2002-09-12 - 5:16 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "America the Beautiful".

Well, I'm not generally an anniversary-celebrator, but yesterday was one of those days where I was ... extra-attentive, I guess you could say. As I mentioned in LJ, my brother asked me what I'd be doing that day, and I said, "Counting my blessings."

And I did. I was grateful for a day unmarred by the shock and horror of the same day last year. I was grateful that I'm lucky enough to have achieved my dream of living in the city. Grateful for a wonderful husband and family, whom I am lucky enough to have here with me today. It was very, very sweet and good.

I saw a solemn parade of young girls, in Catholic uniforms, crossing one of the bridges over I-676.

We stopped at 8th & Race on our way back from the tile store, in time to run down to Market and see the end of the candlelight walk. The wind had died down just enough -- it was a ferocious wind during the day -- to keep the candles lit most of the time.

I read a lot of personal commentary online, rather than anything on the television or newspapers. I saw the "I am an American" commercial. I sang "America the Beautiful" to myself a lot. It was a good day.

And now we return to our regularly-scheduled house-obsessing. Wednesday is the only day the flooring store we like is open past 4:30, so after dinner, off we went. We were looking for something to replace this icky red tile in the foyer (check out that artful shading, eh):

BTW, I first saw that photo and thought, "Holy cow, what is that?! It looks like that ghost stuff! Oh my god! Maybe we have ghosts in the entrance of our house!"

It's my hair, blowing around in the ferocious wind. Ah well.

Anyway, we talked about ceramic tile and talked about vinyl tile and we hate the grout in the former and the seam lines in the fake grout in the latter. So I suggested that we look at the resilient flooring, just to see what they had. Especially since the foyer is not well-lit, and not exactly a showplace.

Amazingly enough, they had something that looked surprisingly like real 8-inch stone tile. The shadings and variations were quite impressive. There were many, many other brands and styles that tried to do the same thing, but didn't even come close to this one. Of course, it is THE most expensive resilient, but it looks great. It's the Mannington Naturals (Gold series) "Stonehaven", #7482, although the web site doesn't do it justice.

We found it early on, and then went through all the other types, and didn't find anything we liked. They all looked fake. Poindexter said, "Why did we have to like the most expensive one?" I said, "Because we have good taste, and good taste is expensive." Sigh.

On the way out the door of the floor place, we saw the resident dog again, a very old black lab. She was laying on the sidewalk. A very placid dog. She had a cast on on leg, but it was smaller than the one she'd had on before, so I asked about it. Apparently she had an infection from an IV (why she needed the IV, the guy didn't say).

Anyway, I patted her for a bit, and she rolled on her side for some tummy action. She was really cute.

Callie is probably going to laugh at me, but I realized a little while back around my friends' (gigantic) year-old yellow lab that I am not generally comfortable around dogs. I'm a little scared of the young big ones. Egads, they just jump around so much, and they're so BIG.

I attribute this partly to my dog-less upbringing (something for which my brother has never forgiven my parents). We never had any pets, at all. And when I was very young, our close friends and next door neighbor's (Alicia's family) had a Weimeraner that used to tear around the backyard like a maniac and occasionally rush up to me and slobber and rear up. Since I wasn't much taller than she was, I was downright frightened. And since I'm still so small, some of the big dogs, when they get friendly, nearly knock me over.

It's a weird thing. I'm not consciously afraid they're going to hurt me, so I don't know what it is. There are a couple of dogs down the street of our new house, and the first day I became aware of their existence, I had my back to them and heard nothing but sudden loud barking, and I jumped a foot. I felt pretty silly when I looked behind me and saw two dogs that barely made it to my knees. But there it is.

This doesn't mean I don't like 'em. I love watching other people interact with dogs, I always look at them on the street, and the local doggy park back in Virginia was an endless source of amusement. Great Danes romping with chihuahuas is something to see.

I'd imagine that the way to get over this is either spend a lot of time with people who have dogs, or get a puppy, which is not scary, and let it gradually grow in my presence so I get used to it. Hm.

So, did I mention how much I LOVE LIVING HERE?!?!?!

I really do. I wondered sometimes if my desire to live in the city was an ideal that wouldn't match up to reality. But it isn't. I just love it. Even though Philadelphia is a shithole. Ha!

I love walking everywhere, I love having other people around walking everywhere, I love the eye candy, I love watching the beggars, I love that there's always something going on RIGHT HERE (the candlelight walk, for instance), I love the Victorian buildings, I love the art deco buildings, I love the skyscrapers, I love the Ben Franklin bridge, I love Independence Hall, I love Rittenhouse Square, I love the Wanamaker building, I love the Strawbridge building, I love it, love it, love it. Wow.

Speaking of beggars, I've been completely obsessed with them, too, lately. The one I mentioned a few entries back has at least one male cohort (he/they wear caps all the time, so I can't see his/their face(s)), and the two of them take turns manning the milk crate and sign. Sometimes they work simultaneously, on different corners. They keep changing clothes -- I haven't seen them repeat an outfit yet.

Are they married? Friends? Where do they keep their clothes? They're very clean.

Poindexter says I should apply for a government grant to study the beggars. Something to think about.

The other night, Poindexter and I were simultaneously watching (via his flipping) two shows: the "Street Magician's Secrets Revealed!" one, and the big Fear Factor championship.

The magician show was over the top, using scantily-clad, skinny, big-breasted starlets as assistants, with narration letting us know they were definitely enjoying the view, yes sir. At one point an assistant dropped into a trapdoor, with a view of her butt that made Poindexter's eyes pop out and jaw drop, and the narration said, "Going down?" So we were hooting and hollering a lot.

On the Fear Factor show, we were carefully watching the girls' reactions to each other's performances. They cheered each other and hugged a lot. "Look how supportive they are," I said, "Nothing like the competitive guys." Poindexter said, "Yeah, but you know they're just faking it -- underneath, they're all, 'That BITCH!'" And you could sometimes see that thought cross their minds before a smile would take over. It was amusing.

So the whole time we were watching, we were chattering to each other, laughing, and reacting to the stuff on the TV. That's how we watch TV. When we watch movies or serious shows where paying attention is important, we're quiet -- although I've been known to make Poindexter press "pause" so I could discuss something before continuing -- but in general we're rather active TV-watchers.

So imagine my surprise when I encounter people who watch TV and don't say a word. They barely even react. They just sit and stare. I guess this is what people mean when they call it the "boob tube".

previous index next