There's two things in the world you never want to let people see how you make 'em: laws and sausages.

Have I talked about The West Wing? I know I'm late to the party - like, ten years late, but I believe in making a fashionably tardy entrance. I've been watching the first season (in between writing up a storm of personal statements for grad school and battling the actual snow storm outside my house) and holy crap, that was an amazing show.

Aaron Sorkin is sort of a sore spot for a lot of TV enthusiasts. It seems like either you love him and think he's God's gift to television or you hate him and wish he would die in a fire. And preferably take his too-witty fast-walking characters with him. But I've always sort of viewed myself as a swing-vote when it comes to Sorkin: I hated Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip but I thought Sports Night was probably the most underappreciated tv show of the last 15 years (and given that that year-span includes Veronica Mars, that's saying something) Clearly, I have unresolved issues. But people, West Wing... it's a revelation.

I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. I mean, this is a tv show about the United States! And government! And smart people! Those are three things I adore! And the writing itself is so unapologetically in love with the idea of America, so optimistic about what American government could do, the positive agent of change it could be... I'm getting all verklempt just thinking about it. It's sort of strange to watch it now with 8 years of the Bush administration under my belt, but I'm also noticing a lot of overlaps between the Obama administration and the rocky start of the fictional Bartlet government.

Mostly I think I love The West Wing because it's just so ridiculously nerdy, and completely willing to revel in that fact. To wit, I leave you with the Antiquities Act (my fave!), a banking bill, and a fictional American president waxing rhapsodic over the great insitution of America's national parks*:





*I love the national parks too! Come hang out with me, President Bartlet... we can drink tea and I'll tell you all about Grey Towers! It'll be awesome.

Snowsuit Up 4: Live Free or Die Snow*

L.L. BEAN I LOVE YOU.

Seriously, the quality of my life has been drastically improved by the presence of these boots. They are the wind beneath my wings, the peanut butter to my jelly, the yin to my yang, the traction to the ice outside my door, etc. It's enough to make a girl believe in Santa Claus.

*one day this blog will be about something other than snow. That day is not today.

Snowsuit Up 3: The Iceman Cometh

Icy streets of Chicago: 3
Shoshi's balance and physical well-being: 0.

Clearly, I'm losing the battle with the asphalt. My ass has gotten a bit too friendly with Chicago sidewalks recently. LL Bean, HURRY UP.

Snowsuit Up 2: Revenge of the Snow

I am no longer so excited about this snow business. On Friday afternoon on my way home from work I managed to find the ONE patch of ice in a 30 yard radius and slip on it, falling in the middle of the street and narrowly avoiding getting hit by a turning Ford Taurus. The 75-year-old grandmother resting on her walker apologized for not being quick enough to grab me.

Then I stumbled out of bed this morning still sore from the fall and came face to face with this outside my window. SNOW. I called L.L. Bean in a panic, wondering why my snow boots hadn't arrived yet, only to find out that they're still at the warehouse and won't make it to Chicago until Friday. Don't they know that I am a delicate California flower? I don't know if I can survive four more days of this. If nothing else, my body doesn't have enough cushioning for all the falling I"m going to be doing between now and then.

The worst part? It's only in the 30s. We've got another 25 degrees to drop before it's really winter. A DELICATE CALIFORNIA FLOWER, I TELL YOU.

Snowsuit up!

FIRST SNOW OF THE YEAR!

Okay, but see, now I'm torn. On the one hand: yay! It's pretty and white and fluffy and makes Chicago seem like a winter wonderland where a girl and a guy might Meet Cute, hate each other on sight, and then slowly warm up to each other through a series of hijinks until a terrible misunderstanding shows them how much they actually care! And then they kiss when the ball drops on New Years Eve, and it all happened because snow has the magical ability to turn the city of Chicago into a romantic comedy from the 90s starring Meg Ryan!

On the other hand: SNOW BOOTS. And slush. And slipping on the frozen sidewalk. And wearing three pairs of socks becuase if you don't, your toes will fall off. And waiting for the bus in sub-zero temperature. And the terrible gray color that snow turns as it melts and mixes with the filth of the city streets.

It hasn't snowed enough yet for the serious winter-wear and the terrible melt-freeze-melt-freeze cycle to pick up yet, though, so I'm staying optimistic. Snow looks so damn pretty, and as long as I can stay under my covers and watch it fall, I'm good. Just don't make me go outside.

Or maybe I should just snowsuit up and build an igloo!




Sorry I've been so absent - grad school applications have eaten my life. More to come, though, promise!

All the president's men...

One of whom apparently wanted to firebomb the Brookings Institution.

I've been reading All the President's Men, by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. The definitive account of the Watergate break-in and the subsequent hunt for the truth that lead to President Nixon's resignation, it is amazing in it's breadth and detail. But strangely, despite the veritable laundry list of felonies and almost-crimes committed by members of the White House staff and approved by the freaking President of the United States of America, what gets to me the most is the fact that burning down the Brookings Institution was tossed around as a potential game plan by the Watergate conspirators.

This is pretty much how it went down: a member of Henry Kissinger's staff (who, incidentally, also had his phone wiretapped illegally by the White House... you know, no biggie) left the Secretary of State's office to join the Brookings Institution, a policy think-tank in DC. He was believed to have taken some classified documents with him when he left, and certain members of the White House wanted them back. Break-ins were a real popular method of political espionage and sabotage around those parts back then, but the White House needed a way to cover it up. I can just imagine how this goes: a whole bunch of whitebread, clean-cut government officials sitting around a White House office, smoking cigarettes and tossing out ideas. And then some bright soul (Chuck Colson, specifically!) says, "hey, I know, why don't we set it on fire?!"

