Didn't your mother never teach you no manners?

First things first: since we all know that royal weddings are mostly about the clothing (at least for Americans, anyway), here's an in-depth description:

I chose to wear my "I'm a business lover" t-shirt (which was given to me by a former employer who got it for free at a train station), because I had slept in it the night before, and at five-bloody-AM in the morning I had no desire to change. In a nod to tradition and the chilly temperatures, I accessorized with my blue plaid Gap flannel pants. Topping off the look were grimy spectacles and headwear consisting of dirty hair arranged in a "Good God it's early" fashion. And because I recently had a pedicure and my nails are a lovely shade with the non-lovely name "Cajun Shrimp," I went barefoot.

I was planning to watch the wedding coverage on TLC because I love that they had chosen Clinton Kelly and Randy Fenoli as their correspondents (because clearly a royal wedding must be reported on by well-dressed homosexuals), but they weren't constantly showing live footage, and seemed to have pre-recorded a lot, so I switched to NBC, where Matt Lauer apologized for the "Kiss Countdown Clock" to the random Brits they seemed to be interviewing (seriously, was there anyone with a British accent not on TV this morning? Do we need such riveting commentary as, "In Britain, we call soccer 'football'!").

I missed most of the congregational arrivals, but did catch a glimpse of Posh and Becks. Isn't Victoria Beckham supposed to be heavily pregnant by now? She just looked like she has a "cheese baby." And why was she wearing a sprig of licorice on her head?

I also loved the procession of shuttle buses: "Please, obscure royalty, adjust your $500 hats and board the short bus!" Also, they kept describing Kate Middleton's mother's dress as "sky blue." Um, maybe that's sky blue in Britain, but here in America we call that "gray."

I did enjoy the chiming of bells and the trumpet fanfares, and would like to be greeted with same throughout the remainder of my life. I'm glad I didn't get married in Westminster Abbey, though...that's a lot of pressure to walk through a huge church where you could accidentally step on, say, Sir Isaac Newton or Lord Alfred Tennyson.

The vows were surprisingly mainstream, but I had to chuckle: Does anything think "for richer or poorer" will ever really be an issue? The reading was actually the same one that Jeremy and I had at our wedding, although I think the phrase "Do not be haughty," rings a little differently in Westminster Abbey than it does in, say, the First United Methodist Church of Brevard, NC.

Here are a few of my favorite quotes from the "random British correspondents" on the Today Show:

"It's a shame about Sarah Ferguson--I mean, the Crown Prince of Swaziland is here, but the Duchess of York wasn't even invited!"

"Charles and Camilla are a great love story. He's been in love with her for 40 years! She wasn't his first wife, but nevertheless..."

"Later they will have the private reception, where they can 'boogie' or 'funk it up,' or whatever you Americans call it."

And finally...

"We call ourselves a civilized people, but I just saw someone dressed as an otter."


And now, a photo from my royal wedding. Here I am, being waited on by the royal butler. Oh, wait...

You know, I'm getting input here that I'm reading as relatively hostile.

First off, a very happy birthday to my favorite husband today! I have been teasing him about adding his name to the wait list of a nursing home. Of course, if he makes such a comment next year, when I turn the age he is now, I will show him a less pleasant use for a birthday candle not take it as well. Thankfully he is slightly more tolerant than I am.

So my big adventure last week was to show up unannounced at a performance of my old piano teacher. My piano teacher married my clarinet teacher, although when I last saw them they were both married to someone else (scandal!). I thought I would show up and let them see how well I turned out, but I swear I walked into the room and saw them, and was immediately transported back to my teenage awkwardness (the one difference between my teenage awkwardness and my adult awkwardness? I can now hide it better). I remembered that my clarinet teacher had once told me I had "the brain of a squirrel." I don't even know what that means, but of course it has stuck with me. Still, they seem to have remembered me fondly. Plus my piano teacher complimented my shoes, which in my mind translates to "Your footwear is fabulous and thus so are you."

J, Tilly and I have been in SC for the past few days with family. Tilly, being the most neurotic in our little family (and that's saying a lot), is slightly freaked at being in a new place. She needs to know where everyone is at all times, and if she doesn't, she basically won't eat or be still. Plus, the stairs are wood, and she has had to learn that she can't charge up and down them like she does the carpeted stairs at home. After a few slips, she has perfected a technique that's reminiscent of someone with a club foot walking across hot coals.

