A long, long time ago, I used to think that a person’s keychain (or chains) said something about her – namely, my name is Nikki and I am in fifth grade and these are all of my interests and hobbies and vacation destinations and places where my aunt in the Air Force has been stationed, colorfully depicted in miniature and strung together in a huge awkward clump of keychains that will not fit in my pocket and, moreover, seem a bit unnecessary considering my only key is my house key.

Nowadays, I still have a lot of interests and hobbies, but I have simplified my keychain. The only thing on it is the little remote for my car, my car key, my house key, a four-way holy medal (and if you have to ask what that is, clearly you did not attend kindergarten through sixth grade at Sacred Heart Elementary), and – as of today – my gym membership card.

Yes! There is a new member of my little keychain family! A tiny little gym membership card that I have to swipe each time I go into…MY GYM!

I’ve been a member of this gym for, oh, about a week and a half. And today was my very first visit. I have to tell you guys, I am not exactly a “gym person.” (Those of you who know me in real life are nodding to yourselves.) I am convinced that I look funny and ridiculous when I – well, when I do anything, but especially if it’s something in the active, sporty vein. So naturally I prefer to do my working out in the privacy of my own home; only, funny thing, I began to notice that ever since I had Abigail, that never actually seemed to happen.

There are always a million reasons not to work out when you’re taking care of a toddler. And when your husband is taking care of the toddler, there are a million other things to do. And even if you can convince yourself not to cook something or do chores (which is not hard, for me), you don’t exactly want to jump up and go run four miles, either. When I’m at home and I’m not with Abby, my favorite thing to do is…wait for it…sit there and take just one minute for myself ohdeargod. So, after months of only sporadic exercise, I accepted the fact that I was going to have to leave my house to work out.

Why don’t I just run? Because running outside is for stronger, better people than I am, who can run marathons (I can’t) and don’t live in North Carolina’s eternal summer. But even after taking the leap and joining a gym earlier this month, I was totally prepared to put off the inaugural visit till another day; all I needed was an excuse – any excuse – like, I don’t know, a migraine; an upset stomach; my babysitter backing out; very heavy rain. But none of these things happened. My babysitter came over punctually as always, and I felt fine, and it was sunny, and not even so hot. So I stuffed all of my “gym things” into my “gym bag” (ginkgo tote), waved at the baby girl, and took off for the gym.

I headed for the cardio machines and switched the channel on the nearest TV to Law and Order. Post-Lenny, sadly (may he rest in peace), but still in the Jesse L. Martin years. Treadmill for 30 minutes, elliptical for ten, weird stationary bike for five. Turns out I still hate stationary bikes.

While I was stretching, I also glanced at all the weights – real gyms, it turns out, are simply lousy with weights – before reaching the conclusion that I had absolutely no idea how to use 99% of the weights, and anyway wasn’t it about time I showered and went for that iced coffee I had been craving. But I am going to learn to use those weights, I really am. At least, some of them. Because I care about my…bone density, or whatever.

Bottom line, my first real gym experience was surprisingly pleasant. I still think I look ridiculous working out (and all the mirrors at the gym kind of confirmed that for me), but on the up side, no one else seemed to notice or care. Really, the people there were quite friendly, and (unlike the gym at my alma mater) no one seemed to be staring at my treadmill speed and secretly judging and/or competing with me. And now I have a gym card on my keychain! So, if my keys are lost and a stranger picks them up, he or she will know that I am a person who cares about her health, who is trying to maintain an active lifestyle.

Now I am going to eat a cheeseburger and French fries, and possibly some apple cobbler, too. Why do you think I joined a gym?

Hello, interwebs. Or at least, the four or five of you on the interwebs who still glance, occasionally, at this blog. I’m sorry for neglecting you of late (though I hesitate to presume that you noticed my absence, what with the economic crisis and the health care crisis and, most of all, the crisis we all face now that Michael Jackson is no longer with us). And no, I don’t believe that my snappy little Sondheim-lifted subject line will make it up to you.

