Top Ten

I recently met a friend's parents and wanted them to like me because I like this friend. You know how that is. Friend's parents are readers. Their house is full of books and their heads are full of books and I immediately like most people who exhibit this characteristic, these people included.

Anyways, as luck would have it, Friend's Dad had a copy of City of Theives on the kitchen table and we were able to get right into a discussion of how much we liked the book and how impressive the story was because it was based in truth and how much the world has changed since World War II, etc, etc, etc... Then (it gets better,) Friend's Dad tells me how thinks maybe going to prison wouldn't be so bad because then he'd have time to read more.

I nearly spit my wine out when I heard this because as a child I used to think a debilitating illness or jail sentence would be a good idea because then I could read more. Once I cleared my windpipe of Malbec, I shared this fact and enjoyed a smug moment at having established such a quick, uncommon bond with the Smart Reader Dad of Friend. 

Except that just after our pact to commit a petty crime together and serve our time where Martha Stewart was imprisoned he asked me what my all-time favorite book was. (Wine-spitting accident number two narrowly averted.) I refused to answer. My favorite book? As if there could just be one.

Then he extended the question to my top ten favorites which caused me to balk for a different reason...what would I say? I have never really ranked my favorites and how could I remember all books I've read over the years? I can't even remember what titles I managed to dredge up but I didn't come close to naming 10 books and I'm absolutely positive I missed some major titles.

This interaction was weeks ago, mind you, and I'm still dwelling on it. I started a list on a post-it note and carried it around with me for a few days, adding and subtracting titles as I thought back through my reading life. And then I thought the right thing to do was to wash and dry it in the pocket of my jeans. So now here I am, sans top ten book list, again.

This blog cannot be washed (or dried) and will never accidentally be thrown away or lost in the detrius of my desk or home, so I thought I'd begin again here.

My "Working" Top Ten Book List:
(not numbered in order of how much I like them but to keep track of how many I've got)

1. The Wild Trees - Richard Preston
2. A Story Like the Wind/A Far Off Place - Lorens Van Der Post
3. Mountains Beyond Mountains - Tracy Kidder
4. Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer
5. City of Theives - David Benioff
6. Merlin/Arthur series - Mary Stuart
7. The Color of Water - James McBride
8. Sailing Alone Around the Room - Billy Collins
9. Bel Canto - Ann Patchett
10. A Widow for One Year - John Irving

If you have a book you think is Top Ten worthy, please pass it (or its title) along. If I forced you to read a book that I once called an all-time favorite, would you remind me of what it was? Do normal people have a top ten book list? What other things am I failing to rank?

I shudder to think.

And you thought the party was over.

I have returned to the blogosphere!

(I'll wait until the wild cheering stops. Got it all out? Good, now I'll proceed.)

I actually nearly waited until next week to post something just to make the point that I've been busy and that my last post was from the start of July and now look, October! But that seemed like a thin, fairly nerdy excuse so I'm writing today, while I have time, which is not guarenteed next week.

I am going to attempt to list some of the things I've failed to write about in the past 11 weeks and I'm hoping to accomplish this in only a few paragraphs, but knowing myself, I'll probably start to ramble, get upset and stop with the promise of a later update. But maybe having written that I'll prove myself wrong.

Gauntlet thrown, self. Lets see what you've got.

Selected happenings:

• I went to Burlington, Vermont over 4th of July weekend and camped with my friend Merril. We stumbled upon the best spot in the city to watch the festivities: on a dock, near a live band, in Lake Champlain with ashes falling in our beers because the fireworks were litterally going off directly over our heads. This was absolutely the best no-plan 4th of July to ever happen to me. We read books, layed on the beach, did crossword puzzles and rode bikes everywhere.

• I also went back out to Colorado to see some old friends in one of my favorite states in this great nation. While there, I went on a Denver Cruiser Ride all over town with hundreds of other bike riders, lead-climbed my first route (5.9+, baby!) and spent many perfect hours with Wes Cables, my old partner in crime from Boulder days. This too was an excellent advenutre.