Apparently his suggestion freaked some people out and they backed off from the plan entirely, but still. I mean, the White House was operating in such a way in which a trusted member of the team, someone who had a DIRECT line to the President, could suggest firebombing an American organization and no one would think twice about it. I am going to repeat this, so you can experience the full import of it: firebombing the Brookings Institution. FIREBOMBING. It's so absurd, and yet terrifyingly possible! I just... I am floored.

Colson went on to deny that he had suggested burning the Brookings Institution down as a way to cover up their break-in (in fact, he jokingly said that he'd actually been talking about setting the Washington Post on fire, because that's just a side-splitter right there) but many sources claimed that he was lying.

I know this shouldn't astonish me - after all, these men were committing crimes left and right. Still, there is something so brazen, so viciously open and brutally honest about planning to firebomb a building on American soil that really drives home the powerful can't-touch-me attitude that these men had. It reminds me of one of my favorite lines in last year's Frost/Nixon, where the now-resigned and bitter ex-President Nixon yells at reporter David Frost, "Well, when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal!" But really, what should I expect? As a source tells Woodward in All the President's Men, "the President is... well, a felon."

All of this is to say: if you haven't read All the President's Men, do it. And then call me, so we can get worked up about the subversion of the democratic process and the importance of checks and balances, law and order, and having a government that respects the laws that constrains it. Good times, y'all.

I don't think cupcakes have an opinion on abortion.

So apparently today, this lovely October 9, is National Pro-Life Cupcake Day. A day when school children should bring brightly decorated cupcakes into classrooms and when their classmates flock to the treats and ask, "whose birthday is it?" They can respond with "NOBODY'S, BECAUSE THE BABIES HAVE ALL BEEN ABORTED BEFORE THEIR BIRTHDAYS." Or something similarly capslocky. And then apparently the cake will go dry in their classmates' mouths (it's magic cake, triggered to automatically dry out by the mention of the word "abortion") and they'll realize the magnitude of the national mistake that was Roe. V. Wade.

Or maybe, because they are children who have been faced with sugar, they will shrug and stuff their faces with more cake.

Listen, I don't care what your opinion is about abortion. But for goodness sake, can't we leave cupcakes out of it? I mean, will no one think of the baked goods?

Story via Jezebel, which obviously has a bias (one that I agree with, but a bias nonetheless.)

The tell-tale wombs of Lewiston, Maine

I spend a large portion of my working hours in a basement filled with boxes upon boxes of clothes. It's a little like being at a perpetual rummage sale, only you can't touch, try on, or buy any of the objects. And because I spend so much time in a basement, carving ethylfoam and cutting muslin to make costume mounts, flouncing ruffles and vacuuming dust out of pleats, and struggling with stacks of boxes filled with 19th century bicycling outfits (surprisingly adorable, PS), I also listen to a lot of radio.

Specifically, NPR. The radio in the South Costume Storage (the fancy name for my basement lair) is an analog dial radio, which means that changing the frequency is an exercise in dread, trepidation, and ultimate futility. To avoid the heartache of listening to static as I gamely turn the dial in search of music, I usually just keep it on NPR all the time. That means I get a lot of depressing BBC World Service stories (sorry, my British brethren, but your news, while poshly-spoken, is a bit of a downer), more pledge drives than I can shake a stick at, The Story from North Carolina (underappreciated and very interesting!) and, at 3 pm, All Things Considered.

All of this is meant as a lead-up to this announcement: if you haven't listened to the All Things Considered story on healthcare (part 1 of scheduled 3) that broadcast yesterday, DO IT. "The Tell-Tale Wombs of Lewiston, Maine," besides having a totally creepy and awesome title, is a fascinating look at why the heck healthcare in America costs so damn much, using the town of Lewiston as a case study. Maybe it's just that I don't actually know that much about the healthcare debate (except that as a technically unemployed young person, I'd like some, pretty please!) but I found it full of fascinating facts, disturbing realities, and strongly persuasive in addressing the need for a really dramatic overhaul of the American healthcare system.

So nu, what are you waiting for? Go! Listen! And tell me what you think!

This originally had a different title.

I was going to call it "Separated at birth... " and then the first sentence of this post was going to be "... and centuries, and reality." Because I thought I had stumbled across a very strange resemblance that I was going to share with all you, but then my roommates said "you crazy, lady!" and suddenly I started to doubt myself. Therefore, I put it to you: do these two ladies look strangely similar?

Lady Numero Uno:

Dona Isabel Cobos de Porcel, painted by Francisco Goya in 1805.

And Lady Numero Dos:

Joan Holloway, as played by the extraordinarily talented Christina Hendricks.

So what say you: do these ladies look alike, or am I totally crazy?

San Diego, I love you

Any shit I have ever talked about San Diego, it's airport in particular, is now invalidated. San Diego International Airport, you have free wireless*. OMG I LOVE YOU.

*Unlike the world's most ridiculous Spanish Renaissance/Gothic Torture Chamber McMansion, where I have just spent the last five days of my life. Coats of arms embedded into the tiled floor of every room? Yes. Fountains in every room? Yes. Windows with no curtains? Yes. Internet? NO. Also, strangely, no showers. A correlation, perhaps?

I'm not trying to brag, honest.

Ok, yeah, I totally am. Yellow cake, lemon cream cheese frosting, lemon curd and blackberry compote fillings. Caitlin's birthday was a convenient excuse.