I’ve just started working again, and our best local friend just left town, and my daughter is doing battle royale with her 2-year molars, and I have bravely joined a gym (that I have yet to visit…). But really, the truth is, I have no superb excuse for sucking so profoundly at time management these past few weeks and neglecting all (four or five) of you. I’m lazy, that’s the God’s-honest truth, and what with the heat and the humidity and the social demands and the job training and the syndicated television shows, it’s been oh, so difficult to imagine writing anything longer than a sentence-long Facebook status update. And let’s face it, those updates have really been taking it out of me, too.

It’s easy to disparage myself for my failure, but I must try not to become downcast by it, and instead press on. To victory. Or at least a regular habit of writing. I shall return.

But probably not till tomorrow, what with the new X-Files movie having just arrived from Netflix and all.

To the best Abby-daddy I know:

Thanks for getting me into this mess. Thank you for keeping me sane through 24 hours of labor. Thank you for holding the household together when I was a postpartum hormonal wreck. Thank you for getting up with Abby every morning, for bathing her every other night, for being more than just her favorite playmate, and for coming home ready to parent, not just ready for dinner. Thank you for your prodigious (if equally perplexing) faith in me.

Thanks for being my best friend and equal partner in all this craziness. It’s a privilege to share it with you. ♥

You know, I signed up for pottery class because I thought it would be a nice break.  Four hours (including transportation), every week, when I am not with my toddler.  The first week, it felt strange to be away from her for such a big chunk of the day, but the second week I don’t know if I thought about her at all.  (Why yes, I am a candidate for Mother of the Year, thank you for asking!)

It’s definitely a break from my usual daily routine of extreme parenting, but I don’t know how nice of a break it is. The truth is, pottery class stresses me out.  I feel horrible about this – I took a chance, signing up for something completely new and outside my comfort zone (of spending what little free time I have with my ass in a chair, either reading or writing snappy emails and wordy blog entries); I spent what was, for me and my husband, a lot of money on this class; I was really, really looking forward to the entire experience.  And while there are parts of it I honestly do like, my teacher stresses me out so much the experience has been sapped of much of its enjoyment.

I feel like a wuss admitting this.  Really, it’s unlike me to be offended by anyone else’s brusqueness.  I am a fairly straightforward person myself.  I’m not easily overwhelmed.  I don’t like being coddled, and I don’t want or expect false praise.  But when you’re a beginner at anything – and I am a beginning potter in the true sense of the word, never having touched raw clay before this class – it is really not helpful to have someone standing over you, saying things such as “What do you think you’re doing?” and “You know I cannot do this for you.” Oh, and my personal favorite: “You may feel like a retard now, but you’ll get it eventually” (yes! Direct quote! I know, it’s almost impossible to believe that someone hasn’t given this woman her own children’s show on PBS).

As in any abusive relationship, there are apologies afterwards (“I know I can be kind of cranky or bitchy sometimes, I hope you understand that I really do think you’re doing well, and that’s why I’m pushing you”), but overall it’s just way more anxiety than I care to admit into my life for what was supposed to be a nice break.  When I know the instructor is watching me, I feel jumpy and nervous, and inevitably make more mistakes than I would otherwise.  I feel like one of those kids who has trouble reading aloud in class, whose teacher berates her so much that even after she learns to read satisfactorily, she probably has a lifelong stutter and paranoia about reading anything out loud. 

If you’re still with me, and haven’t ditched this entry after four solid paragraphs of whining, let me just add that our instructor also answers and talks on her cell phone at least twice during our three-hour class sessions.  I know we all lead very busy lives and all, and she has a job apart from teaching pottery classes (probably a good thing, in her case), but really – unprofessional, right?

We’ve also had a few rather bizarre conversations about my ethnicity, of all things.  We’re three for three so far.  In our first class, she asked me where I like to go for authentic Chinese food.  I replied that I’m not Chinese, but named the restaurant where we usually go – which I figured she wouldn’t like, since she said she preferred this gross pan-Asian place that has since closed (good thing; it made me sick the one time I went there).

