m creative.’ But people can be creative in different ways, and the fact that he doesn’t read the same books that you do, well, maybe he wants someone who he can talk about the baseball game with but you’re not that person. The guy doesn’t have to be one-stop shopping. You’re not going to share every single interest, and that’s okay. The shared interest should be, Do we want the same things out of life? Do we both want to be married right now?”

Personally, I don't want whoever I date/marry to share all my interests.  The reason I chose the hobbies I did was to get away from people.  You take a camera, drive to the middle of nowhere and spend hours by myself.  I read so that when I get tired of people I can simply shut the book and walk away.  I play the piano so that I'm not required to talk, etc. etc.  So, in the long run, it isn't sad that I have no reason to celebrate Valentine's Day-it's the best thing for everyone involved. 

(and one more for the history people)

(Look up Valentine's Day 1929, Chicago, if it doesn't make sense-or just look at last year's post here.)

So, 'snow' in North Carolina looks less like snow and more like, well, ice.  Oh well, beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.  The fourth photo is of a frozen strand of a spider's web.  I thought it was interesting, as I've never seen anything like that.  The eighth one down is a "Where's Waldo" kind of deal.  You have to try to find the bird in the photo.  Five bucks to the first person who finds it.  (Well, maybe not, but you at least get my congratulations.)

A few photos from Christmas in S.C.  The photography has unfortunately (or maybe rather fortunately, who knows....) come to a bit of a standstill lately.  Although I love many things about the state, eastern North Carolina, in the middle of the coastal plains, is not necessarily the most photographically prepossessing sight in the middle of winter.

When this little blogging experiment began I promised myself two things: (1) This would never become a chat-room therapy session, it would remain anecdotal.  (2) I would only post when I had a really good story.  Yes, well....instead it has occasionally digressed into pseudo-philosophical musings of the superficial type or bitter diatribes against such sickeningly prevalent celebrations as Valentine's Day.......(Sorry, still trying to suppress the gag reflex on that one......)  Hopefully, however, I have heretofore refrained from complaining (too much).  Yep, well, never too late to try something new, is it?  Only being facetious (somewhat.....).  Although I earnestly (and there is an importance to being earnest, is there not? Sorry, I've been reading Oscar Wilde to cheer myself up) hope this post will not be misconstrued as complaining, there does need to be some explanation for the remainder to be in any way slightly coherent.  (And hopefully it actually will be coherent; this whole thing is a bit extemporaneous, we'll see how it turns out.)  Here's the story-I recently graduated from college.  Good job, right?  Nope, no job, actually.  Anywhere.  So much for being of Irish descent.  I got the temper and pale skin but none of the luck.  I pick an economy nearly comparable to that during the Great Depression in which to graduate from college.  My timing has always been impeccable.  The idea of grad-school has always hovered around the fringes of possibilities considered; yet, the GRE still must be surmounted.  Grad-school costs more money.  Then there is always the question of, "Can I really do this?  Could I hack it, or would it hack me?"  Should I concentrate on getting into grad-school or spend that time looking for a non-existent job?  Stay here or leave?  If I leave, go where?  How little can a human being really live on without starving?  Etc., etc. The carnival of frustration has arrived and is setting up its pretty tri-colored tent in my backyard; incidentally, there seems to be a plethora of booths set up devoted to the art of defeatism (minus the acceptance of defeat), skepticism, and self-doubt.


     So, as always, books have become the life-boats on the doomed Titanic.  I've returned to my favorites, books and authors, and, although I've read them all before, they somehow still offer solace and a few minutes worth of sanity.  For instance, in Norman Maclean's A  River Runs Through It, there was one line in particular which offered a bit of respite from my mental version of an old LP.  Maclean says, "That's how you know when you have thought too much-when you become a dialogue between You'll probably lose and You're sure to lose."  The circumstance to which he was directly referring was a fishing trip, but it still has quite a nice ring to it, don't you think?  I've suddenly become like Rain Man when he would start quoting "Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third" every time his delicate internal balance became upset.  (Except mine is the much less amusing Norman Maclean version.)  Next was, of course, the venerable C.S. Lewis.  In Out of the Silent Planet, Lewis delves into many philosophical debates through the character of Ransom, all of which are thoroughly interesting. One of my new favorite lines, though is a statement that was spoken to Ransom just before he was being sent back to his own world.  Ransom spent the entire novel trying to outrun something which he eventually realized, after it occurred, was both inevitable and in his best interest.  As he was departing, he was told, "You are guilty of no evil, Ransom, except a little fearfulness.  For that, the journey you go on is your pain, and perhaps your cure: for you must be either mad or brave before it is ended." 


