Certain things dont make the transition from NYC to a smaller town like this. Clothing bought in Chinatown, for example. When worn, I am met with bewildered stares; as if to say, why is there a blond haired giesha making copies at the office? Or most of my shoe-wear. Climbing over icy, tall snow mounds in order to get in or out of my car is not easy in point-toed high boots-- not to mention the traction-factor. I sort of skate around in a constant brace for a nice, alarming skid.

Last night I had a 7th grade sleepover at Whitney's parents house. As her house is under construction, she is staying with her parents out on the beautiful eastern shore, an hour or so away. She invited me to a fun party and then we headed to her mom & dad's. Except this time we got to stay up really late. I stayed in a cute twin bed in a guest room.

Anyway, we woke up this morning to see it was snowing. Again. Hard. It was so peaceful with the geese flying overhead, and the river covered white and snowy-- but alas, there's work. We packed in her car and started the drive, which unhappily was gridlocked traffic. All at once, Whit busted out laughing and asked me to look at the van next to us. The driver was missing. I saw that she had thrown her rig into park, and was in the middle of her van, doing stuff. How hilarious! We pictured her frying up hash browns or writing checks. Popping popcorn. Right there in the middle of the intersection.

I can't believe I have gone all these years without Bacon Bits. Trashy and tasty.

Having grown up almost smack on the Mason-Dixon line, I never thought of myself as either a Yankee or Southerner, that is, until I went here. Last weekend. Whew! The difference is only a 4 hour drive, but light years in temperment. I loved overhearing discussions, people love to talk, boy. In thick Richmond or Roanoke accents, somehow they can get away with sharing long, tedious descriptions of a trip to the ATM, a story about a friend of a friend's cousin who liked maple syrup, little Jo-Jo's new dog, anything. Different. I mean, I stuck out-- my non-accent-accent turned heads when I spoke. Truly. In one of the on-premise uber-preppy shops, I said something to Scott and grown men stopped dead in their tracks to stare. It may have been what I said, My hair looks like cotton candy!, but I think it was how different I sounded to them, all fast-paced and lacking drawn out "ah" sounds where vowels go.

Last night Chris stopped by. He was about an hour late due to the snow calamities around the city, so he rolled in, looking tired and a little dissheveled around 10:30. I could relate. Yesterday was a long one for me, too.

I was at my wits end when I finally got home around 7:30, only to find that my parking spot that I had dug out was taken. SIN! I had just been thinking how cool it was down here with blizzard-parking-- there is an unspoken honor code: if one took all the time (1/2 day!) to dig out your car- one has a right to that spot. All one has to do is claim it. Now, I will admit its rather unsightly, but when one leaves in the morning, anything will do to reserve it: a barstool, beach chair, etc., which is placed in the empty spot to hold it. I lugged out a large, heavy sealed bucket of mortar or putty that we found in the basement. It worked for a few days until last night, when some skillet decided to ceremoniously pick UP my bucket and move it and park their big ass rig in it. Which meant that at 8pm, tired, hungry, I had to circle unpaved streets and find another spot. Which meant that I got stuck in deep icy grooves, with a line of angry traffic behind me. 4 men got me out. One man had a lit ciggy in his mouth the whole time.

Needless to say, when Chris arrived there was little fanfare, even though he did come bearing exciting news. He was armed with about 3" of paperwork that would perhaps enable us to buy a house! (Albeit tiny and needs work, its really cute..and of course, pending the 900 approvals and inspections and... oy zucka vey.) Yes, Chris is a friend and real estate broker. Who knew.

He's youngish, sharp and has lived in this area all of his life. He is tall, thin, sandy-haired with pale-pale eyes, and has a sort of stoner quality about him, he is wonderfully mellow and has a unique way of talking. Reassuring. He walked us through the contract labrynth with the headache-inducing legalese, making it somewhat clear.

I had lots of questions and was actually interested-- for the first 15 minutes. Every page of the hundred or so that he brought, had various little boxes to sign and initial and date. As the time passed and the pages turned, everyone's eyes grew red and yawns were hard to supress. Sign here-- no, here, Holly. Oh, I'm sorry. Holly, wait, that's the seller's box. I got so punchy, I actually found I had started writing June instead of February.