Give me Kitchen Aid or give me death.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I was a senior in college, contemplating writing an honors thesis. Eventually it became clear to me that I would not be able to write it and still hold on to my sanity. I came to this realization over winter break and promptly called my roommate back in Atlanta, a little appalled and nervous. Our conversation went something like this:

S: "I don't think I'm going to be writing my thesis."
C: "hmmm, that's interesting."
S: "no, really!"
C: "yes, I heard you."
S: "what, aren't you shocked? Why are you so calm about this? WHY ARE YOU NOT MAKING SURPRISED NOISES?"
S: "Oh, I'm sorry, was this supposed to be news? I knew this would happen."
S: "How? I'm writing the damn thing and I didn't even know! How could you?"
C: "Over the past semester, you baked scones, cakes, chocolate croissants, more scones, tarts, cookies, brownies, and cupcakes. Every time you were supposed to be writing your thesis, you were baking. You even made cupcakes that looked like anatomically correct hearts. THEY HAD VENTRICLES AND EVERYTHING. Clearly, the thesis wasn't going to get written."
S: "..."

And that is how my very observant roommate diagnosed me as a stress baker.

So yeah, stress baking. Apparently I do it. And I must be extraordinarily anxious about SOMETHING, because I have been baking up a storm lately. Some people have requested pictures, so here they are a few of my creations (please excuse the poor quality - if this is food porn, it's clearly of the homemade sex tape variety):


Cupcake kuchen, or cupkuchen, for July 4. I used strawberries and bluberries to get a nice red/white/blue thing going, but none of the people at the party I brought them to seemed to care. Clearly, they aren't patriots.


And then there was the mini peach galette:


It was sort of an after-thought, actually; we had leftover tart dough from a tomato onion tart my roommates had made and some peaches that weren't used up in a peach/apricot kuchen I had made early that week. I wasn't sure what to do for the filling, so it was basically just sliced peaches coated with brown sugar and patted down with butter. I've since done some other, more intentional galettes (apple, mostly) but so far this has come out the prettiest.

Now, this next one has a story (surprising, right?). I have never feared cupcakes, or brownies, or scones. I faced down pan au chocolat with a take-no-prisoners attitude. Even pie dough, with all it's finickiness, doesn't frighten me too badly. But cakes? Especially layer cakes? As far as I can tell, they were created by the devil to confound me. At least that's what I've thought for the past few years, culminating in my spectacular layer cake failure from November, on election night. I tried to make a double-layer chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I was going to decorate it to look like the Obama logo! It was going to symoblize the meeting of black and white in this historic election! That last part is bullshit, but honestly, I was a little high on hope and baking fumes.

Well, this is how it looked for a split second (you can see that I cheated and used packaged colored frosting... I'm sorry, baking gods!):


And one second later, all hell breaks lose:


Basically, I'm a Cake Killer. Or so I thought, until I decided to face my fears and tackle a three-layer red velvet to bring to a going-away party for my friend Jing. I did some research, found the best layer cake advice from Deb from Smitten Kitchen, and produced three of these:


Which turned into this:


Which, if you can't tell, is three gorgeous layers of red velvet separated by two layers of cream cheese frosting and spackled with a crumb layer. And, in one of the most triumphant moments of my young adult life (I aim low), all of that became this:


Oooh, I get all weepy just thinking about it. I mean, you have to ignore the wonky writing - clearly I don't exactly have the art of decorating down just yet. Still, pretty cool for my first three layer cake, right?

I've since made a three-layer yellow cake with lemon cream cheese frosting and lemon curd/blackberry compote filling, a few more kuchens, and two (!!) fruit pies. I'm pretty proud of myself, but my roommates are starting to go a little sugar-crazy. Given how stressed out this means I am, I should probably seek therapy. But hey, flour and sugar are cheaper, right?

Dressing down

So, like most cultural institutions, the Chicago History Museum has a blog. It's a pretty neat resource and a great way to get an inside look into the dark and dirty workings of a museum. My favorite entry? The one about de-installing Chic Chicago, the huge costume exhibit that was up from summer of 2008 until last month.

I was part of the de-installation team, so if you want to get a look at the sort of work I do on a daily basis, check out the slideshow of the de-installation process. I show up about half-way through - see if you can spot me!

Okay, and my favorite picture from the entire slideshow is the one of me on my knees in front of a huge dress, called the butterfly gown. If it looks like I'm sticking my head and arms up under the skirt, that's because I am. We were trying to push a built-out support peice (what essentially amounts to a body pillow) through the torso of the gown to make sure it doesn't collapse under it's own weight in storage. A worthy endeavor, certainly, but one that made it look like I was giving the gown a very thorough pelvic exam. Say it with me now: "awkward."

A very important date

Two very important people were born on this most hallowed of dates, August 4. One is the leader of the free world, and the other gave me life, unconditional love, and willingly endured all manner of my picky-food insanity for 23 odd years. Which one, I ask you, is more of a hero? I think that's pretty obvious.

So, happy birthday, you two crazy cats!

Wait! I have a quirky hat!

From Refinery29, by way of Jezebel.

For the "streetstyle" obsessed among us, a handy how-to guide to getting your picture taken by Scott Schuman, the Sartorialist.

I'm mostly set (quirky hat, vintage bike, etc.) but I'm not a model or an older rich European man, so I guess I'm out. Oh, and I also don't have any convenient cobblestones to casually pose on while wearing five inch heels, waiting for him to stroll by. Dang it!

Just another face in the crowd

A piece of advice, current and future breeders?

Let's say you've been thinking long and hard about what to name the spawn. You've been pouring over baby name books, looking back into the family tree, pondering what names are least likely to get the shit kicked out of little Junior on the playground, etc. And let's say that you've settled on something straightforward, common and unlikely to lead strangers to purse their lips and say, "huh?" after Junior introduces himself. "Job well done," you think to yourself.

WELL THINK AGAIN.

