Family is everywhere

I don't have the privilege of being the veteran of too many weddings,
but I do know a good time when I see one. This past week I have the
honor of joining in the wedding festivities of my roommate's sister in
Detroit, MI. Over the years, the bride has transitioned from simply the
relative of a friend into part of an extended family I claim. One of
four girls, my roommate and her sisters are these amazing, funny women
who have adopted me in my home away from home. Not just her sisters but
mothers, aunts, cousins, and friends of the family, too. Being there
these past 5 days just solidified that some people start to feel more
like family than just friends. Having known both the bride and groom
from when they were just coworkers and friends and seeing the
relationship blossom made it even more special.

I've spent the past five days in both a state of rest (way more than I
usually get) and the wedding errand crazies. I burned last minuted cds
for all the guests and went on a hunt for slim cd cases, made sure
grandmother to the bride got to the wedding on time, printed out last
minute changes to the seating chart, showed the groomsmen how to hold
the bouquets, helped the hostesses get ready for the reception, and
generally drove my ass off (literally...we got back to DC at 5 am this
morning). I had also brought my video camera and appointed myself the
unofficial videographer. I love how holding a camera makes me feel so
comfortable and gets me into situations I wouldn't normally get into. I
caught almost everything on film, from the practice runs to the behind
the scenes conversations to the soul train chain. The best part is that
I get to turn it into something memorable for the family.

Holding the camera also means that very few people caught me trying to
do the hustle or dance down the soul train line ; )
Serena

Deliverance

I left Rocky Mount, Virginia haunted. An entire weekend overshadowed by a series of small events that shook my core and reminded my of the dichotomy that exists in our world. All is not well in Denmark.

After the first day in Rocky Mount, I thought I'd leave the town knowing it was a little boring and remembering The Crooked Road, Virginia's Heritage Music Trail. Instead, all I remember is how nauseous I still am. We were on our way out of Rocky Mount, just making on quick stop at the tattoo parlor (yeah, I got another one), when a man walked into the shop. Something just didn't feel right about him; the air changed a bit. Like a cat, I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. Evidently he wanted one tattoo finished and wanted to talk design on a second. He kept eyeing all the women in the shop and even went so far as to make some comment toward the owner's daughter (the resident body piercer). I was still a little on edge when it came to the other patron's after a group of kids had come in earlier wanting the nazi symbol tattooed on, but I didn't pay him too much mind as I was about to head back and get a little color. However, when Allie was done and we were headed out, I realized why my guard was raised. On the computer screen was a hooded figure peering out from behind a cross. I glanced at the back of his elbow and saw the tattoo he already had for the first time, the confederate flag with the words Ku Klux Klan written above it. Even typing this I'm shaking. Are we really still there? And how dare this mother fucker hide his hatred and ignorance behind the cross and the cloak of Christianity. I don't own a gun and never will for times like that. I was hot with rage and might blown his testicles off in my rage had I had a gun. Instead, I felt bile rise in my throat and left haunted with fears of the Rocky Mounts of the world. As we stopped off in Wal-Mart, I viewed every white person with wariness and anyone nonwhite with the wonder of how much shit they must put up with. I wondered yet again where I should be. Am I hiding in the suburbs of D.C.? An ironic twist to all of this is the fact that earlier that day we ventured down to Greensboro, NC. There I stood in front of the Woolworth where the lunch boycotts began and a civil right's war was waged. The awe of the morning smashed by the present that still looks so much like the past.

Treading is always an option

I spent yesterday morning giving swimming lessons to a friend who didn't really know how to swim and who started to panic a little stepping into water a little over 3-foot deep. My friend is not a dwarf nor abnormally short. The fear had a different origin. One that was a foreign concept to me because, for the longest time, I've been at home in the water. Texas is so fucking hot during the summertime that the only way to survive to spend it immersed in something other than your own sweat. Parents toss their young into the pool at a young age and expect them figure out. I survived the ritualistic baptism by fire in our 4-foot above ground monstrosity. Shortly after that test it was swim lessons every summer that ended the year I maxed out and finished the final course before lifeguard certification. Yes, I've rescued a drowning dummy and used my own jeans as a flotation device. From there is was the city swim club and competitive swimming. I didn't suck but didn't really win either.

As yesterday's sun beat down, my only goal was to at least convince her she could float on her back. We came close. Even though she wouldn't give up control and let go of the wall, she did indeed float on her back. There was no faith in the water not to screw her over, to be that invisible layer of support beneath her back. I hope I was understanding and patient. A teacher I am not, but I figure I do okay when I try. It also made me realize that there are things I'm afraid of, and even though others may be able to do them, the smallest step will be difficult for those who are afraid.

Trailblazer

I spend a lot of time worrying about whether I'm doing the right thing with my life and if I'm doing enough to make the world a better place. I feel the need to make an impact, to solve some big global problem. I know I can't but feel like I should at least be trying to contribute my two cents to the cause. This is why guilt and feelings of selfishness tend to wash over me when I start to entertain ideas of trying to do something more creative with my life.* It's only when I read articles like the Washington Post Magazine's piece on locally-based artist Allen Carter that I start remember how art and the creative have been used to shift thinking and spur social change. Carter's (Big Al) work not only reflects an amazing dedication to the art and imagination, Battiata talks of how his art challenges you to face realities you may not want to deal with. The butterflies in my gut in reading this article are for excitement and remembering all the writing, art, photography, theater that has helped in shifting my frame of reference. Even in my current field I see the value in the creative. At a recent conference on rivers I attended, an award was given to Beth Maynor Young for the awareness she's raised with her photography of southeastern rivers. Her photographs have inspired land and river protection throughout the region. Even crafts have gotten activist again** with sites like Craftivism that highlight ways to give back, act out, etc.

Anyway, I ramble on simply to say that I'm excited and hopeful and may just be working my way towards that Master's thesis.

*I feel like that was such a conceited sentence. I'm in no way saying I'm creative enough to ever do anything like that as a career. We're talking a dreaming-only scenario.
**Those old school ladies sewing circles could be pretty revolutionary ; )

More Luke than Christopher

***Warning: You may not want to read this post if you haven't seen the season finale of Gilmore Girls.***

We all make mistakes in life, those last minute decisions made in a moment of panic or desperation that either turn out to be harmless or alter the course of our destiny forever. Imagine my shock when I decided to pay a visit to Stars Hollow yesterday and saw that final scene with Lorelai in bed with Christopher. How familiar was that face that screamed "Oh shit, what have I done," without moving a muscle? As disappointed as I was, I knew what few errant twists of fate it took to get there. For Lorelai it was months of feeling like she was on the backburner in Luke's life and that immediate broken heart (and probably a little bit of old feelings for Christopher, etc., etc.). In my own life, see how easily those bad decisions come to me. Sure, one more drink won't hurt. I'm sure it's just a leak in the oil pan. Not talking to the mystery guy yet AGAIN!*


* Yes, I saw him again last night and froze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. I saw him 3 out of 5 days last week and managed to not say a word. Soon fate is going to flip me off.