Chris turned to me, in his semi-delayed manner, smiled You know, I do that, too. I find myself just writing different dates on stuff sometimes. I smiled back, and thought about it. How funny! I have filled out so many long, binding documents lately. Always sitting down all businesslike and serious with someone looking over me, witnessing me signing & dating 5 times in a row: I could be sitting with Mrs. Triplett back at the Bank of America, or Shamit at the car dealer, or HR at my new job looking completely sane, dressed nicely but when asked to sign and date I would sign and date it like the 4th of July. "Oh, Holly, its February 20." Oh, right, of course. Smile. Then with the very next block sign and date it Christmas. St. Patty's Day, with a penned-in 4 leaf clover.

Contents of the top drawer of my work terminal include (left here from prior tenant):

- PORSCHE touch up paint in bright yellow
- Sewing kit in special burgundy velvet sack
- Birthday candles- assorted
- Deck of worn cards
- "Don't screw up!" United Oil Co. screwdriver
- 4 various bottle openers.

Sara sent me a link today that gives me great regional pride. Indeed!

OK. The party is just about over.

A few realizations, both good and bad, since I've been living in the Frontier House-- going on day no. 4 of house arrest with now reportedly 27" of snow on the ground:

- I am a people person! I will talk to anybody that will let me. I just laughed a little too hard with the older woman who just stepped out on her tiny South Baltimore porch with a broom in hand, in a large quilted robe. "We ain't goin nowhere! Na-uh. Hooo-weee!"

- I am irrational. I picked two fights, out of the blue: "I thought you said you liked Shrimp Creole!!!", then today after Scott offered to dig my car out of its 4' drift and maybe I could then make it to work: "You can't wait to get rid of me!" Insane.

- I am a cook! Sugfary confections, hearty stews, spicy ham-bone entrees. Who knew. I've run out of room in the fridge.

- I am lazy. Just to walk the dogs, or to pick something up at the store .25 miles away, there are layers and layers of bundling to do only to walk, skid, twist and slide over huge mounds of snow, to then return home to strip all the wet layers off and strew them all around the house to dry. They don't.

Funny, its a natural, relaxing paradise that I am completely alien to. Scott and are on our way to walk to the Cross Street Market for beers and oysters and its not noon. It will be us and the boatmen and construction workers lined up watching the snow and I'm so excited, I kind of dressed up a little.

Toto, we're not in the East Village anymore!

It was Friday night, Valentines Day, and I was driving home from working late. We had snazzy plans to head to Virginia for a getaway weekend, but due to the lstorm, at the last minute behaved sensibly and stayed at home. Somewhat crestfallen, I started my car and began to weave through the city traffic towards home around dinner time.

It was amazing. One car caught my eye; a white, well-kept Lincoln Continental. Inside was a proud black man with a large hat. Next to him was a splendid flower arrangement replete with silvery balloons in the passenger seat. He was smiling slightly. A block or so later, a man in a three peice suit was getting out of his shiny parked car and walking around the passenger side, to open the door for a large woman, who looked dazzling with her hair in curls and shiny jewels. They looked handsome and proud. After spotting a few other cars filled with well-dressed Valentine couples stepping out for their romantic night, by contrast I felt inadequate. I am not sure I even know how to step out like that!

I pulled up to Scott's house, where I was met with a more humble bouquet, but he put together a non-humble night out that was just about as fancy as this girl could want. Yumm.

The snow! The snow! I realized I hadn't witnessed a blizzard since I was in the 5th grade. Lovely!.

House arrest! We've already established a rigorous routine involving sleeping in, watching the punch-drunk weatherpersons on the news (read: very, very corny, entertainingly so), walking the dogs, scrabble, and, oh yes, cooking. We made a very involved Maryland crab soup and then I took it upon myself to prepare a home-made blackberry cobbler. Blrrp. Full. Sleepy. Heavenly.

My favorite thing? Scott having to shimmy himself up on the roof to remove the snow from the small satellite dish that was installed for DTV. Its been snowing so hard and so fast, that it seems every few hours I'm yelling up to him: Hey, can you clean off the dish again? as I sit in my flannel PJs on the couch. If it weren't snowing, I'd be very, very worried about us.

My least favorite thing: yesterday there was about 15" of snow- with high, high drifts in places. The only place two walk was in the middle of the road where it was slightly plowed. Sure enough, this proved near-impossible with the SUV parade blazing the streets. No, these were not service vehicles, they were the people joined the SUV-craze and for the first time in years (or ever) had an actual reason to use it. Sort of. So, they dug out the high-cruisers and drove around, pushing us off to the huge snow mountains to the sides of the road and staring at us with their lattes in hand from their uber-cushioned seats. Sigh.