I have just spent the last 40 minutes trying to sift through the bajillion "Mary O'Briens" on the internet to find the ONE who was born in 1886 and died in Chicago in 1980. Even Ancestry.com, which is usually pretty good at finding that boring-named needle in it's equally whitebread haystack, has given me the website equivalent of, "bitch, please!" Normal names don't do your kid any good. They just make them exactly like all the other normal-named folks in the world. And when some poor museum intern is trying to track down information on your illustrious son Jack Smith, they aren't going to appreciate all your forethought.

Yeah, sure, little Hanchen Xoxctl Smith might get some bloody noses at recess, but when she's famous, dead, and on the internet she'll thank you.

"Today we celebrate our independence day!"

One last thing: on this most glorious of days, this celebration of a time when men threw tea into harbors and cried, "the British are coming, the British are coming,"* when they wrote that all men are created equal and are in fact endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, I think it is only fitting that we watch two short clips: one from the Lincoln Memorial festivities the day before Obama's inauguration, and the other from the greatest film ever made about an alien invasion on July 4th, Independence Day.

Bruce Springsteen, Pete Seeger and others at the Lincoln Memorial:



Independence Day, with Bill Pullman as the president FTW!



*no offense meant, obviously, to my lovely British family - I, for one, love it when the British are coming! Honest!

Happy Birthday, America

As I write this the street outside my house is going CRAZY with fireworks. Purchased in Indiana and set off in the middle of a residential street, they are the perfect symbol of what this great holiday is all about: fighting for the right to blow brightly colored shit up in front of your house.

No, but seriously, happy birthday America. As a present, I got you a list.

Some things I love about America:
1. The constitution
2. Jon Stewart
3. Waffle cones (you're welcome, world)
4. The 1st amendment
5. Stretching from sea to shining sea
6. mobster movies
7. Sufjan Stevens
8. Betsey Ross
9. Theodore Roosevelt
10. No taxation without representation, baby!

Stay classy, America!

"Chicago is not the most corrupt American city. It's the most theatrically corrupt."

Yesterday I handled clothes worn by this man. Some of his belongings are being added to the museum's collection, so I had the honor of examining his wool trousers, classic red socks, worn-out fedora and of course the outerwear of reporters everywhere, the Burberry trench coat. And the crowning jewel? His old-man's terry-cloth bathrobe.

It's kind of funny - if you're famous or important, eventually every aspect of your life, every mundane moment or embarrassing tchotchke, will be combed over with a magnifiying glass by well-meaning museum interns like myself. Once you die the materials of your life, the stuff that you surrounded yourself with, becomes the historical playground for museum professionals and academics attempting to reconstruct your life. What was perfectly normal and boring to you - that ratty stuffed bear from your childhood, your toothbrush - becomes a testament to your importance.

The moral of the story? If you plan on doing something important and influential with your life, make sure that you throw out all your granny panties, hole-y socks, and unflattering house dresses before you die. And for goodness sake, PLEASE clean your bathrobe. Those interns of the future have to get up close and personal with it, and they don't need to see the remains of your egg breakfast on it.

Next stop: Monticello

This* makes me think that I should be planning a trip to Thomas Jefferson's epic mansion, Monticello. In fact, I think every American Studies department should have a required course called "Long Road Running: A road trip through America's history." Or something equally enticing yet vague. I mean, c'mon, think about it: we'd start at Plymouth Rock and then hit a mixture of famous and underappreciated spots. It'd be awesome! Who's with me?!

*Thanks, Ben, for the link.

Adventures in Hot Glue Gunning, part 3

I finally got around to uploading photos from my shiny new camera (thanks, parents, for the birthday gift!) and discovered deep in the bowels of my memory card the pictures I had taken of my failed Gibson Girl paper wig.

Here she is, in all her 18th century/Linda Evangelista glory:


Bertha Honore Palmer, circa 1893 she is not. Not so bad, though, for some blotting paper, tissues, pantyhose and a glue gun, right? Just call me the MacGyver of the museum world.

Up, up and away

Just came back from a viewing of "Up" at the local multiplex. They have five-dollar Tuesdays, so I plan to see most of my summer blockbusters there. Or the Logan Theater, which is a tiny run-down jewel-box of a theater that plays second-runs for three bucks. Most movies eventually make it to the Logan, but it takes a while. The roommates and I couldn't wait to see "Up," so five-dollar Tuesday it was.

And let me tell you, IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH THE FIVE BUCKS. Seriously. As usual, Pixar* blows it out of the water. The colors, the shapes, the freaking masterful storytelling - I just... there are no words. Except these: go see it.

*Sidenote: the summer after high school I worked in downtown Emeryville in an office where my job was to purge old files and refile open cases. Yeah, it was thrilling. Every morning I caught the free Emeryville shuttle from McCarthur BART station. The shuttle went past the Pixar campus, and every day I watched as hip, cool, nerdy looking people in comfortable clothes and messenger bags got off at the pearly gates of Pixar and sauntered into work, looking happy and content, while the rest of us trundled on in the shuttle wearing our uncomfortable heels and ill-fitting suit pants. I swear, everytime after we dropped the Pixar folks off, the day got a little gloomier.

Summer in the city

In the dreary depths of Chicago's winter, when it seems like the snow will never melt and the frozen tundra that is the street outside your door goes on forever, people comfort themselves with the reminder that eventually, no matter how eternal winter seems to be, summer will come. And summer in Chicago is something to wait for.

I sort of didn't believe it, to be honest. The last few weeks have alternated between sweaty dreariness and outright thunderstorms, and it's hard to see past the torrential rain to the bright summer promised you. But last evening, I became a believer in Chicago summers.

It's not the weather that gets people excited, of course - wet heavy heat isn't particularly awesome. What is awesome, however, are the weeks after weeks of free concerts, festivals, block parties, and so on. Everyone is so relieved to not have to wear five layers outside that they go a little crazy, and it's great.

