AWWBamas

I admit I have an ugly fondness for generalizations, so perhaps I may be forgiven when I declare that there is always something weird about a girl who majors in French. She has entered into her course of study, first of all, knowing full well that it can oly lead to her becoming a French teacher, a very grim affair, the least of whose evils is poor pay, and the prospect of which should have been sufficient to send her straight into business or public relations. She has been betrayed into the study of French, heedless of the terrible consequences, by her enchantment with this language, which has ruined more young American women than any other foreign tongue.
Second, if her studies were confined simply to grammar and vocabulary, then perhaps the French major would develop no differently from those who study Spanish or German, but the unlucky girl who pursues her studies past the second year comes inevitably and headlong into contact with French Literature, potentially one of the most destructive forces known to mankind; and she begins to relish such previously unglamorous elements of her vocabulary as langueur and funeste, and, speaking English, inverts her adjectives, to let one know that she sometimes even thinks in French. The writers she comes to appreciate -- Breton, Baudelaire, Sartre, de Sade, Cocteau -- have an alienating effect, especially on her attitude toward love, and her manner of expressing her emotions becomes difficult and theatrical; while those French writers whose influence might be healthy, such as Stendhal or Flaubert, she dislikes nad takes to reading in translation, where their effect on her thought and speech is negligible; or she willfully misreads Madame Bovary and La Chartreuse, making dark romancs of them. I gathered that Phlox, in particular, considered herself 'linked by destiny' (liee par le destin) both to Nadja and to O. That is how a female French major thinks.

-- Michael Chabon, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

And Then He Blew Up My Front Lawn

(Title to the tune of, "And Then He Kissed Me")

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/30/world/middleeast/30devices.html

I read this article in the New York Times today: "Lovelorn Iraqi Men Call on a Wartime Skill," by Rod Nordland.

Says Nordland, "It goes like this: Boy meets girl. They exchange glances and text messages, the limit of respectable courting here. Then boy asks girl’s father for her hand. Dad turns him down. Boy goes to girl’s house and plants a bomb out front."

Apparently, it's become so frequent that it even has an official name -- "Love I.E.D." (Improvised Explosive Device).

It's kind of horrible, but very romantic at the same time. Star-crossed lovers and knights fighting for the fair maiden, etc.

Today was really productive. I'm trying to shake off my college-student sleeping schedule, and am so far managing to wake up a little before 7:30. Tomorrow I might make it by 7. I need to if I want to hit the gym before driving into Woods Hold for the "Blogstorming" meeting at WCAI.

Steve explained that it's like brainstorming, only about blogging.

I might get to write my very own official broadcast organization-sponsored blog! All about my archival discoveries at the Woods Hole Historical Center.

And, I'll give it my own little Xtina-twist, of course.

I only worked in the bookstore from about 10-2, but that was enough time for Carol to give me her personal, overly in-depth tour of each shelf and its contents and potential audiences. I am getting to be an expert on just what the perfect present for someone turning twelve who liked the Lemony Snicket series but has read them all might be.

What has really been hammered into my head is that three year old boys like truck books. And that the trend of the moment is fairies. Scholastic put out this fairy series, and now we have a whole shelf devoted to the winged folk.

Once two o'clock rolled around, I bid everyone adieu and headed to my favorite sandwich shop. I think the lady's starting to recognize me. What she doesn't realize is that I'll soon be cut off the parental credit card and will no longer be in the market for $8 specialty sandwiches. But I'm getting my fill for now.

When it turned out that the archives weren't actually open at the time we'd thought, I realized I couldn't accomplish much at the station, so scooted back to Falmouth to perform various errands. I'm looking for a bike and a solution to my engine problems. For now all I acquired was a library card. That's useful, right?

Then, I went to a crazy Pilates class. It was very intense, but I'm not quite sure it was Pilates. The instructor is hilarious though. She has this really high-pitched voice, and an accent that sounds like a Massachusetts accent, but almost has a Southern twang.

"Now it's time for the backstroke. Ladies, it's just like you're at Old Silvah."

Old Silver is one of the beaches in town.

So, abs kicked into gear, I'm back at home, puttering, and trying to decide between reading Michael Chabon's "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh," which Katherine was reading this weekend and is advertised about being about the summer after graduation and thus seems apropos, or watching The Jane Austen Bookclub, a sappy romance I christened my library card with.

The Birding House

So, it turns out I couldn't stay away from Smith for very long. As I said previously, when I found out I would have two days off from the bookstore, I could not face doing absolutely nothing all by myself on the Cape, so I decided to descend upon Natalie and Katherine at their apartment in Northampton.