But! Not to take away from this snow-- it is just so pure. What is more pure than a thick blanket of fresh snow? This morning, with now roughly 2 feet of it, we could barely walk through it and even the dogs, who yesterday were unstoppable (in fact, they were so excited they had to poop every 20 minutes. wierd.) were today absolutely wiped out. Pant, pant. Its a real heavy snow and I tested it out by falling backward on a drift-- so very Ali McGraw of me, no? I landed safely and attempted a snow-angel. But it looked more like a snow-Barney with all my layers and layers on. I have no appropriate snow-clothes. But getting up proved to be very un-Ali; I sort of floundered around from side to side until Scott rescued me.

I don't want to take any of this for granted. This type of storm so reminds me of being a kid: wet, mismatched mittens, layers of socks and plastic-baggied feet, chicken and stars soup. The days seem to go luxuriously slow and I like it.

Attempting to do a little valentine-shopping, I took a stroll around my hip new 'hood. I stumbled upon an adorable storefront. Upon entering I realized it was a sort of card shop with assorted (used?) knick-knacks. And elderly couple sat in collapsable chairs near the front, talking to one another. It smelled musty.

Right behind me, a graying bearded black man pushed the door open, wearing a dingy navy blue trenchcoat and tattered shoes. I made room for him and witnessed the following exchange, somewhat concerned for the elderly shopowner:

Man [proudly]: I need card for a thirt-y-four year old lady!
Salesman [getting up from chair]: Hmm, lets see here. Over here we have quite a few. [directs him to rack with huge, scrolly cards]
Man [face lights up as scans selections]: Hmm, Give me your best card, your very best one!
Salesman: [withdraws a very involved Valentine and hands it to him.]
Man: Oh, yes. Now how much is it? I need to be sure I have enough money. [digs in pockets]
Salesman: This one is three dollars and sixty-five cents.
Man [pause]: But I only have three dollars! [let out a hoarse laugh] Oh my.
(My heart almost burst, I swear.)
Man [continuing] ...well, what is the next best one?
Salesman presents a smaller valentine.

When I left, the trenchcoated man was smiling and handing over his dollar bills and I just about emptied the content of my purse and gave it to both of them.

Omega III Overload 2K3. Feh. OK, so I don't choose to the eat the meats, aside from the seafoods. When eating out, the options are usually quite limited, and my default is the pink chicken o the sea. Scott learned very quickly my fine-dining habit: Will it be the salmon, dear? [groan]. Salmon with dill, salmon with kiwi, salmon with other salmon.

I may have had my last, shiny peice. Not that there was anything wrong with it. But there is a limit, my god. I shot up out of bed the other night and it was decided for me: NO MAS. I shared this with Whitney, and now, whenever applicable, she asks me if I would like to meet her for a fatty salmon po' boy or a quick "salmon fruit twist" after work.

My mouth waters.

Unrelated: this office is an old chemists lab from a different century. In fact, macirichrome (sp?) was invented here. Needless to say, its brick and sunny and cold. Mark just pointed out that I have a space heater on my floor between my legs. Victory! I have found it has a self-cooling mechanicsm that causes it to run in fits and spurts. So after a chilly bit, all at once I feel a heavenly warm rush down below and I smile dreamily. Like a little kid peeing in his pants.

T'was my lucky bun-day. I'd completely forgotten about that lyric. Beautiful.

Sad state of affairs: My subway 6 incher oozed mustard on my pantleg.

Exiting conversations. In social settings, one feels obligated to exhaust a topic before parting, or make a polite excuse, smile and bow out.

But not in an office. In my ongoing and pained crusade as the New Girl, I jumped at an opportunity to converse with some folks this morning. I had an audience of three! At once, with no warning, one turned and walked away. Just like that, in the middle of our chat. A second followed, and I was left to talk with Mark, who at once realized that it was only two of us standing awkwardly with our coffee mugs, just standing there with no table or chair between us, and he too wrapped it up with a quick Yeah, hes a sick motherfucker and spun down the hall. I cleared my throat and followed a few seconds later.

I'm chuckling. That used to my job, to be the back-turner! I was the shoulder-blade queen! I turned backs on nearly every conversation without a thought. Ha! Taste. Medicine.