       Add that to my Rain Man mantra.  It's a good reminder-circumstances only dictate circumstances, not an individual's reaction within the circumstances.  The interesting thing?  My Rain Man mantra comes from authors whose works often resulted from rather unhappy circumstances of their own.  Maclean lost a beloved brother, Lewis had a rather unhappy childhood-he lost his mother at a young age, resulting in a rather difficult relationship between he and his father. His brief time in the trenches in the Great War remained with him throughout his life, he never gained the position he wished in the academic world, he lost the wife he married late in life after only a short marriage, his brother required some attention as he had a problem with alcohol, etc. Life wasn't Ozzie and Harriet or Leave It to Beaver.  It seems that this is the case with many of my favorite authors and artists.  Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in the Willows, lost his mother at five years old, and his father abandoned the family, dying an alcoholic in France.  The uncle into whose family he and his siblings were adopted refused to send Grahame to Oxford, which was the desire of his heart.  Instead he was exiled to the Bank of England.  His wife did not supply conditions in which a happy marriage could thrive and their one son was partially blind; the son was killed by a train, some say in an act of suicide.  J.M. Barrie led a life which vacillated between imaginative euphoria and depression.  Charles Dickens led a very unfortunate childhood and adulthood did not improve; he and his wife, long estranged eventually separated.  Louisa May Alcott began to write in earnest to support a destitute family.  Samuel Clemens' father died, leaving the family rather struggling financially.  Later in life his beloved wife died of heart failure, a genetic failing which also claimed the life of his daughter only days after her return from a mental institution.  Another daughter died of meningitis, while he and his wife early in their marriage lost an infant son. 


    Okay, if you've been able to drudge through all of that depressing list of authors and events, let me explain my reasons for asking you to endure.  Here's the thing-these people took very unhappy circumstances and used them to their advantage.  Pain became a source and incentive for creativity.  Instead of sinking beneath the weight of circumstances they used those circumstances to instead create.  To improve a world in which they had not exactly experienced total bliss, they offered their suffering in the form of improved imagination and creativity.  I suppose my point is this: I could cry and complain (which I have done, sorry for that), allow a great 'weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth,' but what good would that do me or anyone else?  None, that's how much.  In other words, suck it up, get over it, and use the opportunity of wanting to get away from your own reality by trying to improve someone else's.  Okay, the free therapy is finally all done.  Thanks to all those who made it this far!  Now, what to do where?      
       

(This has nothing to do with the post, but instead of writing an entirely pointless different post I calculated that a mini 'sub-post' would suffice.  So here it is-I went to see Invictus last night.  I've always liked that poem, Morgan Freeman's acting, Matt Damon's adorableness acting, and learning about Nelson Mandela, so I've been really excited to see this movie.  A few things here: I didn't think I would ever see the day that Clint Eastwood of all people would direct a 'feel-good' movie.  Not that it wasn't well done and a wonderful movie to watch, it's just....well.....The Good, the Bad and the Ugly? For a Few Dollars More? However, I was pleasantly surprised; also, I now have one more reason to say that Morgan Freeman is AWESOME!  His portrayal of Nelson Mandela was absolutely stunning in my humble, non-Hollywood opinion.  Freeman made this movie.  Period.  Not that I'm discounting Matt Damon's ability here.  However (and yes, this is going to be 'tweeny-fan' girly comment) my concern was less about his acting (which was good-that South African accent has to be extremely difficult to master), and more about how darn cute he is!  Everyone always thought I was crazy, but who was right? My opinion was completely vindicated when he was voted 'Sexiest Man Alive' one year.  It's nice to be right.  (Okay, girly moment over.) Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie.  I still don't understand organized sports, but hey, throw Matt Damon (Matt Damon with a great tan, a wunnerful accent and sun-bleached blond hair) in there and I'm game (no pun intended).)