• Between those events, Ma & Pa Strull came to visit which was more fun than a barrel tanker-ship full of monkeys. They drove up on a Thursday, played through the weekend and then hit the road again on Monday. Wham, bam, thank you Cynthia and Dan. We rode bikes, we ate good food, we mixed and mingled with some friends and each night I tucked them into bed on the pullout couch matress which was on the floor for superior lumbar support. Bliss.

• 
  
  Also wedged into this amazing calendar of events is a Flaming Lips concert which was excellent because the Flaming Lips are excellent but also because only 7* people went to the show and that's pretty special since I'm sure they headline giant music festivals. They played great music and put on a really fun show, too.

*7 is a bit of a low-ball estimate. There were probably 200 people. But still...

In August and September I worked. I worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked. We have had a great season - maybe the best Fall we've had yet, but dang. Have we worked.

To end September, I grudgingly accepted the fact that I had indeed become the Berkshire Bachelor's winning lady...and you can read about that here. There's also a photo gallery, which is entertaining if you like awkward photos. You have to search around on the Transcript's page a bit. Good luck.

And in October, life shall resume. I will run, wash clothing, read, do dishes and, dare I write it, blog more!

Berkshire Bachelorette

A lady in my office copied an ad from our local paper, The Berkshire Eagle, calling for single ladies between 21-29 to compete in a Berkshire Bachelorette competition. You go on a date with the Bachelor and the winner gets $1000.

So I filled out the 10-questions questionnaire, wrote a 2 paragraph bio and emailed a picture of myself to the address listed on the ad.

And today I have an email saying I've been selected for an in-person interview.

What the heck am I doing? The Berkshire Bachelorette?

Playing Catch-up

In May I went to visit my favorite non-blood-relation on earth: Amber Gibbs. In typical fashion, we crammed as much as we could into our annual visit and had many a laugh along the way.

On a Friday evening, I landed in Charlotte, NC and we went from the aiport to an Old Crow Medicine Show concert at a tiny venue with a gigantic fan (pictured below) and then drove through the night to the ever-lovely Columbia, SC. BANG - and we're off!

Old Crow, unknown people and us (not pictured). Great night, indeed.

Amber looks surprised. I like it.

This picture does not do the fan justice. The blades were 6 feet long, at least, and when it was on: WOAH.

At Amber's house that morning, we prepped for our beach/camping trip near Charleston, where we planned to met up with Julia, an old Greystone friend of ours.

Water, beer, mik and bananas. Nothing but the essentials, obviously.

Kosher dogs. Mmmmm.

And this is how we pack: select all the things we think we could ever need and chuck them into the car. Done.

Upon arriving in Chuck-town (as it is called by certain residents,) we enjoyed a cold beer with our old friend and I learned that there is a VODKA that tastes exactly like SWEET TEA (yikes!) Then we toured Julia's nice but cat-pee-saturated home and headed out toward the beach.

At Foley Beach, it was windy, sunny and we got nicely sand-blasted before we gave up and went in search of our campsite. It was there that we met Redd, a depressing individual and our only site-mate whom I foolishly invited to socialize with us around the fire.

This fire, I made myself. It was my chief responsibility and Amber was shocked and amazed at my skill. I'm not sure if I'm flattered or hurt that her surprise was so profound, but whatever. It was a great fire.

I do work at an OUTDOOR center, afterall...

Home-sweet-campsite!

Shortly after this picture, Amber and I sat in semi-darkness and fretted about wether or not there was a coyote in the bushes, waiting for us to doze off so he could eat our leftover hotdogs/savage our jugulars. The conversation went like this:

Amber: do you hear that?

Sarah: yeah.

Amber: What do you think it is?

Sarah: Probably a raccoon.

Amber: Sounds bigger. Like a coyote.

Sarah: Really, you think so? I doubt it.

Amber: What do we do?

Sarah: Not sure. Lets wait and see.

(more rustling from the bushes 50 feet away.)

Amber: WHAT IS THAT THING?

Sarah: I can hardly see it, but I see its eye...

Amber: (terse silence)

Sarah: It's a deer.

Simulaneous laughter ensues.

There is a deer in this photo. Look hard.

I crept really close for this award-winning shot. CRIKEY!

The next morning we got up, broke down our tiny, sweaty, 1.5-person tent and got ourselves back to the beach as quickly as possible. We enjoyed a delicious breakfast before we went back out to the water to find...