It was tres lovely -- the apartment (also known as "The Birding House", named by Noelle, a former inhabitant), is this adorable little abode that is just perfect for housing three 20-something girls who love all things lived-in and homey and having to do with flowers and wine and cooking. Apparently it's not quite ideal if those girls have active sex lives, as the walls are paper-thin, but I think they'll learn to ignore each other . . .

I got there around 1 yesterday, just before Nat had to leave to go gardening for this woman in town, so I left to wander about town and the campus and read The Burn Journals while I waited for her to get done. When she did, Katherine, their roommate Rachel, and Rachel's friend Emily were all home, and it was time for more gardening. They've planted the cutest, neatest little veggie garden out back, with rows of tomatoes, green beans, basil and lettuce all standing up. I've never noticed how much personality plants can have -- these are a little droopy and lazy-looking at the moment, but I'm sure the girls will have them standing straight up in no time at all. They're Smithies, after all.

After planting and showering were done, we had a delicious dinner of fritatta, pasta, and spanikopita from Trader Joe's, as well as a goodly amount of red wine. You can't hang out with us and not drink something, and if you're with me, it will probably be wine, and if you're with Katherine, it will definitely be wine. She spent last year and then some in Italy, and her father has been a connoisseur and Italophile (is that a word?) for years. Grace a lui, we had an amazing bottle of 2006 Argentinian wine called La Posta, that was so, so good. And I contributed a $9.99 shiraz from State Street Wines & Spirits that wasn't terrible and did the job.

Today we hit the tag sales and had a picnic at Puffer's Pond. I ogled the UMass frat boys while the other girls floated in the inner tubes they'd purchased from Target while we picked up picnic supplies (I'd forgotten my suit). The frat boys would most likely be terrible conversationalists for someone like myself, but they were nice eye candy and entertainment just the same. Even the boys I do interact with tend to be bookish and small, so I'm a bit testosterone-starved, and these ones were full of it.

All in all, it was idyllic.

Left-Over Pizza

Friday evening, Eight Cousins hosted an event called "AMP -- Authors, Music, Pizza," to promote three young adult authors who had agreed to come for a signing. Brent Runyon, who wrote The Burn Journals, Peter Abrahams, whose latest is Reality Check, and Pat Lowery Collins with Hidden Voices.

Carol had decided to get the teens to come by promising free pizza and a concert from local garage bands. Six businesses had each promised six pizzas, and guests were instructed to vote for their favorite cheese, pepperoni, and topping.

My job was to pick up the three sets of pizzas that were within driving distance. Can I add pizza delivery to my resume now?

The party was certainly a hit, but the authors didn't get much action and we only sold one book. The kids were more interested in the death metal band and the mosh pit.

Who'd a thunk a children's bookstore would host a mosh pit?

Anyway, we got rid of most of the pizza, but so far I've been indulging in it in moments of weakness, despite my resolution to take off the twenty winter pounds that I always seem to gain. Argh.

I get today and tomorrow off, so I'm going to visit Nat and Katherine in NoHo.

Oh Dear

I just replied to two Craigslist posts.

Here is the first:

We Can Tell People We Met at Starbucks -- 28 (cape, where else)
This is hard trying to basically sell your self, I am not sure what to write but here goes a little self-promotion. I am funny, honest, smart, nice, sweet, and kind. I am looking to find that person to laugh with, to watch movies with. I am looking for somebody who likes to talk till the cell phone dies and it would be great if you like to be a little romantic but mostly that you live to laugh and have a great sense of humor. My type of girl is like Pam from the Office, I love that show. Isn't It weird how easy it is to meet people in college but once you get out in the "real world" its like where the heck did everybody go? That's all for now, hope to hear from well somebody.

And the second:

Someone interesting -- 27 (mid cape)
self employed, work a lot, read a lot. not really into bar scene. lookin for someone interesting who can hold a conversation. thanks:)

I am dying to see what they write back. I was very anonymous, of course.

Day One

As the title suggests, today was my first day on the job at Eight Cousins. Carol introduced me to Cathy, Cathy, Mary Fran and Tasha. She then gravely explained the store's mission statement, reading each line to me slowly and seriously, and detailing why each word was important to the store's success and to the overall happiness of her heart. She really is someone who chooses each word carefully, in any statement that she makes, pausing briefly and gazing into the distance with her heavy-lidded blue eyes. It's funny to see her out of the store, trying to interact with "Joe Six-Packs," as Sarah Palin calls them, and talking like a character out of Jane Austen.