Missed connections

Do you believe in fate? As with many things in life, I've walked the line between buying into it and also knowing that regardless of fate I choose my own destiny. Lately I've started believing in fate a little more as I continue to cross paths with this one guy in all the oddest places. I first locked eyes with him as an off and on Barn customer. Maybe it's my imagination, but catching each other's eye has intensified over time. That said, I wouldn't think anything of it if it were just the Barn. It's not. I've accidentally parked beside him at Target and passed him on the streets of D.C. on a handful of occasions, each time eliciting a double take (from him). After seeing him again on Tuesday night, I finally decided that next time I saw him I would speak to him. He's cute, tall, and makes my heart skip beats. I'm interested. Easy enough, right? Well, fate is one smart-ass bitch because last night he boarded my normal bus a few people behind me. I've never seen him on this bus before, and he happens to get on so soon after I made my decision to speak?! As I took up residence in my normal seat (back corner), he sat down and proceeded to crane around to look at me. We locked eyes yet again (can I just say I'm ready to move beyond the eye lock). He would look back periodically and would glance at everyone that passed to see if it was my stop. Meanwhile, I'm putting on the lip gloss and texting Scarlet trying to figure out what to do. The bad news is that (1) I was dead tired having just gotten back from an event in Jersey; (2) tired does not = uber hot; (3) was carrying a tote where you could see my mixed drink pj bottoms on top; (4) was dealing with the drama of figuring out how I was going to get gas to my roommate who was stranded in the rain; and (5) already late to the Barn. So, even though I had my line prepared, I didn't approach him. The timing was just off. I do believe in fate and know we'll cross paths again. Next time I'll be prepared ; )

Thumbs down to news

I used to pride myself on staying abreast of current events and regularly catching the news (either print or TV); however, ever since September 11 happened, I've found the news a bitter pill I'd rather not follow. I realize this is a dangerous game I play, risking being so out of the loop. Knowledge is power...I buy into that ideal. I just need to get my knowledge some other way. Have I found the delivery method right for me? Not yet. I definitely frequent "new media" (that's blogs, peeps) and do read the paper periodically. I go old school sometimes relying on word of mouth (dangerous, I know). You'd be surprised how much people want to pass along to you or what you can overhear just keeping those ears alert. Having been on the road for more than 7 hours today, I feel only affirmation in my feelings of dissatisfaction with the news. Seven hours, 4-5 NPR stations, and the same 4 stories over and over and over. I can now recite the story of Bush's reaction to the USA Today article on the NSA tracking the phone calls of millions of Americans. Curious about immigration policy or the proposed tax cuts? Give me a call. I respect the journalists working hard to keep us all informed, admiring them from afar with what could sometimes be called jealousy. All I really want is to continue to see the envelope pushed and the harder questions asked. As media conglomerations grow, let's hope the news reported is less watered down than we've come to expect.

Do you contra?

Contra...out of breath dizzy fun. According to wikipedia, it's an English country dance originating in the 17th century and later adapted by the French. Once co-opted by the Americans it was re-interpreted and considered some form of American folk dance. Honestly, it reminded me a lot of square dancing. Whatever you call it, I was doing it on Monday night after a glass of wine and a little Red Hook. Someone had the bright idea to hire a caller and band the last night of the river rally I went to in New Hampshire. Couldn't have been too terrible an idea as young and old (and, yes, me) poured onto the dance floor to fling each other about. Passed from man to woman to man while skipping, swinging and do si doing all I could do was laugh. Don't be surprised if I try to get a little contra going at the next party ; )

...live from New Hampshire (on a hijacked internet connection)

I was going to complain. I had plans last night for my blog to be about how I just don't connect at some of these events. Today happened though. It wasn't the breakfast of chai french toast or the fact that my presentation was over this morning (successful btw). It wasn't even how a session on water privatization re-energized my activist spirit. It was a simple box lunch on a rock by a dancing river at the base of Mount Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was pen and paper to record my thoughts as the water danced over the cobble and a look upstream revealed the glare of gentle whitewater. It was knowing that I did have friends inside the resort but could come down here and find my center. It was having a spider race across my foot and knowing it was time to go. It was a silent chuckle to myself and knowing I'll always be me and that's an okay thing.

Why metro is truly trying sometimes

Currently on the orange line traveling in the direction of Vienna and
surrounded by crazies. Seriously, I'm not being judgemental here. Any
psychologist would put both of these guys in a mental facility or at
least prescribe a heavy drug regime.

Crazy #1 talks really loudly, spouting off minute facts about Sesame
Street. I now proudly know that there was a special retrospective to
Mr. Hooper in 1983 after he died. Perhaps my favorite that came out of
his mouth was on the the new theater in Tyson's Corner.

"It's outrageous!"

Metro patron: "You mean expensive?"

"No. Outrageous, like in beautiful. It's beautiful."

Metro patron: "Oh."

"Outrageous. Jem...she's truly outrageous (he's singing, mind you).
Like that."

I swear he said just that. My lip throbbed just a tad as I bit down on
it to keep from laughing. I stopped laughing when he began to carry on
a conversation with himself in the mirror.

Crazy #2 had an obvious problem that he needed to share with the closest
metro employee. I didn't hear everything but evidently someone was near
him with a knife and he was afraid for his life. He also wanted to know
if it was ok to kill someone.

You can't make this shit up.
Serena

More geeky than freaky

Thanks to Netflix (and Steven and Charlie for the strong recommends) I watched the pilot episode of Freaks & Geeks last night. Immediately it became apparent that this was in fact a documentary shot at my high school. I found myself watching and trying to figure out which group I had fit into in high school. Freak...geek...popular...jock...no...no...no...no. I was a floater, a little bit of many. Band nerd and honor society convert, the geeks were my peeps. I dated the guy who would quote Star Trek (don't ask). Don't pigeonhole me though. My cynicism and hatred of the "system" also gave me a home with the freaks. Though too straightedge to ever fully join, I hovered around the perimeter, dabbling occasionally. Popular never really took hold, though I had remnant friends from my junior high days as a mainstream cheerleader wannabe. I'm embarrassed to say now because it makes me look like such a bitch, but I considered myself better them, so I didn't even try matriculating into their crowd.

I'm curious how a show with such a strong underground following and such a tap on reality didn't make it more than one season. Were the geeks who grew up to become producers and directors tired of having to relive their awkward youth on the small screen, or maybe the jock/bully/popular kids who morphed into shiny ad execs didn't want to see freak kids and geek kids up close and personal so ad dollars were lost. Like I said, I've only just begun but am stoked to stroll down memory lane, reliving real life through the kids of Freaks & Geeks.

Deniability

Deniability only gets you so far in this life. I used to try to deny where I was from...even while I was still there. I spent my formative years loathing country music and nagging my mom to only buy me designer jeans. Hell, I even chose to be liberal. I was convinced I was way more cosmopolitan than the city I was forced to call home and would dream of life in a "big" city up north. Texas runs through my blood. Not metropolitan, urban Texas but rural, west Texas. In a town surrounded by fields of cotton and corn and a house not more than a mile from a dairy, I sweated out my existence just knowing I was better than that. The problem with denying your reality is that eventually it will hunt you down like an escaped con and remind you who you are. I did eventually did make my way north to the concrete jungle of D.C. The problem is that country followed me. While I thought I never had it, turns out I couldn't shake it. I began to get subtle reminders from some country bitch deep inside me that she wasn't going without a fight. Imagine your first "real" job in the world of PR and letting slip rather loudly in a group conversation that you're fixin' to do something. Hoots and harassment do follow. Overcoming a red flush of shame, I vowed to double-check my vocabulary before ever opening my mouth again.

However, the longer I was here an odd thing began to happen. I became more comfortable with where I grew up and the little bit of country that lived in me. I tired of the pretentiousness of DC and began to embrace my working class background. Don't get me wrong, I still don't want to move back to Texas, but I decided the that internal country deserved some airtime, too. It fought long and hard to get here, so a little country slip every now and then isn't so bad.

Why this? Why today*? I was reminded of yet another article I had seen on Britney Spears and suddenly it hit me. The reason Britney and the rest of the normal world are so at odds or in shock over her past couple of years is that everyone is forgetting what she truly is. She's just Texas country with a little trash thrown in. No matter how much she denies it that internal country bitch will rear its head. Star or not...deniability doesn't work forever.

*I also got a funny email this morning from my mom. I won't share, but let's just say it reminded of how every country we are.

