Belstaff Blouson Jackets in green k down filled nylon .feminine version of the classic down parka with an elegant figure flattering waist belt ,slim and fashionable cut .cozy goose down filling and stand-up collar.idden zipper catch .functional pockets at the front .the look: noble, cool, sporty .a dream coat for life .genius with slim jeans, jodhpurs and robust or elegant boots .Material: Polyamide/Down .If you live in a cold area and want a coat you can wear to work, you may want to consider investing in a Belstaff Bag long goose-down.Belstaff Blouson which founded in 1924 in the United Kingdom . early as architect Harry Grosberg from waterproof coat and suitable for the characteristics of combat become to known worldwide; To use of high-level Egyptian cotton fine woven "Wax Cotton", both warm and waterproof breathable properties, is the brand proud of the early features. After then it appeared in the film which of the old stars Marlon starring, and more than become to rocket to the stratosphere .sponsor the production costs of big Hollywood movie star is definitely one way brand promotion strategy. Ocean Twelve in 2004, years of The Aviator in 2005, War of The Worlds, and the X men in 2006, Superman Returns, Mission Impossible 3 and the current topic is red The Departed, all of Belstaff Blazer Jackets's apparel sponsor brand. moncleronsaleus.com features the latest selection of the north face clothing. You will enjoy what you show you. Embroidered Belstaff Travel Bag patch inside, Union Jack tab and metal Belstaff logo on front pocket. Brass hardware.
The train pulls to a stop and I step out into the cold sunshine. I make my way down the steps of the platform to the street and discover that I am not four blocks away from my interview, but fourteen. I must have misunderstood the woman on the phone. I check my watch, picking up the pace. I was too nervous this morning to have breakfast, but the ninety-minute trek has revived my appetite. I walk/run down the long streets, knowing I should eat or risk passing out mid-lesson. Fully out of breath, I run into a tiny newspaper stand, grab a bag of peanuts, and stuff them in my backpack. One door down I ring the buzzer next to a taped piece of hand-colored paper that reads "Communities Against Conflict." A voice blares unintelligibly out through the static and the door clicks, letting me into a stairwell, once painted green, and lined with posters of children in playgrounds looking gravely into the camera. I examine each print as I climb the stairs and, judging by the haircuts and bell-bottoms, guess these are promo posters circa the early seventies, around the time that this organization was founded. I buzz again at the top step and am greeted by loud barking, before a large hand pulls the door slightly ajar. "Snowflake, stay! STAY!" "I'm here for the interview?" I say, looking around for another door, assuming I've mistakenly interrupted a resident in the building. A pale woman's face appears in the crack. "Yeah, Communities Against Conflict. You're in the right place, come on in, just be careful of Snowflake; he's always trying to free himself." I shimmy through the small opening she's made in the door and practically come face-to-face with a humongous black shepherd and the rest of an equally large woman in overalls and waist-length, graying blond hair. I smile, bending down to pet Snowflake, who is trying to get past her widely planted legs. "NO!" she screams. I jolt up. "He's not really a people person. Are you, Snowflake?" She pats the dog gruffly on his head with her free hand, as the other holds a stack of manila folders. Having adequately warned me, she lets Snowflake check me out while I stay perfectly still. "I'm Reena, the executive director of Communities. You are?" She fixes me with an intense stare. I try to get a read on her, attempting to figure out who she would like me to be. "Nan. I think I was supposed to meet with Richard." I aim for solid and warm, without a hint of cheerful. "Nan? I thought your name was Naminia. Shit. RICHARD!" Reena bellows at me and I almost duck. She turns back to her files. "He'll be here in a minute. RICHARD!" she screams again, this time into the filing cabinet. "Okay! I'll just have a seat." I try to demonstrate that I am someone who can take care of herself, as I sense independence is of value here. I turn around to discover that the two chairs designated to the few feet serving as a waiting area are both piled with overflowing boxes of yellowing brochures. I opt for standing by the wall and getting out of Reena's way, as this seems to be a Communities value, as well. A door flies open at the far side of the room and a man with a pasty complexion, who looks related to Reena and whom I presume to be Richard, emerges. He squints at me in his glasses, breathing heavily with the effort of getting around her and the dog to greet me. He is sweating profusely and has a wilted cigarette stuck behind his ear. "Naminia!" "Nan," Reena grunts over a file. "Oh, Nan... I'm Richard, the artistic director. Well, I see you've met Reena and Snowflake. Why don't we get right to it! Let's go into the Feelings Room