In our second class, I happened to be wearing this shirt, and she asked, “Are you Korean?” I answered in the affirmative.  “Oh!” she said. “My doctor is Korean.” Uh-huh. Bringing your Korean acquaintance count up to…two, apparently.

In our third class, she showed us the stencils we would be using to carve our initials into the bottom of our pieces, so we knew which were ours.  She saw me writing “NC” on the bottom of one of my bowls, and suddenly exclaimed, “You know, you should write your name in Korean!”

I think I just gaped at her for a second or two, because, you know, my name is “Nicole” – and she knows it.  Nicole.  Greek, French, definitely Western; there’s no direct Korean translation.  Then she said, hilariously, “I could ask my doctor how to write it if you don’t know how.” I was just like, oh, yes! Please do that! That would not be awkward at all (for you)!

(Actually, because all Koreans do, in fact, know each other, I happen to be acquainted with her doctor. I think she speaks a little Korean; I’m not sure if she writes it.  Either way, wow.  Just wow.)

So, pottery class stresses me out.  I do not come home feeling refreshed and relaxed and stimulated; I come home feeling exhausted, a little bit stiff, and annoyed as hell.  And do I really need more stress in my life, from something that was meant to be my fun, lighthearted break from toddler-chasing?  I don’t think of myself as a quitter, but right now I’m of two minds about the whole thing.  I like the bowls I’ve made thus far, and I want to glaze them next week and actually see a finished product the week after.  I want to spend more time at the wheel and also try some hand-building.  I still love pottery, and I’d like to learn more about it, irritating teacher notwithstanding.  But honestly, when I think about going back next week, I don’t feel any real anticipation, just dread. 

It’s a tug-of-war between my curiosity and my impatience, my stubbornness and my “to hell with you” impulse.  At this point I’m really not sure which will win out. 

Our friend Kazuko is a potter. She’s been working with clay for over fifteen years. She and her husband have known my parents a long time, so I remember when she first began learning at the wheel.

Kazuko is a lifelong artist who studied painting and weaving as a young woman in Tokyo, and none of us were surprised when she demonstrated a talent for pottery as well. But it was her artistic vision, even before she had truly mastered the technique, that amazed us all. She had unerring instincts when it came to choosing glazes, stenciling details, creating simple, eye-catching patterns for her plain bowls and vases and platters. She was able to envision the most beautiful objects in her mind and then build them out of clay. These were pieces of herself, taken from her artist’s eyes and mind and heart, and she had given them three-dimensional representation, made them real for us to see.

She gave me a few pieces of her early work, small bowls and squat teacups and the occasional vase. I loved and treasured these gifts, however quick she was to point out their flaws. She saw herself as very much a beginner, so of course it came as a shock to her when she found that people actually wanted to buy her work. Everyone pressed her until she agreed to create a certain number of pieces for a local arts show. Of course, every piece sold, and everybody told her she hadn’t charged nearly enough.

It became inconvenient for her to drive back and forth to the studio where she had first learned to throw, so her husband built her a little potter’s shed with her own wheel and kiln in the woods next to their house. With her own space, she began to experiment – different clay, different glazes, different styles, different patterns. Large vessels, small ones, functional ones, pieces for display only. She made her own stamps and stencils and designs, and hand-built vines and flowers and birds in flight. Her work filled the plain wooden shelves inside her shed and spilled over to the cinderblock steps in front.

My mother goes to every one of Kazuko’s shows, and usually buys me a new piece every Christmas. My father visits Kazuko’s shed from time to time and goes through her trash heap – finished pieces that she is dissatisfied with, for whatever reason – and she tells him to take anything he likes. My parents have a ton of Kazuko’s artwork at home, and I think at least half of it was brought home by my father, who loves castoffs, and who (like the rest of us) can never see the imperfections so glaringly obvious to Kazuko’s critical eye.