Wowza

I feel the need to apologize to my sensitive readers up front. The poem below may shock and disturb you...I hope it does. It's poetic in both its message and delivery. I'm posting in because things like what happened at Duke still happen and because I feel like this.

with no immediate cause
by Ntozake Shange

every 3 minutes a woman is beaten
every five minutes a woman is raped/every ten minutes
a lil girl is molested
yet i rode the subway today
i say next to an old man who
may have beaten his old wife
3 minutes ago or 3 days/30 years ago
he might have sodomized his
daughter but i sat there
cuz the young men on the train
might beat some young women
later in the day or tomorrow
i might no shut my door fast
enuf/push hard enuf
every 3 minutes it happens
some woman’s innocence
rushes to her cheeks/pours from her mouth
like the betsy wetsy dolls have been torn
apart/their mouths
mensis red & split/ every
three minutes a shoulder
is jammed through plaster & the oven door/
chairs push thru the rib cage/ hot water or
boiling sperm decorate her body
i rode the subway today& bought a paper from a
man who might
have held his old lady onto
a hot pressing iron/ i don’t know
maybe he catches lil girls in the
park & rips open their behind
with steel rods/ i cdn’t decide
what he might have done i only
know every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes every 10 minutes/so
i bought the paper
looking for the announcement
there has to be an announcement
of the women’s bodies found
yesterday/ the missing little girl
i sat in a restaurant with my
paper looking for the announcement
a yng man served me coffee
i wondered did he pour the boiling
coffee/ on the woman cuz she waz stupid/
did he put the infant girl/ in
the coffee pot/ with the boiling coffee/ cuz she cried
too much
what exactly did he do with hot coffee
i looked for the announcment
the discovery/ of the dismembered<
woman's body/ the
vicitm's have not all been
identified/ today they are
naked & dead/ refuse to
testify/ one girl out of 10's not
coherent/ i took the coffee
& spit it up/ i found an
announcment/ not the woman's
bloated body in the river/ floating
not the child bleeding in the
59th street corridor/ not the baby
broken on the floor/
"there is some concern
that alleged battered women
might start to murder their
husbands & lovers with no
immediate cause"
i spit up i vomit i am screaming
we all have immediate cause
every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes
every 10 minutes
every day
women's bodies are found
in aley & bedrooms/ at the top of the stairs
before i ride the subway/ buy a paper/ drink
coffee/ i must know/have you hurt a woman today
did you beat a woman today
throw a child cross a room
are the lil girl's panties
in yr pocket
did you hurt a woman today

i have to ask these obscene questions
the authorities require me to
establish
immediate cause

every three minutes
every five minutes
every ten minutes
every day

(reprinted from vegankid)
-

**WARNING** The following may be hazardous to your health

Selfishness may feel good at the outset but once done starts to rot and mold like the dank underbelly where the thought originates. The problem is that giving so much of yourself sucks sometimes, too. You give until they expect it...until they take advantage...until you begin to lose a little part of yourself. I'm tired of giving so freely, of leaving myself open. I want to be one of the first thoughts and not one of the last resorts. Selfish thoughts stomp around my head as I think of taking more for me. I dream of ignoring them ignoring me. I think all of these horrid thoughts and then remember that it's Easter. I remember that today is the day we celebrate the fact that He is risen, that He gave of himself selflessly. I remember that no matter how much I take from Him and ignore Him that the giving, the selflessness, is still there. It's unconditional. And maybe that's what my giving should be...unconditional.

Taking care of our own

What would you do if you'd been living a fairly consistent existence for more than 30 years only to learn one day your world was about to be turned upside down? My mom finds out today if the company she has been with for close to 30 years is being shut down. She called me this morning just to hear my voice, but she cracked a little towards the end. The fissure in my heart cracked just a little more that I wasn't there to put my arms around her and tell her it would be ok. Thirty years of knowing your routine, knowing where your paycheck was going to come from. While in this day and age the thought of staying at one job for that length of time may seem like torture, this kind of tenure at one job seems fairly common for older generations. The question is, how do you cope with such radical, life-altering shift to your status quo? The town I'm from is not ripe with opportunity. I don't want her having to pound the pavement looking for another job in this competitive job market. She could work circles around recent college grads, but because she didn't graduate from college and has such narrow (maybe focused is more appropriate) experience she might not get the opportunity she deserves. All I know is that we have each other and that with brainstorming and support things are bound to be okay.

Track #6

I'm sitting at my desk staring dreamily at the screen, a little bit in love after last night. I can only focus on the what ifs and not the daily tasks at hand. Last night the fates aligned, and I was in the right place at the right time. The place: Iota. Who: Arab Strap. When Scarlet presented me with the opportunity for an evening with Scotsmen, who was I to decline? The evening was an evening of sensations and minor euphoria. Having arrived their early (really early) to secure our place inside this cozy venue, we settled in and began nursing a drink in anticipation. The next thing I knew the BAND (totally spazzing here) was at the bar, and we were hanging with the band before the show!! Earlier Scarlet and I had wondered aloud whether we'd be willing to be that girl with the band. However, after seeing Malcolm and Aidan, my 'huhs' starting turning into 'hmmmms'. Anyway, sound check started and chatting turned to ogling as I managed to catch Malcolm's eye a couple of times and send him derisive look for derisive look.

As the lights went down and crowds pressed in, our intimate moment with the band and Iota was replaced with the opening act, A Whisper in the Noise. They really weren't bad, but by that point, I only had eyes for one band. Scarlet, I am quite sure, was about ready to jump out of her skin seeing as she came already in love, and my smitten affair had only just begun. As Arab Strap went on, we were crafty enough to position ourselves against the stage, practically worshipping their feet.

The next two hours are really so hard to put words to. I felt like I was being seduced by the ongues and fingers of men who never touched me. Mesmerized, I watched Malcolm on the Fender, caught up in the movement of his fingers and the notes they were creating. Every now and again I'd glance up at the face that refused to smile but would occasionally sneer and felt myself slip further down the rabbit hole. I found myself wanting to play a game of find the tattoo with him. I was also directly at the feet of Aidan and kept glancing up as he sang, hoping he would meet my eye. Instead, he sang with his eyes closed, and I was content to let that deep brogue seep down into my soul. Really, I was so into it that I didn't let the indie head bop or the annoying clan* to my right even bother me. At some point in the evening I sent Scarlet a text message. It read: "Affirmed. I would definitely be that girl."

As the band was packing up, we knew we needed to stick around. You can't just leave after a performance like that. Aidan was snagged by one of the annoying clan as he made his way to the back, but Malcolm was alone on stage storing his guitar. A few conspiratorial whispers later, and we decided to go for it. We decided against pictures for fear of being thought cheesy but determined we couldn't leave without a few final words to this man whose music would be on my computer and whose face would permeate my dreams over the next few weeks. False confidence led me to the stage as we told him how much we enjoyed the show. Not one to leave italone, I couldn't resist asking him (with a smile) what was so fucking depressing about playing guitar up there. We were rewarded with a smile and some hard-to-understand words about how he didn't like playing live, didn't like touring in America and wasn't much of a smiler. He said he tried to smile while playing, but it just didn't work. *Sigh* Soulmate anyone?

Anyway, we said farewell and took off. I left feeling like a grade school girl about to poster her room with their photos and also knowing I had more time to be that girl.


*Read Scarlet's post for more of everything!

When going forward sucks

Tonight is one of the few times in life where moving forward truly sucks. It's the one time of the year when I really wish moving backward was an option. Whatever. Today I'll do a little mental spring cleaning and indulge myself in a list. I love lists but generally hate boring others with them. However, in this case, perhaps putting in words what I want to accomplish over the next two months will solidify my willpower to make it so.

Making Spring 2006 Work for Me:

• Complete grad school application (April 15)
• Survive American Rivers (the amount of work I have to do over the next 8 weeks could be a list in and of itself)
• Complete production of Jem: The E! True Hollywood Story
• Apply for space/attend at the Atlanta Indie Craft Experience
• Visit family in Texas
• Submit the long-delayed article to Bust
• Hold hands

My immediate future means involves me working on the latest rendition of MailTunes.

Scared

I've been walking around in a daze since Sunday, afraid to admit to anyone that I'm scared. The bags that haunt my eyes aren't from an unusual lack of sleep but of the worry that stalks me in my dreams. What I have a problem with is mortality. Not my own but that of those I love. I fear being abandoned, orphaned as an adult.

As I talked to my mom on Sunday, I learned my grandmother is sick again, that she is weak. She has been feeling pretty crappy off and on. I think of her age and the reality that she won't always be there. I think of how I won't be able to cope without one of the women who raised me. I worry about my mom who will eventually lose her best friend and near constant companion. I can't stomach the thought of her being alone thousands of miles away but don't think my spirit could handle moving back home. I dream of moving her some place like San Francisco with me and having her nearby.