and get you set up." He shakes my hand and exchanges glances with Reena. I follow him to the Feelings Room, which is about the same size as the office, but without all the desks. "So have a seat there, Nan." I do, ready to tell my whole, wonderful story. Ready to knock 'em dead. "Now let me tell you about myself..." Richard begins. He leans back in the plastic folding chair and proceeds to explain about his decades spent in social work, how he met up with Reena at a rally against the superintendent, their years traveling the globe to gather methodologies for conflict resolution, and the host of "virtually thousands of kids" that he has personally trained to "make the world a better place." He also goes on extensively about his misguided childhood, the "illegitimate" son who doesn't call him anymore, and his recent attempts to quit smoking. I zone in and out, keeping a beaming smile on my face and developing a fixation on the peanuts in my bag. About an hour later he finally says, "So I see here that you are minoring in gender studies, what does that mean?" He scans the resume I faxed in, squinting to read the blurred print. I follow his gaze to the top of the page to discover that I am "Naminia of 4ish East 90 something Street." Ahh, Naminia. "Well, I'm in the home stretch of a major in child development and I was very interested in supplementing this work-" "So you're not a feminist bitch, then?" He has a good, hearty laugh, taking a Kleenex out of his pocket and wiping down his forehead. I attempt a weak laugh. "As I was saying, I've been completing my thesis with Professor Clarkson and have been interning this semester at an after-school program in Brooklyn-" "Right. So let's get you up and running! Let me grab Reena and we'll get started with your session." He stands. "REEENA!" Loud barking ensues in the other room. I pull my lesson plan out of my backpack while Snowflake bursts in, followed by Reena. I walk to the other side of the room and write my notes on the rolling blackboard. I take a deep breath. "I have prepared a session on peer pressure for fourteen-year-olds in grade nine. As you'll see on the board here I have written these key terms. I would begin by asking the group to work together to construct-" "Teacher! Teacher!" Richard is waving wildly from the back of the room. "I'm sorry, are you not ready for me to start?" I ask, unsure of what is happening. He balls up a piece of paper and throws it at Reena, who starts to mock cry. "Teacher! Reena said a bad word!" Reena continues to boo-hoo, causing Snowflake to circle her, barking. "I'm sorry, Richard, it was my understanding that we were just doing an overview." But they are in their own world, throwing paper at each other and fake crying. I clear my throat. "Okay, the session you asked me-to prepare was for teenagers, um, but I can modify it for preschoolers." I glance at my notes and frantically try to downscale the plan for a different age group. I turn back to face two huge adults and one huge dog, hiding behind chairs and launching paper. "Um, excuse me? Excuse me? OKAY, CLASS!" I say loudly, giving sway to my frustration. They turn back to me. Reena stands up, breaking character. "How are you feeling right now, Nan?" "Sorry?" I ask. Richard gets out his notebook. "How do you feel about us in this moment? What does your gut say?" They look at me expectantly. "Well, I think perhaps I misunderstood the directives-" "Shit, Nan. Do you have rage in there? Do you hate us? We are just not feeling the love. I want to hear it from you. How is your relationship with your mother?" "Reena, frankly I'm unclear how this relates to my abilities to-" Reena puts her hands on her large hips and Snowflake circles her heels. "We're a family here. There are no boundaries in the Feelings Room. You've got to come in here with trust and love and just go for it. Here's the thing, Nan. We're really not looking to hire white women right now." She is so comfortable with this statement that I'm tempted to ask how many openings they have for white, feminist bitches. Even more bizarre, why a person of color might have a better time discussing their maternal issues with complete strangers. White strangers, nonetheless. Richard stands, soaked with sweat and coughing a smoker's cough. "We have just gotten way too many resumes from white girls. You don't speak Korean, do you?" I shake my head, speechless. "Nan, we're trying to model diversity here, to represent an ideal community. SNOWFLAKE, HEEL!" Snowflake wanders back from where he has been sniffing around my bag. He passes me with his head down, swallowing the last of my peanuts. I look at both of their very white faces against the backdrop of bright rainbows painted on the peeling wall behind them. "Well, thank you for the opportunity, you have a very interesting organization here." I quickly gather my things. They walk me to the door. "Yeah, maybe next semester, we'll be doing some fund-raising work on the East Side. Would you be interested in that?" I picture introducing Reena to Mrs. X at the Met so she can ask her about her rage. "I'm really looking for fieldwork right now. Thanks, though." I