Breakfast is served!

...white caps, driving sand and one or two other people as foolish as we two who where trying to hold down their beach towels, fend off the sandstorm and enjoy the beach.

Our solution was fantastically logical: find a beach in the lee of the wind. Sadly, this was not to be had but we made up for it by driving around, singing loudly and otherwise amusing ourselves. One amusement was Angel Oak, an enormous oak tree that attracts all sorts.

Like these sorts...

And these sorts: two ladies who were playing recorders under the branches. Amber and I have seen our futures and we're horrified.

From the Angel Oak, we headed back to Columbia. There we met Larry, the main squeeze in Amber's life. I like Larry, I even like him enough to give him the thumbs up when it comes to dating Amber, and that's a pretty big deal. Over the rest of the weekend, we breakfasted, barbequed, drank refreshing brews, played disc golf, played board games, took naps, read (bad) books, walked around and around and generally socialized with anyone who would come and hang out. It was outstanding.

Breakfast a la Larry & Amber.

We rounded out the weekend with Babies, the Movie. We loved every stinking second of it.

Sadly for me, the weekend inded with bad weather, switched gates, canceled flights, hours of my life wasted in the Newark airport and a sunrise trip between the Holiday Inn and airport on the New Jersey Turnpike...

But it was worth it. Well worth it.

An open letter Dad (which was meant to be posted on Father's Day.)

Dearest Daddio,

A big Happy Father's Day to you! I wish I was telling you these things in the comfort of 206 N. Waterman Ave, over coffee, french toast and turkey bacon, but alas. I live here and here is not there.

I also wish I was writing these things in a card that I had mailed to you several days ago so that it could be there physically and would tell you that I was thinking of you before the actual day that I was meant to go out of my way to tell you how much I love you, but I thought that might be so shocking (as in outrageously uncharacteristic) that it would be a hazard to your health.

But today I am sitting on my couch at home, thermometer at my right hand, remote control by my left and a blanket over my knees, reflecting on a very special father-daughter memory I have recently had cause to remember.

The year is somewhere between 1983 and 1985 and we are living in a small apartment in Skokie. We have glasses that explode in the cabinets, mouse traps under the beds and David has twice locked himself in his room, climbed a book case and showered baby powder down on the floor as Mom frantically tries to get in.

In the specific memory I've been reflecting on, I'm awake in the middle of the night and I need help. I feel terrible and hot and there's gunk fusing my eyelashes tightly together as I wander out of bed and in the general direction of help (your room.) The funny thing is, when I think of being sick as a child, I think Mom. I can still feel her tucking my hair behind my ears while waiting for the thermometer to finish, I think of her force-feeding me jello and other mushy foods and I think of going to her side of the bed in those pre-vomitous-panic-moments (lucky Mom!)

But on this night, you were the lucky winner.

I went to your side of the bed and you took me to the bathroom and got me a cool wash cloth. You dabbed the crusty yuck off of my eyes, wiped my face and helped me calm down. Then you (lovingly, always lovingly) held me down and did your best to get the darned drops I so badly needed into my bucking and rolling eyeballs before sending me back to sleep.

I don't mean to imply that you didn't care for me tenderly when I was a child. I have lots of memories of you carying me home after a bad bike wreck, of you kissing my (not)feverish head and pronouncing it "cool as a cucumber" and of you braiding my hair nightly in your special side-ways braid that no one else could do.

I just really vividly remember you taking care of me on that one disgusting pink-eye night and thought I'd say thanks now, in case I didn't at the time. I know there's some analogy here about wandering blindly and in need into your father's arms in the dark of night, but in my sub-par condition today, all I can think of is how wonderful it is to have a Dad like you.

Thanks for teaching me to hit a ball with a bat, for showing me how to change my oil, for not booting me out of the car when I nearly side-swiped all those parked cars at 16 and for building me a really cool swing set when we lived on Christiana Street. Thanks for the hot pink huffy two-wheeler and for teaching me to ride it and thanks for cheering me on in track and field, even though I was horrible.

I have a fever today. And pink eye. In both eyes. I wish I was there to wish you a happy father's day, but more than that, I wish you were here, with your cool wash cloth and your perfect Daddy ways.