I think of my mom and think of her mortality. I try to forget the cirrhosis that is slowly signing her death warrant. I think of how we all try to forget this. I feel in my heart that when they abandon me in death I won't be able to go on. I've been afraid to go home this past year because as the years pass I fear that each time might be the last I see them. I miss them and am afraid not to go home because I need to see them.

Right now I'm just scared but have to force myself not to think just to get by.

Embracing wine week

I seriously think I had the best lunch of my life yesterday, and it had very little to do with food. Twice a year Smith & Wollensky host a wine week where, for a mere $10, the glasses in front of you become virtual fountains overflowing, unlimited wine. Smith & Wollensky have employees circulate throughout the restaurant from 12 to 3, each in charge of doling out certain wine selections. Grabbing a group of friends and settling in for the afternoon seemed the perfect way to end a week.

We (Scarlet, Joyce and Marsha) arrived just in time for our 12:30 reservation and had no sooner sat than I had a nice sparkling wine and a merlot in front of me. An alcoholic's wet dream, I never had fewer than two different wines in front of me. It was a leisurely affair meant to be enjoyed by the decadent. Our waitress took our lunch orders roughly 45 minutes and 5 drinks into lunch. By the time Allie joined us, we were well past toasty, and when our food finally arrived, it was the least of our concern. Never before have I been drunk so early in the day (and had so much fun). Because everyone in the restaurant was there for wine week, the atmosphere was laid back and flirty. Scarlet found a new boyfriend in manager David, man of the askew bowtie, and random people were known to stop by our table.

I'd recommend everyone make time for wine week next time it rolls around, but honestly, I don't want to have to fight with you for my reservation. ; )

Non-snob's guide to selections tried: sparkling, merlot, pinot grigio, pinot noir, chardonnay...and so many others, the names of which I will never remember.

Pissed

I hate public restrooms, probably not as much as some women, but I still find them distasteful. This afternoon I was making my way back to Washington, D.C. when all the diet coke I consumed decided it was tired of me. I'm not sure why I was so hesitant to use the Amtrak loo, but my instincts proved correct today.

The loo in question was wretched. I knew it was going to be one of times I was going to have to make like a jedi and hover. Unfortunately, unlike most guys and a whole lot of women, I have horrific aim*. Just as I was experiencing that final release (when you've had to pee really bad, you know what I'm talking about) when I noticed something pooling on the ground. I completely missed the toilet and had pissed on the back of my jeans and the floor. The red flush of shame crept to my face at the same time my cat-like reflexes had me yanking my pant legs out of their own danger zone. Thank GOD my jeans were dark and only got hit near the top. It allowed me the opportunity to sneak back to my suitcase and grab a skirt. I slid out of the loo, making sure to afix a look of disgust on my face at the "person" who left the place such a mess. Five minutes later I was outfitted in new skirt and back in my seat. Perspective allows laughter, but pissing yourself as an adult takes a strong constitution.

Lesson learned: If it's so gross you need to hover, find another loo.




*Ask me about my Taiwanese bathroom experience later.

Greetings from New Hampshire

Live free or die...the state motto. Nothing terribly exciting to report. I'm mired in training on historic preservation law and looking forward to my train ride back.

I sleep around

I used to be one of those girls who had trouble sleeping. I couldn't sleep in a moving vehicle or with too much light or with my overactive imagination. Flashforward several long years, and you're now talking to a girl who can do it anywhere. My answer came in the form of whoring myself out to the joys of travel. My lust for parts unknown, the open road or simply somewhere other than where I currently am have led me to some interesting sleeping quarters. I've bedded down in foreign dorms, the floor of O'Hare, and even the couch of a friends apartment. I slept on raised bamboo in Thailand under a thatched roof and mosquito netting, a hotel shaped like a boat in Puerto Rico, and in a Vegas hotel room where the door wouldn't lock and was held shut by my propping a chair against the door. I do cars at rest stops and even caught a few winks behind the wheel and stopped at a traffic light. Last night I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep on the regional Amtrak as it barreled toward Connecticut and this morning napped a couple more hours on the bottom bunk of a four-year old's Strawberry Shortcake comforter. I guess you could say I sleep around.

For the love of meme

I am so not a fan of memes, so Barmaid had better realize I'm doing this only because her blog kicks so much ass.

My nickname: Weenie...a moniker given for a couple of reasons: (1) an unhealthy fear of bugs and (2) Serena...SirWeenie...Weenie.

My hometown: San Angelo, Texas. I've learned not to be embarassed and to embrace my past.

My team: Team sports are so passe. Isn't it all about the individual? ; )

My theme song: Back That Thang Up by Juvenile

My drinks: Rum and coke or a French Martini

My occupation: enviro rabble rouser

My spare time: Damned internet. Spying. Making movies. Exploring.

My hiding spot: the Barn

My books: Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez.

My [fake] heroes: Diet Coke. It sparkly and refreshing and helps so many people feel so good. It's the new humanitarian.

My [real] heroes: My mom. A divorce and two kids and she never let us down. She instilled in me the belief that the world was mine for the taking and that the sky's the limit.

My tags: Allie, Steven, and Green Canary

Tramps like us

Sometimes I believe I'm just asking for trouble. It's almost like I try to find the most difficult or unavailable men and become interested in them. A few weeks ago there was the crush who had me in knots. There's no new crush, but a series of events is unfolding that's making me question my better judgement (or, honestly, lack thereof).

The thoughts running through my head this morning though are more reminiscent of where I was roughly 10 years ago. Back in the day I had just broken up with the Boyfriend, the one who will always make your knees weak, and had been talking every night on the phone to my friend, Roy. Roy was in the Marines and not happy. He hated 29 Palms and was having trouble with his wife. We would spend hours on the phone late at night talking about our doomed relationships. Well, needless to say, Roy got some leave a few weeks later and decided to come home to visit (he lived up the street from me and had known me for years). Shortly before he arrived I learned he and his wife had separated; despite this, we made plans to hang out. Really, hanging out was dinner and a movie and entirely innocent until we ventured back to my childhood room to chill and talk. Before I knew it, our two damaged souls were making out on the floor of my bedroom. It didn't feel right. I had known Roy way too long, and we were never meant to be that kind of couple. Plus, I had no desire to be that girl that stepped in while they were on a break.*

Flash forward about a decade and here I am thinking naughty thoughts about a recently separated acquaintance, a manager at my part-time job actually. I recently learned that his wife told him she wanted a divorce and moved out. I really was crushed for the man because obviously this broke his spirit. Sadly**, despite the fact that the body's not even cold yet and technically this could just be a break, I felt a little giddy at his being back on the market. I also realized how depraved this was at the same time. I truly feel bad for the man and felt even worse when we noticed his wedding ring had finally come off yesterday. Does feeling bad stop me from considering flirting? No. Did a friend (innocently) invite him out for drinks tonight with us after work? Yes. Am I going to be able to stop considering this an opportunity? Hopefully.

*After Roy left, I actually never heard from him again. I think we crossed a line in our friendship and didn't really know how to go back. I think about him every now and then and hope he got out before we went to war.
**I'm choosing to be pretty honest here, so go easy on me.

Nobody knows you like they do

Sometimes we wander through life wandering if the people around us really know us, and most of the time I come to the conclusion that they don't. It's actually kind of depressing to think that who I really am, who hides deep inside and matters most to me, is seen by nobody but me. I think one of the most sought after things in life is to be known. This is usually when I take comfort in Psalm 139, "O Lord, you have searched me and you know me...". At least someone knows me inside and out and still claims me. Every now and then we do meet a few souls who are willing to go there with you. People who take the time to listen and to begin to know you. I don't hold myself up as this bastion of mystery or anything, but I do think it takes some tenacity to know the different sides of me. Living in a city like DC, I always get the feeling that most people simply tolerate you or are using you for some other purpose. You talk and they don't really listen. They're already planning what they'll respond with. As I was walking to work this morning I realized that there are a finite number of people who care to really know me...or at least try to.