* * *

I love pottery, and I buy it often for myself or for others. Kazuko is one reason I love it; another is the centuries’ worth of Korean pottery, with the famous pale green celadon glaze, that I have seen many times at the Freer Gallery of Art in D.C. I like art in general, though I’m woefully ignorant of most of it, and my appreciation of it is limited to “I know what I like and I like that.” What I have always liked about pottery – apart from the fact that it can be beautiful as well as functional – is that it doesn’t simply sit on your shelf or hang on your wall (though it can do those things); it’s something tangible, with weight and dimension; it’s something you can take down and grasp and hold. Something you can feel. Every piece is different, and yet every piece is some combination of the same basic elements, earth, water, and fire.

Despite my total lack of artistic talent, I’ve always wanted to take a pottery class. It was on my ever-growing list of Things to Do…Someday. Sometime last year, after I began staying home with Abby and found myself, for the first time in my adult life, without a “real job,” the thought occurred to me one day that maybe the time was right for me to take a beginner’s class. I called the local pottery studio and paid my fee and even bought some of the tools I’d need, but what with one thing and another it never worked out to actually enroll in a class until this summer.

This morning was my first class. Dan and Abby came downtown with me, and before they dropped me off we all had a delightful breakfast at a little French cafe and bakery. Abigail ate the world’s blueberriest muffin, much to her delight and stickiness, and Dan and I had egg and gruyere sandwiches and split half a dozen beignets. They were amazing – so light and delicious, topped with two kinds of sugar. I think they were actually better than the beignets we had at Cafe du Monde a couple of years ago (I know, heresy! Insert gasp here!), though the coffee in New Orleans is exponentially better than anything you can get in the Triangle. 

The pottery class was scheduled to last for three hours. Dan and Abby dropped me off in front, a few minutes early (I like to be early for things. I think I was early to every class in college; I would actually set my watch five minutes ahead, and then show up five minutes before that. Anyway, you guys, old habits die hard. And it totally paid off in this case because I was able to claim a nice shelf for myself. I am what Hopkins people would call a pottery class throat). Everyone, as it turned out, showed up before the teacher, who was running a bit late. One guy brought Krispy Kremes, which of course I couldn’t manage to eat since I was still stuffed full of beignets.

Turns out our class is a mixed level class; there’s only one other person who is brand-new to clay besides me, and everyone else has taken at least one beginner’s class. I think their enrollment was a bit short for the beginner’s class, so they made it mixed level. It meant that the other beginner, Tina, and I got a lot of help from Pam, the instructor.

Of course, when I say “help,” I mean “direction,” and when I say “direction,” I mean “a shitload of information delivered in the tone usually reserved for high school driving instructors.” Seriously, Pam made me so nervous, especially in the first hour or so, that I kept jumping whenever she wandered over to my workspace and said something about my technique. Then she would tell me I had just taken my hands off the clay too quickly, which was why it was messed up, and I would be like “DUH, it’s because you made me NERVOUS and I JUMPED.”

Tina and I exchanged a lot of Looks. Embarrassed, alarmed, nervous, guilty Looks. It took me back to my Catholic school days.

Pam is very brusque, which I guess I am fine with (I don’t think of myself as a shrinking violet), but it’s a bit overwhelming when you are trying to learn something new. Whenever I did something not quite right – which is, let’s face it, kind of implied by the whole “beginner” label, and the fact that I had never touched raw clay until today – more often than not, she said something in the tone your driving instructor used to employ when you had done something particularly stupid in “the flow of traffic,” and even though there was never any real danger, because, of course, he or she had just made use of the handy brake at his or her feet, you really ought to keep in mind that in most other cars there would be no passenger-side break and no experienced and alert driving instructor, which means that you – and everyone in the car with you – would most likely be dead.

But Pam also knew how to be encouraging at times. She used my wheel to demonstrate the first throw, so I didn’t get to try throwing or centering myself until my first lump of clay had already become a funny-looking bowl. But when I threw my second lump of clay, I managed to center it myself – pushing down and out – trying to apply equal pressure with both hands. Suddenly, my wet lump of clay was no longer wobbling about on the spinning wheel – it was the still point at its center. And Pam, walking by at the time, looked at me seriously and said, “look at you! And you thought you didn’t know what you were doing!”