But I did get to talk some with Mark, our maintenance guy, who previously intimidated me. I met him a few times this week, and always seemed disinterested and gruff. But today I think he took a little pity on me, and stopped by, leaning against my cube in his Dale Everheart jacket and baseball hat. He started telling me about how long he has been here, and then ended in telling me all about his little daughter and how he stayed up until three in the morrning, in the dark, watching the snow fall and drinking hot chocolate. His eyes twinkled. I really like Mark.

Being new at work! Seems I underestimate human nature-- perhaps I am imagining it, but it does seem that people are naturally inclined to like you, until you blow it, that is. Which is another whole story. Until, then, I will relish this. I smile at everyone. What do they know? I could be a CEO for all they know. A media mogul from Manhattan. Its getting cold out, there, no? Wink, smile.

I am also marvelling at the fact that this advertising agency, versus those in NY, possesses a creative staff with little ego. They do not arrive late with swinging hip trenchcoats or all in black, posing all the while. El Tigre! Raawrh. They are gray haired daddies or young athetic types. I honestly cannot detect who comes from what rung here. Refreshing.

Although, I am still in the agonizing part of my job. Further than a toothy smile and small talk, I am timid. I sit at my desk drinking tea from a Santa mug I found in a cabinet.

Stuart just reminded me of how crackpot vacations were when we were growing up--- Stuart and I had very similar upbringings.

My mom and dad didn't have very much money, but by gum, there was a vacation every summer. I recall staying in Ocean City at a motel off the boardwalk called the Sea Bonet. There was a mini-fridge and sand was always in the sheets. It was paradise.

Stuart recalled how there was often a white wine of no special category shared on the "deck" by the parents. God bless 'em.

New girl. New girl. Ahhh yes.

So I rock into work this morning in my snappy red skirt and am the first one here, at my new job. My shiny new job. And I was real nervous about being late. I brought snacks. Snacks, in my purse, just in case. Of what? I am laughing out loud here on my "island".

That's right. I said island. As I will be working in lockstep with the Creative Director, he has me sitting in this wierd bank of desks right outside of his office. And he is away. So, I sit here with my PAD and PENCIL and everyone stares at me as they walk by. Its brilliant. They have no idea who or what I am, and I think they assume that I am a new secretary. Neat. I met with the snappy IT fellah who wasn't really sure if he should give me acccess to the network... So you are full-time? Ouch. You didn't come from an agency, right? My, my.

I just ate a granola bar. The wrapper is in my otherwise empty garbage can.

I've almost forgotten how to hang out with people.

Perhaps because I boycotted brunches (still do, can't stand 'em), I limited myself to social daytime activity in Manhattan. Sure, I would go with friends to see a movie, go shopping or meet for an outing of sorts, but for the most part, people get together at night in NY. Out somewhere. Long after the sun has set, after a long shower and grooming process has taken place. Dim lighting, cocktails and music. Those are the settings where people hang out. For a few hours you're up, you're entertaining, the stories are hilarious and possibly too revealing. But all very, very funny and smart.

[I must note: I know also that a lot of New Yorkers take full advantage of their days with friends, I just wasn't necessarily one of them. I'd run around the city all day by myself, then collect with others at night.]

I've became so accustomed to this sort of behavior that now that I've moved, I have to remember how to interact with people. I feel like I'm the unfrozen cavewoman. The first few daytime socializings, I barely knew what to do with my hands. I was like Don Rickles, or wearing clown shoes, cracking the jokes over my cup of coffee. That doesn't work, by the way. Not the same effect.

I'm learning that it doesn't have to be like that. Hanging out can be-- quite literally-- hanging out. Lounging and chatting curled up on a couch. Interesting. Or having lunch and just saying what is on the top of your mind, whether it be riveting or not. I saw a dead bluejay once. Odd that something so effortless would be foreign to me, but alas. I think I like this.

Details. Good god. I lost my marbles on detail no. 912. "Do you want to have rental reimbursement if your car gets broken into?"

No mas. No mas! Its hard to believe that a month ago, my biggest responsiblity was being able to chip in when the tab came.

Now I have a cast of people to report to: insurance peoples, car payments, brokers, more insurance peoples, and then all the florists, musicians, bakers, photographers, tent wizards, caterers...whew! What's next? Tightropewalkers.

I am looking forward to starting my new job tomorrow. I hope I like it there.

There is just something so unsettling about an empty apartment. After you've emptied it. Ugh. Dangling wires hanging from light fixtures, holes from familiar pictures removed from the walls, indentations from heavy mirrors you looked in every day of your life. Dustbunnies. Cold. Empty. Miserable.