In fact, sometimes it's the little things that let you know people are paying attention. I'm bopping along this morning and wind up on the subject of mix cds. I started thinking of how we each need our own life mix cd. I paused, literally stopping on the sidewalk, as I realized that someone had already taken the time and effort to create one for me. Every word of every song may not apply to me or be about me, but the essence of the music, the song titles, the artists, and yes, the words, speak to the fact that the person who made this cd has taken the time to actually know me. It's the Christmas gift that keeps on giving because I can pull it out and listen to it whenever (like now) I want. It's good to know you're just a little known.

The cd...

We Only Come Out at Night, Smashing Pumpkins
Up All Night, Razorlight
Tonight Let's Dance, Elefant
This Place is a Prison, The Postal Service
The Saloon Song, Prom
Southern Girl, Incubus
Something to Look Forward To, Spoon
Our Weekend Starts on Wednesday, Hey Mercedes
Nightswimming, R.E.M.
Hope You're Happy Now, The Sounds
Hitchin' A Ride, Green Day
Go to Sleep (Little Man Being Erased), Radiohead
Four in the Morning, Ivy
Exhausted, Foo Fighters
Dancecraze, Millencolin
Caught by the River, Doves
Around the World, Red Hot Chili Peppers
All Over the World, Pixies
Across the Night, Silverchair

Dumping people

Do you ever feel bad for dumping people in your life? I'm not really talking significant others or friends...that's a whole other post. I'm talking about other, more random people in our lives. People that provide a service. I think I essentially dumped my hairdresser yesterday. While she really does fabulous color, the last time I had her cut my hair I walked away feeling wretched. I had been looking for a cute, modern bob and instead looked more like a little dutch boy. So, when I decided I needed a haircut yesterday, I phoned the salon looking for another stylist recommendation. Psychic receptionist determined my hair swami would be the pregnant Sara. To my horror, pregnant Sara* sat right across from Krissie (the dumped). It had been months since I had seen Krissie, and even though I always thought she was little resentful of how long my hair took to color, I still felt like a cheating whore. As she walked by, I continued averting my gaze even though I knew I had made the right decision. The problem with what I did would be a problem in any relationship. I never gave Krissie the benefit of the doubt and expressed my feelings about the haircut. I simply took the coward's way out and cut and ran. I've done this before. I had a regular manicurist back home in Texas that I would see every week. Something went wrong one week, and I never went back. Who does that? Am I destined to handle all of my relationships this way? I don't think I've ever just bailed on a friendship or a boyfriend in that manner, but I certainly know the feeling has been there.

*In other news, new hairstylist Sara seems to think I need to see a doctor about the amount of hair I have falling out. I have really thick hair, and this loss doesn't seem to change that. She seems to think it's indicative of another health problem.

Peeling myself off the carpet

Deliver me from my weekend. Don't get me wrong...I had a smashing time. However, three solid days of burning the candle at both ends has me fried. I should have sensed this coming in some way after the train wreck my work afternoon became. I would like to blame stress for the fact that I somehow wound up drinking until 5 am at Ravena's birthday party. Stress also caused me to tell Tice how warm he was, continually tell Brendan his guitar playing was hot, and decide it was a good idea to roll down the grassy slope in Allie's yard, cackling like a banshee. I decided to stockpile stress for next weekend by getting up (was I ever really down?) at 7:30 am to drag my still-tipsy behind to my part-time job at the bookstore.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I spent six hours sobering up at the Barn (work). Then, feeling that I hadn't truly been punished enough, I thought a good way to spend my evening (Saturday) was to have dinner with friends and see a local (3-hour) production of the Sound of Music. They did a fine job, but I still fell asleep no less than 3 time throughout the course of the night.

I finally drug my rear home around midnight, only to get up a few short hours later to pull a Sunday shift at the Barn. I know you're sighing with relief at the fact that at least I got home early on Sunday evening to rest up for the work week. Oh but if it were true. I had tickets to the New Pornographers and Belle & Sebastian last night, so instead of seeking the comfort of my bed and Oscars I traipsed to DC. The concert was worth the lack of sleep. Just don't expect more than this feeble weekend recap so early on a Monday morning. I'm still trying to figure out when I'm supposed to rest.

Where are thee fair flare?

It is becoming ever more apparent to me that I have lost my flare. As I was walking down the street today I realized that I couldn't blame my utterly drab appearance on this viscious cold I've been fighting. The cold didn't make the black mid-calf skirt and crocs the most comfortable and easy thing to put on. I only acquired the cold last week and certainly can't blame it for the brown Golden Girls-esque coat that has seen me through winter for the past couple of years. My flare (style) slowly started creeping away from me around my junior year of high school. Before then I was a regular mini trendsetter, before my time even. At 13, I was such a brand whore* that my mom took to telling me that I must be adopted. By junior high and high school, I was reading 6-8 fashion magazines a month and could tell you that short hemlines were in and that grey was the new black. I had no clue that just a few years later I would be that angsty teen who sprouted hips overnight. Suddenly boys saying that my crisp white button-down with colorful, transparent rings looked like condoms bothered me. I developed an interest in flying under the radar screen instead making a statement. As the years slipped through my fingers, it wasn't that I had forgotten about fashion or began to think feather boas should be all the rage. I think I just had a hard time reconciling my evolving personality with my evolving body. My latest fashion excuses have included me (1) finding better things to spend my money on and (2) giving myself a guilt trip for even caring about things like fashion (the inner feminist feels we shouldn't care what people think of our appearance). The problem is that, now that I'm ready to find my flare once again and be fierce, I seem to have lost the ability to find my personal style. I'm lucky in that I have the perfect job and career aspirations to allow me to really be as funky as I want to be. How does a girl go about getting her flare back?



*A special thanks to the fashion plates (La Coquette, DCCeline, SVR, Aimee, Says the Asian Leprechan, Fashionologie) posting out there. You guys fanned the flames of my excitement and inspired a flare rebirth.

The pitfalls of filing

Life isn't quite this boring, but for lack of a better topic and fear of rupturing something in my already congested brain, I've decided to dedicate this post to Neil's Carnival of the Mundane.

There can be a certain zen-like vibe you get from mundane office tasks. The rhythmic monotony of stapling papers or labeling envelopes can lull your brain into a meditative state that some might even call rejuvenating. At the very least it require very little in the way of brain power and gives you time to think or carry on that trashy conversation with that co-worker you never see. Filing, however, is like a dreaded trip to the dentist. I loathe filing with every fiber in my polarfleece jacket. The only task worse than filing is the creation of new files. If you have ever seen the old comic strips with the character hidden among the stacks of papers on their desk, you've gotten a glimpse at what my desk can become. It's not the alphabetizing associated with filing that irks me. I'm pretty tight with the alphabet. I abhor the ambiguity associated with filing. What is paper X should be filed in file B but also makes sense in file H? Do you put a opy in B and H; just B or H; or do you create file Q to house files that work in both B and H? The only logical use for paper files, in my mind, is part of larger bonfire. Paper files are, in fact, antiquated. Why keep all of that paper around when everything can be scanned into a computer these days and logged as part of a much vaster electronic network. You can even back everything up on a supplementary hard drive. But, no, heaven forbid we move fully into this century and embrace technology. Instead, I ordered pink file folders in the hope this would jazz up the process. Now they sit at the end of my desk mocking me with their cheerfulness. My distaste for torture and my belief that I would be violating some sort of Geneva Human Rights pact even prevents me from passing this task along to interns or other staff. For the moment, I will continue to hide these growing stacks of paper until I can stomach the pink.

Knock-Knock...who's knocked up?