So what does the upcoming week hold? Well, tomorrow will be dominated by hours in the car and fast food. And Friday I'm just going to have to watch the royal wedding hoopla, if only for fodder for this here blog. I did enjoy this quote from a Briton in The Washington Post:

“You [Americans] had your whole revolution to get rid of them!” bellows Michael Urwin, who owns a pub in central London. “And now you want them! Take them! Just take them!”

I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.

From a webring I was involved with many moons ago:

If you were to form a gang right now, what would it be called? What would it do? What would your personal nickname be? What would you be known to be especially "hard core" at in your gang?

*RECRUITMENT NOTICE*

The High Stringers
Bringing You a 'Type A' Smackdown Since 1978

Feeling superior? Want to impose your rigid personal standards upon the populace at large? The High Stringers are looking for a few good tight-asses to enforce some persnickety criteria upon the poorly-dressed, bad-mannered, inefficient masses erroneously dubbed "humanity." If you lie awake at night planning "Lady, you need a bra!" interventions, spend your time editing personal ads, and become physically ill at the utterance of "supposably," we may be the gang for you. Send all inquires to "Spell Check" Maryment. Submissions must be sent via FedEx no later than 3:34 p.m. Friday afternoon, and must be printed on 11x17 inch, 20 lb. bond, goldenrod paper, single-sided, double-spaced, in 12 pt. Estrangelo Edessa font. Warning: Confuse 'its' and 'it's' at your own risk. Violators will be dragged into the street by "Spell Check" and beaten voraciously with the Hodges' Harbrace Grammar Handbook. Thank you for your interest! Now straighten your tie, clean your glasses, and dispose of this notice in the proper government-approved recycling facility.

No one's gonna really be free until nerd persecution ends.

Apparently the Hollingsworth family motto is "Disce ferenda pati," which translates to "Learn to suffer that which must be borne." Great! Our family motto is basically "Life sucks and then you die."

The past few days since my trip have been pretty quiet, but I'm trying to post more often, so I'll share something I wrote a few years ago:


After failing to consider the caffeine content of Starbucks ice cream, I am sitting at my desk, staring at the stack of papers that goes largely unnoticed during waking hours. As I reach for the pile, thinking for once that I will be productive instead of catching up on my reality TV, an old picture falls out—the old picture that everyone has, the one that makes you think back to your adolescent years and cringe.

As far as I can tell, there was no special occasion, so I can only assume my mother had deemed my appearance worthy of documentation—and certainly not because of my staggering beauty. I am 11, tall and gangly, resembling a newborn giraffe. My outfit is a cornucopia of late-eighties horror: a tacky denim shirt; a denim skirt over what should be leggings but appears to be pants (or perhaps my little chicken legs weren’t enough to fill out the leggings); white patent dress shoes; and two socks on each foot, one pair powder blue, one pair baby pink, with a blue foot and pink cuff on the right, and, of course, vice versa on the left.

But the most cringe-worthy moment of all is not my appalling outfit or my rangy, gawky body. In evidence of an adolescent’s nonsensical tendencies, there I am, in my dress shoes and skirt, perched atop a bicycle. It’s a wonder I wasn’t more popular.

I’m not sure how the picture came to rest in my to-do pile, but every few years it inexplicably pops up. Sometimes it makes me feel better about my current self, other times it has the opposite effect. Nevertheless, I fear I will forever be haunted by the low point of my own physical appearance.

Thanks, Mom.

I think I had better be where other people are not.

I am always amazed at how quickly you can get out of DC and into “the South.” I am loving Winchester, VA—but I think it’s above and beyond even Southern hospitality! Everywhere I go, people go out of their way to be helpful and friendly. I was walking down the street yesterday and, I kid you not, someone actually said “Howdy” to me. I hope the guy didn’t take my stunned silence for rudeness…I think I managed to smile at him.

First stop yesterday morning was the Civil War Museum. When I arrived downtown, I was slightly annoyed to find there is no free parking in Winchester. The idea of me parallel parking the Equinox is laughable, so I bypassed the parking meters and headed to a parking garage…where I learned that parking was a whopping fifty cents an hour. With a maximum of $4 a day. I told you this place was awesome!