Love,
Sarah

Listomania

Some things I've been doing:

1. Loading and unloading the dish machine
2. Belaying at the challenge course
3. Falling asleep at the dinner table (in a dining hall full of children)
4. Putting kids in canoes/helping kids out of canoes
5. Making 2 food service directors feel appreciated
6. Laughing hysterically on office floors
7. Sweeping, mopping, hauling, toting, heaving, ho-ing (not the dirty kind)
8. Weeping at the sound of my alarm clock
9. Texting, texting, texting, texting, texting
10. Swilling coffee

Some things I've not been doing:

1. Laundry
2. Buying groceries
3. Checking my personal email account
4. Blogging (obviously)
5. Reading other blogs - sorry Rachel, Keri, Amber, CakeWrecks, Regretsy, Lisa, Stevo, etc...
6. Fixing my headlights so that I can try to pass MA state inspection on the second go round
7. Running
8. Shaving my legs (too much information?)
9. Reading anything that isn't a guest or staff schedule or evaluation
10. Watching TV

But the end is nigh. SUPER NIGH, MAN! Sunday I cross the finish line. After being taunted into forming the apex of the staff pyramid that waved off the last of 8 school busses full of kids today, I realized we just have the weekend to go. And then: BAM. Real life shall resume.

Stay tuned.

Montreal Part Deux

Whoa, that was a pretty long time to leave you all hanging on the Montreal trip, eh?

And by "pretty long" I mean an obscene amount of time has passed between blog posts and this is not something that will build my online empire of followers. By "you all" I mean my family, Amber and Lisa Fine (hi, Lisa!) who are the only ones reading this.  By "hanging" I meant to imply that there are people out there clamoring for news of my life. I am outrageously crafty, no?

Anyways, now that so much time has passed, some of the details of the trip have begun to fade. Fortunately I still remember the big important things, and these I will share. Starting now.

Saturday morning found us feeling ambitious. We set the alarm for something in the 7s (Thank you Mr. Steven "We didn't come to Montreal to sleep in" Hamill) and took turns in our little shared bathroom. We were on the streets before 9, steaming steadily toward coffee and a breakfast nook called Fruits Foley where we were promised options ranging from chocolate crepes to fruit and granola.

Check out the giant banana and chocolate crepe in the background. We'll call it "Before"

"After" Nicely done, Stevo!

After the walk the night before, the streets by day seemed overly wide and littered with, well, litter. I forgot that it was so early and felt vaguely disappointed that Montreal wasn't as "lived-in" a city as I thought it was. What a lovely surprise to emerge from breakfast and find that I was wrong. Everyone was just sleeping it off, it turns out! Clearly Stevo wasn't in charge of planning everyone elses' days.

Between breakfast and lunch (enjoyed at the very European hour of 3 pm) we moseyed through town. Having been to Montreal many times before, Stevo and Lisa knew all the good spots for walking and we spent a fabulous day doing what Montrealers do: roaming the Plateau. I think the Plateau is to Montreal what Brooklyn is to Manhattan. Its the funky, lived in, it-helps-to-be-rich-but-you-can-squeak-by-if-you're-not part of the city and it was alive with grocery shoppers, bike riders, brunch eaters, coffee drinkers, stroller pushers and dog walkers. 

Stevo accused me of taking a picture of his butt here. I would not do that. I was trying to (non-creepily) photograph the beautiful baby in the stroller.

Time to refuel: coffee in the park, served by the friendliest, most  hilarious barrister you've ever met. I wanted a simple beverage and very nearly ordered a second (huge) breakfast just because I liked him so much.

Roaming ever onward, we began to discuss lunch. Where, what, how much, when, all the important food-related questions. By the time we dragged our now-starving carcasses across McGill University, we had some serious needs: first, find a bathroom (dang that last cup of coffee) second, find some sustenance.

We stumbled out of the McGill campus and onto a busy street where there was a Borders-esq book shop on the corner. Stevo took one for the team and acquired the key (without buying something, as the sign insisted!) and while we all took turns in a bathroom for the second time in one day, I read the first book I could find to keep my mind off of the hunger that was sending me to The Bad Place.

See my pasty complexion? That's hunger's pallor.