I love my family, and the older I get the more I see my mom in me. It was this early morning that realized I might very well have sent my mom over the edge last night. Basically, I have paranoid tendencies and love to jump to fantastical conclusions. Those crazy stories I make up for people on the metro find their way into my life too as I try to decipher what's really going on. I would bet money on the fact that this is probably a personality quirk I inherited from my mom. This is why it hit me this morning that I must have freaked my mom out last night. You see, I'm from Texas and didn't have an opportunity to go home to spend time with my family at Christmas this year. I keep trying to pick a time I can get home to visit, and my mom keeps inquiring as to when that might be. Last night we were talking on the phone, and she mentioned how unexciting her life was. When I asked what kind of excitement she was looking for, she relayed that she wasn't actually looking for excitement and liked her life excitement-free. I jokingly asked if was sure she didn't want me to get knocked up and give her a grandkid to spice things up. Her response was not positive to having me knocked up. Ha! We talked a little more, and she mentioned, if I couldn't make it home, they were considering driving up to see me this summer. I thought nothing more of this conversation until this morning when I remembered who I was and who my mom was and realized that there is now a 75% chance my mom is at home freaking out because she thinks I'm knocked up and that that is the reason I haven't come home yet. Hahahahaha. Poor mom.*


*I am not, nor have I ever been, knocked up, pregnant, with child, had a bun in the oven or whatever other cute term you'd like to use.

An open letter to the men of the world

Dear Men:

Life is confusing and drama-filled enough without you adding to it. See...the thing is that we women are stronger than we appear. We may bat our eyes and shed a tear when Cameron Diaz and Toni Collette make up in In Her Shoes, but we have enough lacquer built up from all of that nail polish that we can take it. Rather than sending mixed signals about whether or not you are interested in us, grow some testicles (or borrow them from your bff) and tell us how you feel. I promise you that the majority of us will not (1) key your car; (2) dissolve into a sobbing mess; or (3) start screaming obscentities when told you are not interested. In fact, we just want to know, to be put out of our misery. And, if you do happen to finally come out of your shell and mention you might have a small thing for us, you might actually get lucky and find you have a new someone to snog. Regardless, honesty and reality are better than delusions and trying to read signals. Just a thought.

xxoo,
Serena

Where am I going?

Lately I feel like my mind has been on dancing around a "do I like where my life is going" crisis. I like to avoid thinking about this kind of thing because then that forces me to make decisions, something people who know me know that I'm loathe to do. Unfortunately, I'm getting older and am evidently supposed to have some kind of strategic plan for my life. I dislike strategic planning because life can't be carved in stone. I believe it's best enjoyed like a river, winding its way across the land.

However, spank me and call me Sally because evidently I'm glutton for punishment and need to go through this exercise in annoyance. Maybe today I'll just allow myself to ponder my career situation.

Pros:
*Enjoyable/Fulfilling
*Challenging
*"Expert" (ha) in field
*Varied

Cons:
*Quest for something more
*Need for greater creative outlet
*Nonprofits don't pay the best
*Need for excitement

This basically did nothing but make me feel guilty for wanting something more than my current job. What it boils down to is this girl needs regular change. I need to feel like I'm making a difference, and while I do feel like I'm making a difference for the environment (and subsequently people), I want to start with people. Of course, who am I to try to fix people? I should be thankful for what I have.

This is my city

Have you seen those American Express commercials with Robert DeNiro talking about NYC as his city? He conveys such a sense of place, a true connection with his city. As I was walking my city yesterday, I felt a connection similar to DeNiro. Even though I technically live in Fairfax, I work, live and breathe Washington D.C. Walking the city energizes me and reveals hidden jewels. The character of the city lives on every corner and is driven in large part by its people. To truly embrace my city, you have to embrace all parts. Even if you don't love it, don't turn your nose up at it. Look at the homeless people as you navigate the gauntlet that are their parks. Stroll through the Capitol complex and act like you own the place, just like everyone else. Find a favorite watering hole and make it yours. Discover that perfect place to hear some tunes.

Despite all of this, I still feel like a DC virgin. A few of this (DC)virgin's favorite haunts (for the time being):

U Street - I *heart* all of it. I can shop for unique items at some of the funky boutiques like Pink November and Love Hurts; get awesome cupcakes at Cakelove; dance the night away and hear new bands at the Black Cat; grab a drink at Polly's Cafe or Saint-Ex; accidentally smell pot at some of the local record establishments; and many, many other things to titillate.

Fado - The Irish pub at gallery place. I like it's atmosphere. I just like it a little less crowded then it was on Friday night.

Tryst - Hoping the place doesn't become cliche, but it's great for coffee and blogging in the morning and hanging with boos at night.

More Gallery Place - Matchbox for mini burgers and Sushi Go Round for pretty tasty sushi.

Really I'm just a street walker who loves so many places. For the real scoop on hot new things to try in DC, sign up for the District's edition of Daily Candy and steal their suggestions. I do, and it just continues to make the city more mine.

The aftermath

Scarlet's birthday should never be described as a one-night stand, burning hot but fizzling quickly. It's more like that obsession you immediately feel for that one person once you lock eyes. It's fun and hot and for that first weekend you just can't leave each other's side. Scarlet's birthday was that kind of marathon.

The Cast of Characters:
Scarlet, Steven, Allie, Ravena, Vanessa, Vanessa, Jay, Julianne (+boy), Erin, Nicole, Carolyn

Scene 1:
After Cakelove and champagne at an undisclosed location, a smaller version of the group above crammed into Ravena's car and made haste for Sushi Go Round. A few flaming drinks and sushi rolls later, we were sufficiently fortified to make our way into the cold and wait the remaining band of revelers.

Highs - flaming volcanos, the dropped makeup brush, Steven's footprint on the car window
Lows - Jay (ask Steven), merry band of revelers picking a much calmer set of places to "crawl" to

Scene 2:
The Scarlet bar crawl began at Fado where we were everybody's Gap and Abercrombie was crushed against eachother. Luckily we're a bit more original than that, so after a round of jaeger bombs and the realization that Flogging Molly was not playing there we decided to jet.

Highs - Scarlet dancing with the drunk guy, jaeger bombs
Lows - the beginning of Scarlet getting continually congratulated on her engagement (damn that tiara)

Scene 3:
The next stop ended up being some world of beer place where (shock) I actually had a beer (Magic Hat). This was also the transition from sober Scarlet to drunk Scarlet. As the tiara started to tilt, the eyes glossed over and the flirting intensified, the beer continued to flow.

Highs - whipped cream shots, gossiping with Vanessa, Scarlet's flirting, texting across the table
Lows - being talked about by The Others for use of sidekick in the above texting

Scene 4:
A final move to Clyde's set the final wheels in motion. A lack of seating forced us to separate from The Others, but the drinks continued to flow. Tiara was at full tilt and hair was fully mussed. It was awesome. Damn that Grand Marnier shot.

Highs - Grand Marnier, Ravena getting hit on, tilted tiara, Steven being thankful for Ravena
Lows - the guy who hit on Ravena

After the smaller band of revelers snagged the princess and loaded her into the car, the fun continued as we made haste back to Fairfax. I need to be discreet here, but let's just say somebody got some action (cough...Steven) and that most in the car are apparently very studious.

To be continued...

The stories I weave

I make up stories for people I see on the metro. I don't know why I do it, but something in me feels the need to create lives for these people, explaining away their appearance or actions. This morning I got on the train with blonde girl and indie professional guy. Together, they are each forced to snag seats by eachother but not side by side. A few minutes into the ride I hear blonde girl exclaim and evidently realize she knew the curly brown-haired girl next to her. While I can't hear the conversation, I love that their body language tells its own story. Curly brown hair proceeds to talk more to indie professional guy, occasionally giving a glance to blonde girl. As the train barrels on Curly brown hair is full-on flirting with indie professional guy. Meanwhile, blonde girl begins to visibly withdraw. The smile slips from face and eyes. Her lips flatten into two thin lines as she attempts to hide her irritation. As I witness this interaction, my mind is inside the blonde girls head, imagining the form her anger takes inside her own mind. In my story, indie professional guy is tired of blonde girl and her unwillingness to create a life of her own outside of him. Curly brown girl is like the complicated Carrie, unwittingly proving that blondes don't always have more fun.

I wonder if people make up stories about me. I think I'd rather not know.

Merry band of revelers

Tomorrow night a merry band of revelers will depart for parts unknown (at least to them) to partake of a little orchestrated happenstance in honor of Scarlet's birthday. Though I'll never be as excited as she is (it is her birthday), knowing what will go down and the devious plotting that surrounds it has me smiling. I can assure you that the havoc we wreak this weekend will make it onto this space (and probably many others).