At the museum, I got another solo tour. Normally this kind of one-on-one attention would make me uncomfortable, but not here. People find out I’m a descendent of the Hollingsworth family and they get all excited! I’m like “genealogy geek royalty.”

There are lots of relics at the Civil War Museum, but the coolest part is the graffiti on the walls—the old courthouse was used as a prison and a hospital during the war, and the city passed hands something like 72 times, so there’s both Union and Confederate scribbles. My favorite was the “Jefferson Davis Curse.”

After the museum I walked through Old Town Winchester and stopped at a pub for lunch (grilled cheese, tomato soup and a Smithwick’s…heaven!). Then I headed to an antique mall, because I could spend hours wandering around in those places (just ask Jeremy). Once again, I got amazing personal attention. I had only been there a few minutes when an employee walked up to me and apologized for not greeting me sooner. I asked her a question about an item that didn’t have a price, and she then offered to call the dealer directly to ask…and came back with a 50% reduction. I am totally moving here.

So what was this item? A crumbling Victorian-era photo album, complete with family photos and related newspaper clippings someone had saved and tucked in between the pages. Someone’s family history was just sitting there in a corner! I just couldn’t let that happen, so I bought it and am hoping to track down a relative who might like to have it.




My next stop was the archives at the local library. I think I totally made the librarian’s day when I walked in and said I was researching the Hollingsworth family. He kept pulling resources for me and telling me stories, such as one about Mary Hollingsworth, a six-foot-two woman (hmm, I didn’t get that family trait...but my Grandma did) who posed as a man and moved out west to make money working in the lumberyards. She apparently did a really good job of posing as a man, because she ended up engaged to her boss’s daughter, then freaked out and ran back home to Virginia before the wedding. The boss then sued her for breach of contract, or some such. (This story leads to a lot of questions—first off, you don’t just end up engaged to someone. Wouldn’t Mary have had to propose? Perhaps she really loved this other woman, but freaked out as the wedding approached because certain…issues…might arise on the wedding night?)

Anyway, I did a few hours of research at the archives, then walked across the hall to a meeting of the local genealogy society. As expected, and I am not exaggerating, I was the youngest there by 25-30 years. In fact, my entire time at the library I was referred to as “young lady,” and not in a “you are in big trouble” kind of way. Someone even asked if I was still in school.

The theme of the meeting was ““Coffin Maker, Undertaker & Funeral Director: The Other Death Record Sources.” I now know more about the history of funeral homes than I ever thought I would. Can you name the Father of American Embalming? I can! (Dr. Thomas Holmes, BTW).

And now, sadly, my solo adventure is coming to a close…although I am planning another one! I’ve got to head down to Conyers, Georgia to explore my more recent Hollingsworth ancestry. Mystery! Intrigue! Hiding the cattle from the Yankees! Arsenic poisoning! There’s a lot more to learn, and many, many creepy/strange/geeky things this 32-year old still wants to do.

This is a narrative of very heavy-duty proportions.

My solo adventure has begun! After vanquishing the "Evil Stinkbug of 2011" and spending $80 on a laptop charger to replace the one currently in the floor of my foyer at home, I seem to be back on top of things.

So, what am I doing? I'm embracing my inner geek on a genealogy-inspired trip to visit the home my 7th great-grandfather lived in, which is now a museum. Since my Grandma passed away back in November, I've renewed my interest in her side of the family, which she would never talk about. This is her mother, my great grandmother:



Maybe it's just me, but the more I look at this picture, the more uncanny her resemblance to me becomes. High forehead, big eyes, same mouth...and you can't tell from the picture, but it's not entirely ruled out that she has my cleft chin (or rather, I have hers).

When I arrived at the ancestral home, I certainly didn't expect a Smithsonian-during-spring-break atmosphere, but I really wasn't expecting the woman who sold me my ticket to grab a key ring from behind her desk and lead me on a one-on-one tour. The house was completed around 1754, and while this woman was clearly a new volunteer and didn't know a ton of details, she did share some tidbits such as, "See this bench in the front entrance? That's where they laid out the dead." Which is, you know...disturbing.

The family is Quaker from way back. I recently found a few of my relatives in the Society of Friends' "Disownment" records. They were kicked out for such things as "driving a wagon in military service," "scouting after Indians," and "singing and dancing." I couldn't help but wonder what my ancestors would think of me driving away from their home while singing along to Rihanna's "S & M."