What I'm considering the kick-off event of my personal Chicago summer was last night's free St. Vincent concert in Millennium Park. Paid for by the city, it was the first in a whole series of free Monday night shows.

So basically, I got to see her:



in the great outdoors of Millennium Park, which is here:



For zero dollars.

In short: Game on, summer. GAME ON.

Kicking ass and taking names, one bustle at a time.

Despite not getting paid for my job, I finally feel like a real live museum professional. Why? Because the first show I have ever worked on, Bertha Honore Palmer , opened this past Saturday at the Chicago History Museum and it is quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.

The show tells the story of Bertha Honore Palmer, the wife of Potter Palmer I and one of the most influential women in Chicago and even America at the turn of the century. As the grand dame of Chicago society she spearheaded the Women's Board of the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893, gave the job of designing the Women's Building at the Fair to America's first female architect, and comissioned reports on the status and lifestyles of women across the world. She was a mover-and-shaker abroad as well, dazzling Europe with her charisma and forceful personality. Palmer House, the famous Chicago hotel, was a wedding gift to her from Potter. When he died he left her with eight million dollars; by the time she died she'd turned it into 16 million. She was, in short, a force to be reckoned with.

Now, this isn't MY show - most of the work I did involved building out mannequins, dressing them, and doing some trouble-shooting with lambskin gloves and a lot of fiber-fill. Still, my name is on the credits under the intern title, and when I walk past the textile gallery and see all the visitors oohing and ahhing over my favorite voided-velvet gown or the goofy evening coat with the fringe I spent HOURS carefully combing out, I can't help but feel a little proud.

Is this what being an adult feels like? Because minus the bill paying and the cleaning-your-own-house bit, it's kind of cool!

Deep thoughts about history, feminism, clothes, and so on.

So I've been thinking a lot about this costume collection internship, and what makes it so different from my stint at Grey Towers (and isn't it funny that I've basically turned being a perpetual intern into my post-college career plan?), and while I was sorting through scads of wedding gown information today I think I finally put my finger on it.

I love history, right? Because it's tells us about ourselves or other people (or ourselves AND other people), and about where we come from and what we're heading for and ultimately, what we need to do (and avoid doing) to make the world a better place. And because it's awesome. But to be honest, the majority of history we encounter is dude-focused. And while I am certainly a fan of dudes, sometimes it gets a bit old.

And I don't mean this in a "damn the Man, down with the Patriarchy" sort of way (although really, damn the Man, down with the Patriarchy). It's just that the events that we memorize, the wars we commemorate, the nation-building we praise or deride, all of it reflects the work of men. And it's not just how we learn history in school, either. Look at the collection of any history museum and you'll see famous documents, antique guns, impressive furniture, important pieces of art - all made for or by men. And sure, there are pieces of a museum's collection that relate to women, but those are almost always a minority . Except, of course, in costume collections. At the Chicago History Museum, our costume collection is probably 85% women's clothes. The number of men's clothes are FAR outmatched by women's, and the women's clothes tell a much richer and deeper story. They span centuries, countries, ages and class levels.

Really, what I love about costume collections is not just that they showcase pretty clothes (though they do), or that they're amazing capsules of history (although they are.) What I love about them is that they don't just tell history - they tell the history of women. What a woman in a given time period valued, what she had to account for in her daily life, how she lived, even what she was called by those around here; it's all there in her dress.

More fake than a tan in February

It's still all weddings, all the time at the museum, and I've been wading through piles of gowns writing up document reports and taking photographs of them for the exhibition notebook. All of which is great, especially when I run into antique breast implants.

Or, if not breast implants, than certainly the world's original push-up bra. One of the wedding dresses I handled, a gorgeous cream silk taffeta from 1851 with three-quarter sleeves, a deep v-neck (which was pretty rare - most of the other wedding dresses we have from that decade have a wide bateau neck and cap sleeves), and some crazy diagonal ruching, also had built in breast-pads. The entire chest area was extra thick, with round pads made of cotton batting sewn into the bosom.

I guess the more things change, the more things stay the same. Female insecurity and the need to live up to the expectations of a society that objectifies the female form don't really disappear from century to century. I don't know why I'm surprised - after all, this is the same society that forced women into constricting corsets and advocated removing a rib to make them skinnier. I guess it's just because the big-breast thing seems like such a hallmark of the silicone age.

Of course, I could be overthinking this... maybe our anonymous 1850's bride was just sick of being part of the itty-bitty titty committee and decided to do something about. After all, it's her party, and she'll enhance her chest if she wants to.

"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a..."

Oh wow, Star Trek.



Now to be fair, while I'm not what one might call a Trekkie* I did spend my formative years tagging along after one and absorbed some of the obsessive Star Trek love via osmosis. Still, even if I weren't already a fan, I'm pretty sure I would still think this movie was made of awesome. Because it is. Made of awesome, I mean. Seriously, go see it. I mean, it's fun and explosive and colorful and still stays true (kinda) to the foundational message of Star Trek: space racism is bad!

*Side note: when I spellchecked this entry, "Trekkie" wasn't highlighted as a misspelled (or nonexistent) word. Which means that it's entered into the Blogger dictionary. Oh, Google Blogger. Way to wave your freak flag.

"If you were a man, I'd knock your block off."

I just got back from a screening of "Victor/Victoria," and it has proven two things to me: that 1. Julie Andrews is the Queen of Everything, and 2. James Garner was smokin' hot as a youngster.