(A picture from the New York archives of the blizzard of 1888 which crippled the city. Utility lines were rendered useless when they snapped under the weight of 22 inches of snow.)

It seems that for some time now, all weather reports concerning the east coast have centered around the phenomenon known as 'snow.' We here in North Carolina have felt particularly slighted, as we have not received our annual drifts.  For the past couple of weeks an undercurrent of hope and excitement has flowed beneath the surface; conversations have inevitably covered the upcoming whiteout.  The more sinister of us have searched for a flag pole and a willing dupe on which to test the old 'A Christmas Story' trick.  We huddled around our televisions, obsessively returning to the 'Weather on the 8's.'  We hung on every word which fell from the weatherman's wind-chapped lips.  Some of the more ambitious even began to record the transpiring events for the day when primary accounts would be needed for an epsiode of 'When Weather Changed History.' Eventually our patient hopes were rewarded.  We could expect a 'dusting.' An inch, to be more precise. A mix of rain and snow-a.ka. frigid, toe-numbing slush.  The carnival was slated to begin late Thursday night.  72-hour kits were obsessively gathered and checked.  Flashlight batteries were repeatedly tested.  Fleece blankets were pulled out of storage.  And I made the mistake of going to the grocery store at 5:30.  Honestly, I feared for my life, at the beginning at least.  Eventually, however, my attention was diverted from my own personal safety to the observation of the highly interesting cross-section of human nature displayed before me.  The store at which I was shopping happens to lie at a very interesting junction of three neighborhoods.  One is two sets of apartment complexes devoted to the hordes of pursurers of higher learning euphemistically known as 'college students.' Another is the city's first version of 90210.  The last is primarily populated by young couples with small children.  Let me just say that I now know how each demographic is going to react to the apocalypse.  Seriously, no kidding; one trip to the grocery store became an education in human nature. 

As I pulled into the parking lot I had a coronary.  There was absolutely no room in the inn.  Anywhere.  I couldn't even put one of the college students into a little extra beer money (we'll address that later) to give me his parking space.  Finally, after searching for that elusive, non-existent port I spotted one.  Right next to bright, shiny Cadillac.  As I waited patiently for the pedestrians to take their right of way (and taking their time taking that right.  It's flipping freezing for pete's sake! You'd think they'd hurry) I spotted the proud owner of the Caddy.  Apparently Hoke was off that night, Miss Daisy looked a little lost.  She passed my window.  I smiled.  She returned the smile.  I put on my blinker.  She pointed to the empty parking space next to her.  I nodded and smiled.  She acknowledged my affirmation.  She parked her cart in the parking space and opened the back door.  (Just so everyone knows, the plan was to park my car and offer to help her put her groceries in her car.  However, I valued my life too much to park my little red bumper in the middle of the lot and get out.  Tempers were a bit fragile and I believe I would have been bludgeoned with a case of beer had I held up progress.  And my car would have disappeared.  Trust me.)

On to the second group.  The logically impaired college students.  While domestic goddesses were WWF Monday Night Raw-ing it in the middle of the aisle for the preservation of their offspring, a preservation which came in the form of bread, milk and peanut butter, the entire cast of Animal House (and no, I've never seen that movie) was stocking up for Oktoberfest.  It's good to embrace other cultures; shows an open-mindedness, don't you think?  At any moment I expected some blonde fraulein in pig-tails and those German predecessors of the mini-skirt to appear and begin passing out frothy mugs while all the male proponents of cross-culture customs broke into an a cappella rendition of Das Deutstchlandlied.

That leaves the young mothers with their children.  The checkout lines were interminable.  Snow.  Adrenaline.  The very thought of no school the next day.  'Nough said.  If that doesn't sum it up well enough, perhaps this will.

Needless to say, it was a highly entertaining trip.  Who thought the grocery store could be so much fun?