After the house tour I set out to find the "Early Quaker Cemetery," where many of my relatives are apparently buried. I say "apparently" because 75% of the tombstones were unreadable, but it was an interesting experience nonetheless. The cemetery is in disrepair and surrounded by a stone wall. It is also behind a Maaco, next to the train tracks, and adjacent to a factory yard. As I maneuvered my way to the only access point, a spot right next to the train tracks where a part of the wall has crumbled, I could just picture the next day's headline: "Creepy Brown-Haired Girl Who Likes to Hang Out in Cemeteries Hit by Train."

The cemetery was covered in small purple flowers, and was quite lovely for a small plot of land between a car shop and a major transportation route. However, for some reason the ground was replete with holes about 2 feet in diameter, and deep enough that you couldn't see the bottom...which, for a cemetery, is pretty unnerving. I could only picture the man from the Quaker Oats canister in Zombie form.

So what's on the geek-genda for tomorrow? Civil War museum, archival research, and a local genealogy society meeting! Be jealous.

Six bucks and my right nut says we're not landing in Chicago.

Continuing on the theme of "Mary's wacky solo traveling adventures," I thought I'd share a post from my old blog about my first business trip. I was young, fresh-faced, and not yet on Zoloft. Wackiness ensued:


So, my first business trip, over and done. As per my usual, it was full of oddities and chances to embarrass myself. First off, Chicago seems lovely. My hotel was lovely...at least, the bed was comfortable. However, I didn't get a chance to leave the realm of the gigantic conference center/hotel...the closest thing to a "happy tourist" moment was catching a glimpse of the sunrise over the lake...from the windows by the elevator, as I was on my way down to a 7:30 a.m. staff meeting. My flight in on Sunday morning was at 6 a.m. Meaning I got up at 3:30, and yet still arrived at O'Hare ungodly early on a Sunday morning, with no shuttles in sight and a 10 a.m. meeting to make. I hop on the subway, having been instructed which stop was closest to my hotel. I ask directions from the subway attendants to the street my hotel is on. I then promptly headed down that street...in the wrong direction. Not only that, but the Chicago marathon is going on...right through the street I needed to cross (well, the street I thought I needed to cross, my going the wrong way and all). Enter me, in new pointy-toed heels, with a laptop bag and a rollaway suitcase, running through the Chicago marathon. Oh, yes. It happened. And of course, once I made a frantic call to Jeremy and realized I was, indeed, going the wrong way, I had to cross the marathon track again. Then, upon my arrival to the hotel with 5 minutes to spare, I realized that my fly had been unzipped throughout the whole debacle. It was like the perfect storm of high humiliation.

As for the Conference itself, there was really no reason for me to be there. It was nice to get to know my colleagues a little better, but the icky thing is that when you're just about the youngest Conference attendee by around 20 years, creepy old men hit on you. A lot. My flight home was scheduled for 9:00 p.m. Monday night...meaning I spent all of 36 hours in Chicago, getting up at 3:30 one day and not going to bed until 2:00 a.m. the next, because of course the flight home was late. With not one, but two screaming babies, one of whom’s parents didn't realize for quite a while that their apparently steroid-packed newborn was kicking the hell out of the back of my chair.

We finally get off the plane, and head to the requisite Dulles shuttle (can't get ANYWHERE in Dulles without riding a stupid shuttle). I squeeze in, accidentally rolling my suitcase over someone's garment bag in the floor. My thought process: Whoops, I ran over that guy's garment bag. Hey, the leg that goes with that garment bag is wearing what is clearly a very expensive suit. Wait a minute, I know that guy! And finally...Holy crap, I just ran over Joe Lieberman's garment bag with my suitcase. That is the great thing about DC - you never know who you're going to be crammed into a small space with. Although, to be fair, the man was taking up two seats and enough floor space for two bodies with his stuff. And since I was 2 feet from him, I could tell that he is not a man of any substantive size. What's up, Sen. Lieberman? Aren't you supposed to be a public servant? Then move your crap outta the way! So, that was my "holiday weekend." And of course, I had to get up at the regular time this morning and drag my sorry butt to the office, since everyone else was still in Chicago (having actual sensible travel schedules and all). I threw together what is possibly the crappiest newsletter of all time and headed home to rest. Really, I should not be allowed to exit my safety zone unescorted. I'm a mess.