I'm serious, folks. I don't think I realized just how amazing he was in his younger years. I mean, you never hear him mentioned in the list of the truly attractive Hollywood stars of yesteryears: Paul Newman, Marlon Brando, James Dean, etc. But really, after seeing "Victor/Victoria" and being reminded of how much I loved "The Americanization of Emily" (also, strangely, starring Julie Andrews), I think I might have to add Garner to my personal list of Faces I Love to Look At.

Here, take a gander:



No one does square-jawed American insouciance like James Garner. Almost enough to make you forgive him for "The Notebook", isn't it?

"For Milo, who knows the way."

The Onion AV Club does a feature called Q&A where the various writers answer a question posed by either a staff member or a reader. The most recent installment of Q&A, "Families and Art," had the writers listing the works of art and culture that their parents passed onto them, and what they're going to make sure to pass onto their children. I liked the discussion and want to try it here; so here is the list of stuff my family made sure I appreciated, and some of the stuff I'm going to make sure my kids are introduced to.

Thanks, Family, for these Things:

1. The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster. I just... it's so... the English language does not contain the words to accurately describe how much I love this book. I can't remember how old I was when I first read it, or even if my mom read it to me first, but I can remember my mom handing it to me and saying that it had been one of my dad's favorite books. It's just so amazing - Tock, Digitopolis, Dictionopolis, the princesses, and Milo, surly unhappy disaffected Milo who ends up saving the day in spite of himself.


2. Full Moon Fever, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Part of my Sunday morning ritual growing up, I'd wake up to the sound of Tom Petty wailing about not backing down and the murmur of my mom's voice as she puttered around the kitchen. Later in the afternoon my best friend would come over and we'd put on the CD again, jumping off the sofa whenever Tom cried out "and I'm free, free fallin'!" No one broke any bones, surprisingly.

3. Mozart's Requiem. My grandmother used to play this for me. Not necessarily the happiest of music choices for a young girl, but amazing nonetheless.

4. Sound of Music. Another grandmother speciality - we'd watch it whenever I'd stay over at her house. My bedtime usually came and passed during the intermission (when you put in the second VHS, 'natch) and she'd forget to make me go to bed because she was caught up in the drama of Maria and Captain Von Trapp. And what about the teenage Nazi?!


5. The Never-Ending Story. I actually hated the book, but my brother bribed me into reading it, which taught me the importance of bargaining. And I later put those skills to good use with my grandmother and a copy of Gone with the Wind, so hey, good lesson.

6. Star Trek: The Next Generation. Thanks, Isaac, for preparing me for a life-time of geekery by getting me hooked on the deep space adventures of a bald man and his devoted crew. I had the biggest crush on Wesley Crusher EVER. I'm blushing just thinking about it.


Get Ready, Hypothetical Future Children, Here's What's Coming:

1. Illinois, by Sufjan Stevens. It's about America! And Illinois! And Lincoln! And he plays a million instruments! My future hypothetical children are going to be forced to listen to the entire Sufjan Stevens discography but Illinois will get an extra few rotations.


2. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon. I used to re-read this book once a year, until I lost my copy. I need to get a new one, but I'm putting it off because it won't be dog-eared in all the right places like my old copy. I'm very resistant to change.

3. Singin' in the Rain. I actually didn't see this classic musical until the end of high school, but now whenever I'm feeling blue I know that I can just pop the DVD in to my computer and instantly feel better. Debbie Reynolds is adorable, Gene Kelly is gorgeous (of course) but my favorite actor in the whole movie will always be Donald O'Connor. The faces he makes? Priceless.


4. The Ordinary Princess, by M.M. Kaye. A book about the seventh daughter of the King and Queen of a fantastical kingdom who, upon birth, is given the "gift" or ordinariness by her ornery fairy godmother. Probably the best book out there for an awkward, nerdy young girl (with the obvious exception of Catherine Called Birdy, another fabulous children's book starring a forthright heroine in an unlikely setting.)

5. All seven of the Harry Potter books. This is obvious, so I think no further explanation is needed.

6. Veronica Mars, Seasons 1 -3. This will obviously be introduced to my hypothetical future children once they are old enough to appreciate a) the perils of high school, and b) the beauty of detective noir. Veronica is just like Nancy Drew, if Nancy had to deal with dead best friends, roofies, and a Ned Nickerson who might have date-raped her or started a gang-war. Not to mention, of course, class warfare and a dizzying high school hierarchy.



What say you? Anything passed onto you that you're thankful for, or something that you're going to make sure your kids get? Share it with the class!

Like two ships passing in the night

I was home in California last week celebrating the time-honored holiday of "No Bread For You, Jews", and while in transit on the way back I had some time to kill in the Oakland airport. Figuring "hey, a bit of food-torture wouldn't go amiss," I wandered over to an airport bookstore/newsstand/thing and meandered around all the candy bars and Cokes that I couldn't buy (because they have corn syrup, which is made from corn, which can be used like flour, which makes it an ersatz bread product, which makes it a banned substance on Passover, and sometimes I think my religion is actively trying to make me a neurotic mess).

But anyway, I'm lurking around the magazines when suddenly a guy walks into my range of vision who I vaguely recognize. But from where? I'm scouring my mind, trying to think of everyone I went to high school with. Maybe he was the guy with the locker next to mine? Or copied off me in Calculus? (Which was a stupid idea, Guy who Copied off Me in Calculus... after the C you got on the first test it should have become clear that despite my nerdy glasses and general know-it-all attitude, numbers and I obviously do not get along.) And suddenly it hit me - I'm pretty sure I'd seen him on TV!



My first brush with fame: the guy who plays Morgan Grimes on Chuck! A show that very few people watch. And the character is a lame slacker who works at a Best Buy-esque electronics store. But I refuse to let the details of this encounter ruin it for me!