But the success of the store really reflects the benefits of such deliberate, thought-out decision-making patterns. Little details are present everywhere, whether it is the wrought-iron alphabet chair she commissioned from a local artist that sits out front, to the tiny little stickers she places in each book that bear the Eight Cousins logo she designed herself. The chair is her pride and joy -- she purposely had it made over-sized so that any adult sitting in it would feel like a child with their feet dangling above the ground. To her credit, a well-dressed businessman who walked in just before closing told Cathy and I just how much he liked the chair.

Carol, at the moment, is all excited, as she is hosting a big event this Friday in the lot outside the store. AMP, or "Authors, Music, and Pizza," is a book-signing featuring three authors, a couple garage bands, and pizza-judging. Six local businesses have promised six pizzas each, and attendees will sample and then vote for their favorites.

So my main job was being Carol's right-hand woman as she whizzed about town distributing fliers and searching for soda, paper napkins, table-cloths and containers. We forgot, however, about the latter two. Luckily, the event's not till Friday.

So that was the extent of my first day back in Falmouth. I did take a little drive into Woods Hole to see if I could find any cute boys at Pie in the Sky. None so far, but I'll keep looking.

Last night, around 7 p.m., TEENY (my beat-up '96 Volvo) and I clunked into downtown Falmouth, where everything looked the same way I had left it late last August.

It was election night, so about fifteen citizens were milling about, brandishing signs to elect "So-and-so for Selectman." Thankfully, my New Hampshire plate informed them that I would be a waste of last-minute convincing, and they left me in peace to walk to the back door of Eight Cousins to meet Carol.

Carol, a former librarian with all the traits to match, is the owner of Eight Cousins, which she started with her parents several years ago. I will be living with her until June, when I can move back in with Robin and Jimmy, where I lived last summer. For the time being, I have ownership of her side living room/library, where I am sleeping on a pull-out couch surrounded by shelves stocked with children's literature and about ten copies of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins -- a book I didn't even know existed, despite having read both Little Women and Jo's Boys. I started reading one copy last night; it is about a thirteen year old girl named Rose, who, as is the case with so many protagonists of the genre, recently lost her father, is now parentless, and must go live with her aunts and Uncle Alec, and be driven crazy by her seven rowdy boy cousins.

As you can tell, last night was rather uneventful, and involved unpacking, talking to Carol, and tasting her freshly-made Swedish Rye.

Because, as coincidence would have it, Carol's maiden name is Borg, and she too is a half-Swede. Oddly enough, she looks eerily like my nana.

But, as I lay in my bed in the complete silence and darkness, I realized that drastic steps must be taken to save me from becoming the crazy cat lady long before my time. This summer will be nice, but I need to make plans to get to the city and meet some people my own age . . .

A Song About Smith

In Old Northampton, small and proud

We attend a college well-endowed

balancing class and sports and clubs and choir

the women of Smith are much admired.

Within our ancient ivied halls

Smith women show they've got some... poise.

Though other schools boast lots of men,

Smith rugby could beat all of them.

Those Wellesley women think they're grand

but on fridays they're off to Harvard land

Mount Holyoke thinks they were founded first

but Sophia built our college while they went to church.

At Smith we know we're number one.

Our Alma Mater's second to none

and you should know we'll never stop

Smith women always land on top,

Smith women always land on top!

I Miss College Already

Yesterday I graduated from Smith College, and now I am lying in my childhood bed, feeling as though my life has come to a stop.

For the first time since forever, I am not on a dictated path, acknowledged by others as one that is leading to progress and success.

For the first time since forever, I am no longer an official "Student." There are no more milestones to knock off on the beaten track, no more natural progressions from First Grade to Second, from Middle School to High School, and so forth. For the time being, there will be no more classrooms, no more term papers, no more syllabi. Now, whatever learning I do will have to be self-driven. I will have to forge the path myself. Now there is no one to tell me what books I should read, no one to validate that what I am doing is significant.

No one but myself.

I can't wait around any longer -- the little girl who dreamed about beating everyone else and proving herself and becoming known in some way is begging me to "get on it." But she set some pretty hefty goals:

1. Be famous.
2. Do something important.
3. Do something "cool."
4. (Hardest part) Love what you do.
5. Be happy and fall in love. And be loved.

What if I settle on something that blocks off what I'm really meant to be doing? Am I supposed to get a Masters in Political Science? Or be a Journalist? Am I supposed to be Ann M. Martin or Hillary Clinton?

Do I need to make a plan? Or do I just take it a day at a time?

Either way, I can no longer go back to Smith. I packed up my paraphernalia, wiped down my desk with Lemon Pledge, turned in my keys, had a last sushi platter with Lakshami, and drove back to New Hampshire.

Tomorrow, I leave for Cape Cod, where I will be a part-time public radio reporter and part-time bookstore gal.

Things will fall into place, right?