But soon, we were here, seated on a second storey balcony, enjoying fresh guacamole and french-Canadian wine, watching the people on the sidewalk. Bliss:

Shortly after this photo was taken, Stevo went to get a haircut from someone named Pasquale, apparently the only person he truly trusts with his tresses, while Lisa, Nicole and I went on to walk the main tourist drag and check out Simon's, the very trendy, very crowded department store that everyone from grannys to teenagers shops at.

That was exhausting, Simon's, I mean, and once we reestablished contact with post-haircut Stevo, we took the Metro back to our hotel for NAP TIME. Yeeessss, good sense finally prevails!

While some of us napped (me) others of us read the Lonely Planet on Montreal (everyone else). Turns out we'd walked 5.5 miles already, and we were about to head out again to see the old town. Hey, that's a great guess - Old Town IS the oldest part of Montreal. Point for your team.

Old Town was pretty darned cool. Cobblestone streets, historic buildings with crooked stairs leading to brightly painted doors and windows with that bubble, squiggly glass they used back when people like Laura Engalls Wilder rode into town with Pa on the wagon.

See, cobbles!

Montreal is the home of Cirque du Soliel. We did not see a show as we did not have hundreds of extra dollars just laying around. But we know they're pretty cool. And hey, they have a neat tent. 

Left:The original market  in Montreal, located on the canal where ships docked after traveling across the Atlantic and up the St. Laurence Canal to bring treasures and creature comforts to the New World. 

Right: The National Bank? State House? Maple Syrup Monument?

How sweet that something so European should be right here in North America.

Left: Wine List! (Saturday Dinner) Right: Fresh Pastries! (Sunday Breakfast)

After our grand foot-tour of Montreal on Saturday (8.8 miles of hoofing, people!) we thought we should reward ourselves with fresh pastries and cafe au lait for breakfast Sunday. We checked out of our hotel and drove a couple of miles to the Atwater Market where we enjoyed some absolutely delicious bread products and imbibed enough coffee between us to caffeinate a whole suburb. Bliss.

While at the market, we also purchased some items for a picnic lunch in the Adirondacks on the way home. We left with a fresh baguette, a small wheel of local, organic cheese, a box of Boreal beer (the most cherished of Montreal beers) and a beautifully wrapped, locally made dry sausage. 

Atwater Market - if I lived near it, I would be obese. And happy.

The market (left) and the feast (right.) Stevo looks mad, but he's just so excited about our picnic supplies he's struggling with his emotions.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. It was great to spend time in a beautiful new city with a few of my favorite people. Driving home, I napped and read my book about Amazon explorers and then we stopped for ice cream at Ben & Jerry's (because we hadn't indulged enough during the rest of the trip...) and because we were all a bit sad about the end of the adventure. It did the trick. I highly recommend ending an adventure with ice cream -  how can you be sad with a cone of awesome delight in your hands?

Montreal: part one

Last weekend I visited Montreal with Stevo, Lisa and Nicole.

• Stevo is my boss/friend
• Lisa is his girlfriend/my friend
• Nicole is my cowoker/neighbor/friend.

Lisa (left), Stevo (center), Nicole (right), nervous homeowners (not pictured).

We had a fantastic time.

After a beautiful drive through the Adirondacks, a very long line at the border (amidst cars full of underage SUNY Plattsburg students eager to reach Canada, the land of the 18 y/o drinking age,) and a guard who seemed highly suspicious of the Australian in the US who wanted to go to Canada for the weekend, we made it to Montreal. Even though we'd planned and brought snacks in the car, the time was 9 pm and the collective bloodsugar was dangerously low.

So we checked into our hotel (the Hotel Lord Berri, sounds fussy but isn't,) dropped our bags and headed out into the night in search of food and perhaps a bottle of local wine to hearld a weekend in a new country. We found La Paryse where we waited in line on the sidewalk and soaked up the very European/North American atmostphere. It was strange to be in a place that was neither in Europe nor in America, yet bore classic traits of both places.

For instance: we knew we were in a European city because of the scarves, the mullets, the cigarettes and the occasional pair of rollerblades slung over the shoulder of a passerby. We knew we were in north america because of the  the abundance of Chevys, Fords and Kias on the road, the overly-loud conversations in small spaces and the ever-prolific coffee and hamburger chain stores snuggled between even the coziest, most independent cafes and boutiques.