Alright, it’s not exactly the kind of praise I got used to when I had the world’s best kindergarten teacher. But I guess I’ll take it.

Over the course of the class I managed to throw, center, shape, and cut three funny-looking bowls (though one of them, the one I spent the most time on, is actually not bad-looking at all, even if it is too small to be very useful). I also managed to spatter the bottom of my pants, the front of a borrowed apron, my wheel and table, and the wall behind it with lots and lots of reddish-brown, clay-stained water. (Cleanup took awhile, and my hands still feel dry and grainy.)

Pottery is like nothing I’ve ever done before. I had forgotten how hard it is to learn something that can’t be read or heard or memorized or learned through conventional study. Even ballroom dancing, when Dan and I took classes before Abby was born, was somewhat easier than this, because I already had some understanding of music and rhythm. With clay, Pam can tell me over and over what I need to do, what I should look for and how it should feel, the way I should brace my feet or hold my hands or lean with my body over the wheel – but I cannot learn simply by listening to her words, no matter how often (or how firmly) she says them. All I can do is pick up the clay and push it around, and try not to be afraid of it. Remember, thou art dust.

Honestly, I did not think I would be able to center that second ball of clay today. I was starting to think that I was just exposing myself to embarrassment and failure by signing up for this class – me, total non-artist that I am – and I was remembering just how much I hate not getting things quickly, and how I often avoid doing things I’m not good at, even though I know that makes me a tool. My lump of clay was wobbling to and fro, even my hair was slipping out of my ponytail, and I felt sweaty and disheveled and frustrated.

But if I couldn’t center the clay, then I couldn’t even start anything new, not even a second funny-looking bowl. I couldn’t learn if I couldn’t start. Which meant I had to learn to center, today, or that was pretty much it for my pottery experiment.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t have to be able to see, after all; I had to be able to feel. I pushed, down and out. Hard. I stopped worrying that I would wreck my clay, make a huge mess, or hurt my back bending over the wheel. I felt the slight burn of the wheel’s metal surface through the layer of clay on my hands. It hurt a little, but I kept pushing.

I opened my eyes. The wheel was still spinning along, but my clay was no longer rocking and rolling to and fro. It was steady in the middle, smooth and suddenly appealing, awaiting my direction.

“You’re centered,” one of my classmates said earnestly.

For just a second, I really did feel it.

Poor Abigail has caught a summer cold. For once I got her sick, and not the other way around. Between the two of us we went through a pile of Kleenex and had a pretty miserable day. I feel extra guilty because her 15-month checkup was yesterday (25 pounds, 31 inches, for those of you keeping score at home), and at the time she had no fever and no symptoms, so we went ahead with her scheduled shots; but then, just hours after we got home, her nose started running. Today she woke up with a fever, to which I’m sure the shots contributed. It’s hovered around 99-100 all day; I really hope it’s gone by tomorrow.

Normally we have a no-TV-for-babies rule in our house, but today, since we were both feeling so icky, I let her watch some classic Sesame Street on YouTube. We watched “Put Down the Duckie” at least half a dozen times, and when I finally closed the laptop she said “gwak, gwak” (”quack, quack”) and whined until I distracted her with a snack. Girlfriend definitely has my obsessive personality.

Lately Abigail has insisted on taking three small stuffed animals with her to bed each night: her trusty puppy, the Peter Rabbit doll (complete with blue waistcoat!) that her Aunt Meghan gave her on her birthday, and a soft white lamb my parents sent her for Easter. Abby calls these toys her “pup,” “hop,” and “baa,” respectively. Before bed she does roll call – “Pup? Baa? Hop?” – and if one of them is missing, she repeats its name (“Hop! Hop! Hop!”) until it reports for duty. Such a funny little girl.