Since I know you'll read my blog just as quickly as any email, I thought I'd post your directives here for all to enjoy and ponder.

Bring with you the following items...

• a camera or two (duh)
• chapstick
• matches
• canned whipped cream
• your i.d.
• batteries (AAA)

What to wear...

• something hott

Where to go...

• be at Steven's apartment no by 5:45 on Friday. Park in visitor parking.

Everybody has the planning gene

Planning has often been a 4-letter word in my mind. Actually, clarifying thought...overplanning is the deal breaker. However, I've come to believe that everybody has the planning gene if there's something they want bad enough. In fact, stepping out of the planning haze I've been in, I have decided that planners fall into a few set categories.

Ain't-A Planner: This is a person who loathes to plan anything at all. Any attempts to drag this person into a planning session may result in scratching and eye gouging. Ain't-A Planner won't even plan their own wedding. Elopement is so much easier.

Reluctant Planner: The reluctant planner is really the person I described in my intro. This person dislikes planning anything too far in advance and refuses to get excited by the details. However, when confronted with an idea to fabulous to ignore, the non-planner morphs into planner and begins to get annoyed with others when they don't hop on the planning bandwagon.

Bunny-on-Steroids (BoS) Planner: This person is usually the worst nightmare to the other types of planners. The BoS maps out a plan of action months in advance. They carry a clipboard and create numerous lists. On the day of the scheduled event, BoS can be found with a whistle and a riding whip barking orders at the troops they've strong-armed into helping. This person can often be spotted by the vacant, slightly neurotic look in their eye and the headset for their cell phone.

Love the mix

Don't get any ideas from the title...it's just a crush. It's a crush that's slowly reducing my ability to think like a normal human being and managing to turn me into a mute fool when he's near. I reached a turning point last night, however, and decided to stop blathering on about it. This is like my almost last hurrah in blogging about him making me loopy, inspired entirely the songs that found their way onto my MailTunes* cd. I truly believe the right songs find us at the right times in our life, narrating our thoughts and emotions.

Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge - My version of the perfect crush song. It's like an obsessiveness that builds into like and wanting someone in every way you can want them. Wanting to be devoured by someone.

Hate by Cat Power - Illustrates that vulnerability I just can't shake...where you're not even good enough for you.

This Modern Love by Bloc Party - Sublime. I'm still working on all the ways I feel this song, but the last couple of lines (where he asks if she wants to hang) nags at the dusty corners of my brain.

*A fab club of fab girls exchanging music to a theme.

Life isn't all purple dinosaurs

I used to be one of those people who would declare how much they hated people. I had no tolerance for the difficiencies of the human race. When it came to thoughts and feelings, I thought I had some unique card that made me different. Surely no one thinks the way I do. I have to be the only one having these insane fucking thoughts. Then I discovered blogs and began to be struck by how similar will all really fucking are. I'm not alone, am even pretty far from unique. This Fish must be my soul sister when talking about having a crush/obsession. Marissa shares my staring problem. The Girl Who wants to avoid being the same married girl I want to someday avoid being. Amanda writes about the pain of hating something about yourself so much it changes the fabric of who you are. Scarlet shares my esp and tendency to try to read all the signs. Green Canary understands the perils of trying to be different. And I think Love & Haterade shares my spunk.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm glad I don't hate people anymore, and I'm kinda glad I'm not all that unique ; )

My life as a movie

As I stepped off of the frenzied train and closer to the reality of my day, I let my mind wander back to last night, dreaming a little of that photo. The escalator brought me steps closer to solid ground and a lone trumpet wove a melodious soundtrack that carried me along the city's streets. The background music of my morning set, it occured to me how much I get from DC's street musicians. They romanticize my life, give me hope for a better day or simply put a smile on my face. Thank you Mr. Gospel Guitarist at Courthouse, who puts a spring in my step. Thank you Mr. Beautiful Dread Saxophonist who plays away my pain. Mr. Asian Instrument Man, you transport me to another time and era. And, finally, thank you Mr. Romantic Trumpet, who made me feel like a movie star.

Who tells you you've made it

I picked up the latest copy of DC magazine yesterday, and at the risk of making myself a social pariah in DC, I feel I must comment. The magazine looks to be attempting to fashion itself as an offspring of Town & Country for the beltway set. The magazine is attractive enough; it caught my attention to the extent I was moved to pick it up for its "hot list". My confusion began as my eyes scanned the "Scene in DC" section. Who are these people? To be honest, I'm generally just as confused when I see some of the NYC society pages, but at least those women have become famous enough for their socializing/partying that I recognize the names. I am so not on the DC social set, but I am aware. The only name I recognized in all the pictures was Ann Walker Marchant, and that's just because I did some business with her several years ago. Is everybody in the pictures PR flacks? Is it true...is DC hollywood for the less attractive? Pick up a copy of the magazine and you tell me.

Two sides of the same coin

Friendship is such an amazing, cool thing, and given how difficult it is to make real friends as you get older, I feel lucky to have the met the friends that I do have. I definitely feel Beauty and the Beltway's pain in trying to meet new people in DC. It's ironic, though, that no matter how close we get to people there are always so many different facets of their personality that we don't see or only see rarely. I had a really interesting conversation with a friend earlier today about how we get so used to seeing a certain side of someone that seeing them in a new light can throw you. I recently discovered the secret blog of a friend (because they wanted me to) and am still working through seeing the weaker side of someone I always viewed as this pillar of confidence. Even the very friend I was having this conversation with has managed his own shock and awe campaign when I saw pictures of him with a couple of different girlfriends. Even as open as I am on this blog, I have secrets and sides that only come out around certain people. Discovering different sides of people keeps life interesting. I guess it's the spy in me that yearns for this new information and the stuff that keep friendships fresh.

Waiting in the age of technology

Waiting for a guy to email is just as bad as waiting by the phone for him to call. No matter how many times you hit refresh you aren't going to make him write any faster. For someone with my lack of patience, particularly when it comes to communication, this is pure torture. I've somehow gotten myself into this dual relationship (relationship=friendship) with this guy. There is the anonymous email relationship (he gives great email when he writes) and the let's hang out/be friends relationship. He is unaware that this seemingly split personality is just me. I feel like general sending my troops to fight on two different fronts, and I want both my fronts to do good. At the moment, the face to face relationship is slowly progressing, while my online persona has been waiting 5 days for his next email. So, I pine away in front of my computer waiting for that next email to brighten my day. It's the new face of pathetic.

What is seldom is wonderful

The title of this post is an old Irish proverb whose depth really weighs on me. I read it and immediately know exactly where it comes from. Think of all of the things you really love or enjoy that you only experience infrequently. How much more wonderful are they when you do get to experience them? It's like waiting for an email from a friend who you don't correspond with all the time. Opening that email is a moment of bliss. Isn't chocolate better when you don't have it every day? I cherish my time more with people I don't see all the time thereby making even the most mundane seem wonderful. You can punch holes in this proverb (rarely get sick but that doesn't make getting sick wonderful), but it's so much sweeter to accept it simplistically. Since day 16 in This Book Will Change Your Life Again (sidebar) is all about testing a proverb, I'm going to spend today experiencing the wonderful by revisiting some of the things I love that I seldom get/see.