There is also the possibility that this person wasn't the guy who plays Morgan, but rather a regular Joe who just happens to look a lot like him. I'm also choosing to ignore that potential situation. I suppose I could have asked, but a) if it wasn't him, that would have ruined the experience for me, and b) I was at that very moment salivating over cheetos and clutching an US Weekly in my hand, so it might have been an awkward encounter.

Be still my heart

That is indeed the President of the United States of America reading "Where the Wild Things Are." And look, the book isn't upside down! This is major progress, folks.

Image via Jezebel, who got it from Getty.

Nobody knows the troubles I've seen

The problem with working in a costume collection filled with gorgeous designer clothes, antique ball gowns and avant-garde cutting edge fashion? I'm totally broke, and all I want to do is shop. I think I was sort of hoping that this internship would have the ice cream shop effect: you know, when you work at an ice cream parlor and get so sick of it that you never want to eat it again? Yeah, not so much. Why did nobody warn me about this?

Adventures in Hot Glue Gunning, part 2

Update: I burned myself with the glue gun, and my the cardstock was too inflexible for the droopy slippery bun look of a Gibson Girl. However, I was assured that if there was ever an exhibit on 18th century court gowns, my wig would be perfect.

So I'm about 100 years off, but once we do a Marie Antoinette show everyone will be thanking me.

Adventures in Hot Glue Gunning, part 1

So the museum just got some amazing new mannequins, right? And they're super-cool and adjustable in a way that the old mannequins aren't, and they're specific to a time-period (late 1800s - early 1900s, Victorian to Progressive era, to be exact) so they have a silhouette that is commonly referred to as "pigeon-breasted," and they're wonderful, amazing, fantastic, the best thing since sliced bread, etc.

HOWEVER... they don't have hair. This normally wouldn't be a problem, of course. Most of our mannequins don't even have heads, and the ones that do are just these blank ovals that we leave bare. But these new mannequins have surprisingly well-defined facial features, which means that having them be bald just makes them look creepily like aliens in really gorgeous hospital gowns. But we can't use real wigs made of fake colored hair, because the mannequins are sheet-white. Having some strange white lady with the suggestion of facial features but a full-on titian red updo would end up being as distracting as leaving them bald.

So what's a museum to do? Why, get their trusty intern to make a paper wig! So that's what I did today - constructed a paper Gibson Girl* updo out of white pantyhose legs, thick cardstock, and tissue paper. And A LOT of hot glue. I felt like the MacGuyver of the museum world.

*as reference, this is what a Gibson Girl hairdo looks like. It was apparently very difficult to achieve - women would form the big loose bun with the tiny topknot and then fill in their hair with tissue paper in order to maintain the look. So actually, my paper wig isn't so far off the mark, materials-wise.

Correction!

In my last post I said that we had lots of Union stuff at the Chicago History Museum because, being in Illinois, we're all about Lincoln. This is true, but it turns out that we have some pretty awesome Confederate stuff too. I discovered today that we have Jefferson Davis' saddle and a cape worn by Robert E. Lee!

I wonder, are they stored near Lincoln's death bed, or would that be too awkward?

Me and General Slocum, chilling out, shooting the breeze, as one does

Christina was recently reading me the riot act over not posting enough about my new job, which is pretty much the most awesome thing ever. My response was that with my camera broken and now out of commission entirely, I didn't have any pictures of my fabulous (broke) new life in Chicago to post. "What's all this about pictures?" was her response. "Words, woman, words are where it's at! The blog is made of words! Words upon words of words, making a rainbow quilt of language!" Or something to that effect - it was late, I was tired, and the cell phone connection to Hawaii was sort of crap. So in that spirit, I want to tell you all a funny little story about my life in the costume collection.

A lot of what I end up doing at work is dusty and dirty. Last Wednesday, for instance, I got to work, unwrapped myself from the cumbersome winter gear that is uniform here in Chicago, and was promptly handed a swiffer. My mission? To clean the Chic Chicago gallery. "Chic Chicago" is the big costume exhibit that was mounted earlier in 2008. One of the best-received exhibits at the museum, it's a trip down the memory lane of fashion in Chicago. All the outfits displayed in the exhibit are considered haute couture or designer and were worn and owned by some of Chicago's most prominent women throughout the history of the city. It's a beautiful exhibit and lots of fun to look around, but what I was doing on Wednesday was getting up on the platforms and swiffering around the mannequins, hunting up dust. To do this, I donned a lab coat and latex gloves, in case I ended up having to touch one of the dresses. And then, to complete the look, I had to remove my boots and socks. They would have left marks on the display platforms, you see, scuffing up the exhibit. So there I am, in the middle of an open exhibit, scampering around antique and vintage gowns, some of which cost more than my four years of private university education combined, in a white lab coat, science-y looking latex gloves, and my stockinged feet. It was pretty absurd. I also felt a bit strange getting up close and personal with all these beautifully-clad blank-faced fiberglass mannequins.

So yeah, dirty. All of this, though, brings me to the point of this post: that a lot of what I do is awesome but it's usually the tiny little moments that make me realize it. Recently, for instance, one of the other interns and I were working in storage, cataloguing objects in the military uniforms section. At least 3/4s of the costume collection is made up of women's clothes because, let's be honest, throughout history women's clothes have been WAY more interesting than men's (the one possible exception to that rule being the clothes worn in the court of Louis XIV, because man, those dudes looked crazy). We do, however, have a sizable military costume collection, which is what we were working on. Military hats, to be exact, with a few ethnographic caps thrown in (you have probably never touched as many Masonic and Shriner hats as I have.)