What really cracks me up, though, is her conviction that the only reason people ever go to the bathroom is to brush their hair. She saw me blow-dry my hair once in our bathroom, and ever since that day, when she sees someone go in and shut the door, she brings a hand up to brush her (very little) hair earnestly. “That’s right,” I tell her, “Mama’s got to brush her hair.” As bathroom euphemisms go, I guess I prefer it to “I need to powder my nose.”

Abigail is swiftly becoming obsessed with the computer. I often leave my laptop sitting on the couch when I’m not using it, and she will go stand right in front of it and
a) start dancing, indicating that she wants me to put on iTunes so she can jam;
b) say “Cin” or sometimes just “ssssss,” which is her way of asking me to show her a picture of Auntie Cindy on Flickr; or
c) say “AbbyAbbyAbby” and thump her chest, which means she wants to watch videos of herself.

I’m really glad we named her Abby, because if her name were almost anything else it would be much harder for her to say. And it’s so adorable when she says (or sings, or yells) her own name.

There’s a book by Sandra Boynton called Moo, Baa, La La La, and at the moment it is one of Abigail’s favorites. The other night Dan came home and started reading it to her, and I overheard this little call and response:

Dan: A cow says…
Abby: Mmmmm.
Dan: A sheep says…
Abby: Baa.
Dan: Three singing pigs say…
Abby: La, la, la.

(Not surprisingly, Abigail has dubbed this book “la la la.” Except sometimes she says “la,” and sometimes she says “ya.”)

Abigail loves all animals, but her all-time favorite is the cat. One of Abby’s books is called The Great Dog Wash (it came free in a box of Cheerios), and despite the fact that the story is filled with dogs of every size and description, Abby is convinced that the plot truly hinges upon the one cat who makes a brief appearance.

Abby sees the cat painted on her bowl, and makes the kitty sign

I’ve been impressed with how well she understands the object represented by a word. For instance, she knows what a flower is, and can recognize it in the real world (in our garden) and in artistic representation (cartoon-like drawings in books; daisy shapes embroidered on her clothes; the flowery pattern on our sofa throw pillows; an orchid painted on my coffee mug). I could understand if she just thought that real flowers were flowers, or pictures of flowers in books were flowers, but it’s fascinating that she can recognize them in any setting, no matter how they vary.

A couple of my friends with sons around Abby’s age insist that little boys don’t communicate as well as little girls – “boys are walkers, girls are talkers.” I guess enough people say it that there’s probably some truth to it, but still, sweeping gender-based generalizations like that tend to make my eyebrows raise a little. Some of our friends have very communicative little boys, and others have little girls who were not so quick to sign or talk, so I don’t think it can possibly be a universal thing.

Parents, what do you think? Is the old adage about walkers vs. talkers true in most cases? Or is it (yet another) imagined distinction we inflict upon our children and let cloud our expectations of them?

Okay? You’ve been warned.

My grandmother (who I love) has sent Abigail many lovely things – clothes and sippy cups and stuffed animals, and we are so grateful. She has also sent two dolls that I have thus far refused to give to Abby. One was blond and another was bald; both were blue-eyed. I didn’t get rid of the dolls because they were Caucasian, of course; I got rid of them because they were scary beyond all reason, and came with small choking-hazard accessories. But I confess, a little part of me was bothered by the fact that neither of the dolls looked remotely like Abigail.

It’s not that I think Abby should play exclusively with dolls that look like her. But I remember that I was given a whole slew of dolls as a kid, and of course they were all Caucasian-looking, with some shade of blond hair. Several of my friends collected those ridiculously expensive American Girl dolls, and I paged through a catalogue once and couldn’t find a single one who looked like me. My ambiguously ethnic friend-of-Barbie Mattel doll had black hair, olive skin, and, so help me, purple eyes. PURPLE EYES. Even if you’re not making a specifically “Asian” doll, you might think that, I don’t know, brown eyes might appeal to a larger demographic than purple, am I right?