get out the door and go directly to Burger King for an extra large fries and a Coke. Folded into an immobile red seat I sigh deeply, comparing Reena and Richard with Jane and Mrs. X. Somewhere out there must be people who believe in a middle ground between demanding children to "feel their rage" and overprogramming children so everyone can pretend they don't have any. I take a long sip of my soda. Apparently, I'm not going to be finding it anytime soon. "See, if I have two jellybeans and you have one jellybean, together we have three jellybeans!" I hold out the jellybeans to make my point. "I like the white ones and the ones that taste like banana. How do they do that, Nanny? How do they make it taste like banana?" Grayer lines up the colored candy like railroad tracks on his bedroom carpet. "I dunno, G. Maybe they mush up a banana and they mush up the jelly and then they mush it all together and cook it in a bean shape?" "Yeah! A bean shape!" So much for math. "Nanny, try this one!" Yesterday's peony arrangement came with a Grayer-size tin of jellybeans. "How about the green ones? How do they make those-" We both hear the door slam. Only three hours late, not bad. "DADDY!!" He runs out of the room and I follow into the hall. "Hey, sport. Where's your mother?" He pats Grayer on the head while loosening his tie. "Here I am," she says and we all turn. She is wearing a powder-blue pencil skirt, kitten heels, a cashmere V-neck sweater, eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Va-voom. If this were the first time my husband had been home in three weeks, I'd get dolled up, too. She smiles shakily beneath her rose lipstick. "Well, let's get this started," he says, barely glancing at her before heading to the living room where Jane left her charts and diagrams. Grayer and his mother scamper in behind Mr. X and I am left behind in the front hall. I take a seat on the bench, resuming my role as lady-in-waiting. "Darling," Mrs. X begins with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Shall I have Connie get you a drink? Or perhaps some coffee? CONNIE!" I jump about three feet and Connie comes flying out of the kitchen, her hands still wet. "Jesus, do you have to be so shrill? No. I just ate," Mr. X says. Connie stops just short of entering the room. We exchange glances and I make room for her on the bench. "Oh. Oh, all right. So, Grayer, Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you about where you're going to school next year." Mrs. X attempts a second opening. "I'm going to Collegiate," Grayer offers, trying to be helpful. "No, sweetie. Mommy and Daddy have decided that you are going to St. Bernard's." "Burnurd?" he asks. There is a moment of silence. "Can we play trains now? Daddy, I got a new train, it's red." "So, sweetie. You can't wear the blue sweatshirt anymore, okay?" she says. Connie rolls her eyes at me. "Why?" "Because it says Collegiate on it and you're going to St. Bernard's-" Mr. X says with exasperation. "But I like it." "Yes, sweetie. We'll get you a St. Bernard's sweatshirt." "I like the blue one!" I lean in and whisper to Connie. "Oh, for the love of God, let him wear it inside out. Who cares?" She throws her hands up. Mrs. X clears her throat. "Okay, sweetie. We'll talk about this later." Connie disappears back into the kitchen. "Daddy, come see my trains! I'll show you the new one. It's red and really, really fast!" Grayer flies past me toward his room. "That was a complete waste of time. He clearly could care less," Mr. X says. "Well, Jane felt it was important-" she retorts defensively. "Who the hell is Jane?" he asks. "Look, do you have the slightest idea of what it means to be in the middle of a merger? I don't have time for this-" "I'm sorry, but-" "Do I have to be on top of everything?" he growls. "The one thing I delegated to you was his schooling and now it's all fucked up." "It was a very competitive year!" she cries. "Grayer doesn't play the violin!" "What the fuck does the violin have to do with anything?" "Maybe if you'd spend an hour of your precious time with us he might have done better in his interviews," she spits back. "My precious time? My precious time? I am bashing my brains out eighty hours a week so you can stand there in your pearls, with your eight-thousand-dollar curtains and your 'charity work,' and question how I spend my time?! Who's going to pay his tuition bills, huh? You?" "Honey." She softens. "I know you're under a lot of pressure. Look, since you're already home, why don't we talk about it over a nice relaxing dinner? I made a reservation at that place you love, down by the river." Her kitten heels make little clicks as she walks over to him. Her voice drops. "We could get a room at the Pierre, maybe the one with the double Jacuzzi bath ... I've really missed you." It's quiet for a minute and then I distinctly hear the sound of them kissing. Their low laughter drifts into the hallway. I'm just about to sneak off to Grayer's room when Mrs. X coos "Should I send a donation to St. Bernard's with the tuition check, so we get off on the right foot with them?"
Commentaires
Il n'y a aucun commentaire sur cet article.