One of the coolest hats I handled was an officer's cap from the Civil War. Union, of course, because this is Illinois, home of Lincoln, etc. etc. Navy blue (like I said: Union) with a silk braid across the bill and gold stitching forming laurel leaves at the front, it was ridiculously tiny. It also had an old tag on it, declaring that this was the cap worn by General Henry Warner Slocum (1827-1894.) Which begged the question: was this hat worn by a man named Henry Slocum who LATER became a general, or was he a general when he was wearing it? In the early 1860s he would have been in his mid to late 30's, right? So a little young for a general, but during the Civil War they went through generals like kindergarteners go through crayons, so age wasn't necessarily a great determinant for figuring out his status.

Regardless of whether he was a general during or after the Civil War, I got a little thrill out of holding a hat that had seen so much bloodshed and history. The bloodiest, most traumatic and heartrending of wars fought on American soil, the battles that turned brother against brother, and this lame little wool cap saw them all.

And then I handled another hat, this one extraordinarily dusty (and see? dirt comes up again. Full circle!) It was tan felt, with a wide flat brim that was covered in tan stitching details. Swirling around in curli-cues, the stitching was a remarkably detailed and even decorative touch on a hat that was otherwise entirely functional. And what did this very dirty hat's ancient tag say? "Taken from a Wyoming Indian at the Battle of Wounded Knee." Amazing, right? I mean, this hat was stolen off a man who, in all likelihood, was one of the 300 Native American slaughtered at the massacre. This hat was part of the battle (if you can call it that) that essentially ended the 100-plus-year conflict between white settlers and Indians. Maybe I'm geeking out over history to much, but I really couldn't get over this. And the dirt that I was complaining about? Some of it was probably original dirt from the battle. I had 120-year-old dirt and dried blood and Indian DNA and all sorts of other cool and creepy stuff all over my gloves and lab coat and clothes.

When I got home I looked up Henry Warner Slocum on Wikipedia. According to that venerable fount of knowledge, Slocum was a major general during the Civil War and later represented New York in Congress. One of the youngest Civil War generals, he earned criticism due to his slow movement and indecision on the battlefield at Gettysburg, earning him the nickname "Slow Come." So there you have it: from the hallowed battlefields of Gettysburg to the blood-washed site of a traumatic massacre to the humorous and infantile nickname of a young man who clearly had some time-lag issues, all through a bunch of gross old hats. See? My job is way cool.

Oh, and because it feels wrong to post this without ANY pictures, here is old "Slow Come" himself:

Happy Birthday Mr. President...

In 19 minutes this will no longer be true, so I have to get it out quickly: today is Abraham Lincoln's 200th birthday!

I'm now living in the land of Lincoln, and all of Chicago has been consumed by Lincolnmania. Nowhere is this more true than at the Chicago History Museum, where I'm working. There are cardboard Lincolns mounted all over the museum, balloons and streamers, one cent admissions, and we even had birthday cake today!

So happy birthday, Abe! Stay classy.

Love,
S

Flight 86 to Chicago

has arrived, with me in it!

I've actually already settled in to my new room, which is a charming little bedroom in my awesome friend Zoe's apartment. She and her equally awesome roommate (now my roommate as well!) Megan had extra space and generously offered it to me, so not only do I have an unpaid job, but I have a place to live to boot!

Enough with the exclamation points... time for bed. Peace out, crazies!

It's not goodbye, just a long see you later

Three weeks ago I got an email about an internship opportunity in Chicago. Two weeks ago I was offered the spot*, and now, in less than 24 hours, I will have moved to the Windy City. It's all sort of crazy and overwhelming, but I'm pretty excited about the whole mess. I even bought an ugly down coat in preparation for the sub-arctic temperatures! (It makes me look like a burrito, which mostly serves to make me hungry whenever I pass a mirror.)

So goodbye this...


And hello this!


Wish me luck, and send me warm thoughts!

*"spot" = AWESOME internship working in the Chicago History Museum's costume collection, which is one of the largest in the U.S. I'm super-psyched.

I hear America singing

In honor of the upcoming Best Day Ever, I've put together something of an inauguration soundtrack. Feel free to borrow, and please post ideas for your favorite inauguration songs. The only rule is that they have to make me feel awesome about the next four (or eight!) years.

Fair warning: there is nothing cool or hip about this list. It is unabashedly sentimental and sincere. If wholehearted love of America, democracy and the Constitution isn't your thing, you might want to look away.

"I Hear America Singing:" the Inauguration Mix

Tracklist below, feel free to download the zip file HERE.

1. Nina Simone - The Times, They Are A-Changin'
2. Mavis Staples - Eyes on the Prize
3. The Submarines - The Wake-Up Song
4. Sufjan Stevens - The Star Spangled Banner
5. David Bowie - Young Americans
6. Don McLean - American Pie
7. Nina Simone - Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There is a Season)
8. Bruce Springsteen - The Land of Hope and Dreams
9. Cat Stevens - Morning Has Broken
10. Peter, Paul, and Mary - If I Had a Hammer
11. Sufjan Stevens - The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders: Part I...
12. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - American Girl
13. Mavis Staples - This Little Light
14. Sufjan Stevens - Chicago
15. Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings - This Land is Your Land
16. Cream - I Feel Free
17. Matt Merten - Declaration of Independence
18. Sam Cooke - A Change is Gonna Come
19. Bruce Springsteen - The Rising
20. Ray Charles - America the Beautiful

Famous on the radio

Email from my aunt Linda to my mom:

"Did I hear Shoshi on NPR discussing the Oakland riots today? If not, she was a "sound-alike.""

Gosh, if ONLY I were that cool.*

*This is especially funny since earlier today E emailed me from Atlanta to say that she'd heard about the riots, and I was all, "riots? what riots? I've sort of been huddled under my covers for a week, did something happen?" And then I googled it and promptly felt chagrined and worried about the state of my state.