Finally, I asked for “a dolly who looks like me,” and my parents and I searched every toy store in town. Lots of black and white baby dolls, but no Asian ones. They had to special-order one for me, and it arrived just in time for Christmas. (I drew up adoption papers, naturally, and named her Michelle.)

This was more than twenty years ago, and today it’s not much easier to find Asian baby dolls at the store, despite the growing Asian-American population. I’m not saying the dearth of reasonably priced, little-kid-safe dolls who look like me – or my daughter – is some horrible injustice, to be compared with real prejudice. But it is rather annoying, not to mention one more thing that contributes to the already present feeling of not-belonging that some little kids are conscious of from a very early age. (The same thing used to happen when I turned on the television and, for years on end, never saw a single Asian actor or actress in a starring role. Honestly, it’s not much better now. You may think I’m being oversensitive, but observant kids notice these things.)

Maybe the doll thing is no great loss, though. If I’m totally honest, I have to admit that I’m ambivalent about dolls in general. It seems kind of weird – early domestic training for your daughter who’s still practically a baby herself? That’s all well and good, but in that case, why don’t we give dolls to little boys, too, so they can imitate their moms and dads?

Abigail and I watched disc two of the BBC Pride and Prejudice yesterday, skipping around for “the good parts” – by which I mean “the parts where Colin Firth looks the most smoldery.” Everyone always talks about the lake scene at Pemberley, and, you know, it is pretty great, but I also love when he runs up to Elizabeth shortly after, once he’s pulled himself together and put on the striped waistcoat and the green jacket and a properly tied cravat. His curly hair is still damp from the swim, and he just looks so sweet and earnest and awkward as he convinces her not to leave. 

I laughed a lot, and Abby didn’t really get it, but she shouted “HA – HA – HA!” copying me, as she is wont to do. I’m looking forward to watching the miniseries with her when she’s old enough to appreciate it. Perhaps by that time it won’t always reduce me to the goofy grins and stupid giggling of a fourteen-year-old girl.

Meeting Colin Firth was a big thrill in part because I have so few legitimate celebrity crushes.  And most of them are quite tame, really – perhaps because they were all formed when I was about fourteen, and have not evolved much since.  But I have a much longer list of literary crushes, and on a whim, I have put together a list:

Fitzwilliam Darcy, ’tis as good as a lord! 
Sir Percy Blakeney, savior of doomed aristos 
Enjolras, chaste lover of liberty 
Calvin O’Keefe, biological sport 
Aragorn, King of Gondor, eventually
Faramir, had the good sense to fall in love with Eowyn
Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, Mr. Harriet Vane
Captain Wentworth, writer of beautiful letters – okay, it was just the one, but it was awesome
Henry Tilney, perhaps the only Austen man you’d like right from the beginning

So, I’m curious – who are your favorite fictional men?

I’ve avoided updating because, let’s face it, nothing could ever top the Colin Firth story – in fact, I seriously considered never blogging again, and just leaving the entry up there in perpetuity as my great swan song – but then I spotted this article today, and it made me laugh. Specifically, this part:

Firth, after looking up images of Durham on Google Maps, was not particularly excited about Durham as a destination but was happily surprised upon his arrival.

“You go a mile in every direction and it’s green paradise,” he said. He’s taken his family to the Nasher Museum, the Sarah P. Duke Gardens and Eno River State Park. “I feel strongly about how gorgeous it is here.”

Oh Colin Firth.  I love you and your Google Maps.”A green paradise,” you say?  Perhaps this is the perfect place to consider building a country estate.  With a lake.  ”Pemberley” has a nice ring to it, don’t you agree?

Incidentally, when I first looked up this area four years ago, right before we moved here, I was “not particularly excited,” either.  So that is one thing you and I have in common!  One of many, I am sure.  Please hire me as your personal assistant/au pair (you’ve got kids, right? I can totes work with that), and I will personally see to it that Google Maps never steers you wrong again.  Call me!

Other article highlights:
- cast shoutouts for the overachieving local foodie scene;
- “I feel like Durham is its own character” -Amber Tamblyn;
- our town is apparently not dying. That’s good to know.