During our first dinner, Stevo and Lisa insisted that we eat a Montreal classic, "Poutin." It is a dish of french fries, soaked in gravy, topped with cheese curds. It sounds questionable, looks horrible and tastes delectible.

Nicole, who is from Wisconsin (go midwesterners!) agreed that it sounded more like a dish with roots in the dairy state, not the birthplace of Hermes, the backdrop for Versailles and the home of perpetually slim, chic, black-clad women. And yet, here it is. I like it.

After a top notch meal we did my favorite thing: we walked home. Well, not home. But back to the hotel. There is nothing better than strolling home along crowded city streets with friends, full of good food, good wine and good conversation.  

(Stay tuned for "Montreal: part two" to discover the next day's adventures. Well worth the wait, I assure you.)

Love,

Sarah

Chemicals, please.

I'm writing this blog from a precarious place. No, I'm not balanced on a chair leg or on a barrel atop a telephone pole and I'm not in the crow's nest of a pirate ship, but rather, its 9:37 am and I've had no coffee.

I'm competely useless and am experiencing a sensation that's not far from the buzz that preceeds the beer that tells me I've had just enough. It would be fun except for the fact that I need to push through the fuzzy/buzzy feelings and string words together, accomplish tasks and be a captain of industry here at my desk so that I don't fail my boss, my coworkers and all the other people who expect answers, ideas and directions from my general direction.

The other drawback is that under it all, I'd like nothing more than to lay my head down and embrace the sleep that my caffiene-free brain insists is inevitable. Oh chemical dependency. How have we become such close friends?

It's telling that I'm out of coffee, for under only the direst of circumstances does this happen. It means it is That Time of Year, again. Whew. Spring is here and this week brought the first wave of new staff. Hooray for the fresh faces and the eager-to-pleasers! But of course it also meant the first 13-hour day of the year for my boss and I as well as the return of chaos to all things not-work in my life. Like my kitchen sink, my laundry basket, my refridgerator, my running clothes and the two books I'm partway through.

It's ok, though, really. I know that this season will be action-packed and fast-paced and challenging and fun and exhausting and hilarious and that then, it will end. And at its end is summer, which brings the days that are the closest to 9-5 that I experience in my job during the days where the sunshine beckons and water sparkles. And I'm excited for those just as I'm excited for these.

Now, where's that coffee pot I saw in the office this winter?

April 28th, I hate you.

Wednesday was decidedly a bad day.

No, this isn't drier lint floating down upon my daffy friends...

It's just plain wrong, people. 

I object. Formally.

"Rhymes with Pumpkin-Eater"

I know it is cheating to just slap pictures and captions up here as a means of updating everyone on my recent "adventures," but I truly don't have the time to write the 1,000-odd words that each photo represents.

Not only have I been busy not finding or purchasing a stuffed beaver for the children who are about to descend upon my workplace (turns out with taxidermy they expect you to provide the dead animal...they don't actually stock shelves with them,) but I also have been trying to hire 18-20 staff for the spring season while not letting any of the 15 summer staff (from all around the world) that I've already mostly hired for camp fall through the cracks. While I've been doing this, I've also been trying to string along the random assortment of organized, forward-thinking fools who have applied for fall positions who, while aggravating to this disorganized ding dong, are probably some of the sharpest, best people I could possibly have for our busiest season. (Pause for maniacal laughter and tears.)

Also, I'm going to Montreal this weekend with Stevo and Lisa and next weekend I'm going to see Amber so any extra weekend cramming I might usually do has to be extra crammed into the already crammy cram cram work week.

But I've brought this upon myself, so I won't cry. Too much.

Anyways, I'm going to cheat and just show some pictures. And then I'm going to get back to the pile.

The aforementioned chaos. I've cleaned up since this picture. But I'm almost back to this state. 

Spring! In earnest now!

A beautiful campfire, a newly-dug fire pit and a good bye party for a friend.

Mmm, meat!

Insert your own hot dog pun here.

Turns out I'm not too old to be dared to eat a marshmallow and sausage sandwich.

Salad tongs are perhaps the most underutilized grill utensil.

Look at Michael Sharry's face. I love Michael Sharry.

The end.