Black Rogue Bunnies: Too Smart for Their Own Good

The Black Rebel Bunnies (BRB, aka us) braved the elements this afternoon
to compete in the DC Spy Game. After rapidly solving the first clue to
determine the start location and time, we knew we had this competition
in the bag. Who better to win a competition than the world's biggest
Alias fans and stars of their very own spy movie. Little did we know
going in that we were too smart for this competition. So smart, in
fact, that we came in last place. So smart that the organizers kept
calling us practically begging us to give up with their voices, tired of
waiting for us to finish. Yes, the clues were hard (seriously), but the
real problem is that we thought too much about the clues. We didn't get
the clues until we dumbed ourselves down...see, too smart for the
competition. Regardless of the outcome, we had a blast almost getting
blown away at the Washington Monument (again seriously), willing the
rain not to come and cursing a detour to the National Gallery. Good
times that ended with good food and now a comfy bed. And Ravenchase,
prepare yourselves because BRB will be back and we will dominate.
Serena

The popular conundrum

According to the book of Benrik (sidebar), today is Mainstream Day. What better day than today to post on my aversion to most things popular*. When things (books, movies, music, clothes) enter into that phase where everyone just has to have it, I begin to get annoyed with the very existence of the object in question. The Da Vinci Code, for example, was an entertaining enough book, but the thought of millions of people signing up to join the cult of Dan Brown and worship at the altar of his stories makes me want to wretch. It most assuredly makes me want to avoid it like the plague. The Oprah effect is also part of the problem. I have no issue with Oprah, but I do find it a bit mind blowing. Take Oprah's latest book club pick, A Million Little Pieces. It was on my list of books to read when it first came out, but I just never got around to it. Because of Oprah every soccer mom, ritalin-popping wannabe is reading the book. Now, despite the fact I've heard he is a brilliant writer, I'm hesitant to pick up the book. In my mind, I recognize that insane popularity doesn't directly translate to complete and utter crap, but moving past that hurdle is difficult. This isn't a new phenominon with me. I was one of two girls during my freshman year of high school that truly hated New Kids on the Block. No shirts, buttons, dolls or cds for me. I guess the question I'm left asking myself is whether I can reconcile my intense dislike of mainstream popularity with a genuine interest in something that makes it big.

*Don't think of me as one of those people who thinks they're so cutting edge or too cool to like something everyone else likes. That's not where I'm going here. I just don't want to be a drone.

Beep-Beep...ahhh

I'm willing my way to a better week and a much more chipper mood. I'm actually getting a little excited for Saturday's Spy Game (now if we can all just get registered). Solving clues and going on a chase throughout DC, pretending to be someone I'm not...what could be more fun? One thing I have learned about myself over the years is that, while Monopoly or Go Fish may not be my games, I do love me some random, wacky fun. I like adventure or at least the semblance of adventure. There is a time and place for movies (big fan), but give me a choice between that and something random like making a movie or go to the DC High Heel Race and I'll choose the more random option almost every time. What's the most adventurous/random fun you've had? Send me your ideas!

e-therapy

I love the therapy aspect of a blog. Maybe I'm taking it a bit too far when I pour rants and raves, heart and soul online for whomever to read. I don't believe that, though. I take an odd comfort in reading about the emotional ups and downs of my fellow bloggers. It's not that I'm glad everyone's life is as dramatic, happy or often as boring as mine; it's just that knowing people are out there thinking the same things I think and fighting the same fight I fight really does make this world seem smaller. It's like giant group e-therapy, and I love it.

The food of Elvis

Do you ever go to a place and look around, wanting to automatically make it yours? The people you see there are the kind of people you automatically want to make friends with and have in your inner circle? Last night I joined a friend at Busboys and Poets and felt that vibe. It's one of those places where you want to belong. Walking in, the creative energy of the place rolls over you. I wanted to paint, to blog, to design. It was that life I wanted to live and those people I wanted to know. Hanging out in the city always makes me starry eyed. In the city, the creativity is a palpable , organic thing. In Fairfax, the fair suburban isle I call home, you have to stumble across creativity, peeling back layer upon layer of mass appeal. Thank God I've stumbled upon a few kindred spirits out in Virginia that make it ok to call it home for now.

Am I really that lame?

The short answer is yes. Why, you ask? My most recent Netflix arrived today and with it came Darrin's Dance Grooves. That's right. I basically order white people can't dance 101. I should be disturbed with myself, but it just looks too hilarious not to try. I've been obsessed with dancing for awhile now and dance movies are my absolute favorite (the only dvds I'll actually allow myself to purchase). Dirty Dancing was my all-time favorite movie as a kid and still ranks rather high. Back to Darrin's, I figure the dvd will serve a good warm up to the dance class I'm making some friends take with me next week (they don't know this yet..shhh). Plus, I'm all about a chance to laugh at myself.

The conundrum

Like everyone and their mother out in blogland, it seems I'm facing some kind of New Year's Eve (NYE) conundrum. Let's just say that I'm a New Year's virgin. Obviously, I've experienced the passage from old year to new (hell...30 of them), but I have never actually celebrated by going out and surrounding myself with others. Let me repeat myself just to make sure we're on the same page...n.e.v.e.r. During my formative years, I would watch the apple drop in New York on the TV from the comfort of the parental abode. My mom would flip back and forth between celebration shows, and I would fantisize about partying the night away at one of those clubs when I got older. I would wear a dress that shimmied when I shook my ass and have some tall, dark man to shimmy with. Well, I did get older and somehow just forgot to celebrate on NYE. I think all of the societal brouhaha about it needing to be some stupendous night caused me to go into hiding. I don't respond well to pressure like that. I fell into another tradition once I moved to Virginia. Watch Night service at church. This year I've decided no hiding at home, no hiding at church (not that I was hiding)! Societal pressure be damned. We're popping this NYE cherry because this girl is going out!

This place is a prison

I just picked the dj for my wedding. Confused? No need to worry. I didn't get engaged, meet Mr. Right, go on a date, or even manage to respond to a booty call. The sad fact is that in some things I am a typical girl (much to my consternation). I see white dresses and think that that's how I'd like my wedding dress to look. I drive by a beautiful spot near water and imagine a simple barefoot ceremony. And, today, I realized what awesome mix cds Scarlet makes and decided she would make the perfect dj for the event.

I would be curious to see if any scientific studies have been done to identify the gene that causes us to even think about things like weddings in this way. I refuse to believe that I am so easy to program that your average socialization has done this to me.

Laughter...the new way to healing?

Having more free time on my hands than I normally do this holiday weekend, I also took in my fair share of TV. In addition to realizing what complete crap most shows are (and the true brilliance of some), I found myself watching a bit of Comedy Central's Last Laugh on Christmas Day. I have to profess that this wasn't really of my own doing, since I'm not one of those girls who can just sit down and watch stand-up comedy. To be honest, I find many of them crass and my PC (aka political correctness) alarm clangs so loudly that my head follows suit. However, I was a guest on Christmas Day and decided I could sit through a little Comedy Central in exchange for being able to finish watching Elf. I found myself bothered at the insensitivity of the Katrina jokes and was working hard on not getting Serena when things shifted. Carlos Mencia took the stage, and I had one of those wacky moments of clarity when you begin to view the world just a little differently. Yes, comedians are a crass bunch that say things most of us would never say. I even think there are some shitty comics out there who are just mean, bitter people. However, what if some of those comedians are leading a new fight to make this a better place. Instead of hiding behind their principles or something far worse, they are out there shining a social spotlight on some of the problems in this country and trying to make it funny, so it's easier for us to swallow. Musicians have been doing it for years. Maybe now comedians are the new vehicle for rallying the people.

Knitta

How can I not blog about this?! It's like I found yet another creative mecca. Knitta is a small band (~2) of knitters who started turning all of their unfinished projects into graffiti. The Houston Press recently wrote an intriguing piece, Knitta, Please, on the weekend exploits of these two women, and I got absolutely giddy just reading it. To truly get my giddiness, you have to get my obsession with graffiti, my sporadic knitting and my penchant for random, wacky fun. These women (young mothers) do a little tagging, grab a beer and head home to the fam. Oh...and they document their work with photos!

They leave their mark with calling cards that say things like "knitta, please" and "whaddup knitta". The only message they seem to be driving home is fun and creativity, maybe the desire to encourage all of us to think outside-the-box when it comes to art. Who knew fellow Texans could be so cool?

Anyone up for a little random tagging up in NVA?

Holiday scuttlebutt

Rumor has it I had a good time last night. Let's examine the facts:
* Coffee @ Jamie's General Bean: good coffee, friendly people, talking with Scarlet about good first kisses
* Red Robin: honey mustard, water, stories
* Steven's apartment: mistletoe, boxers, Gilmore Girls, Elvis, calendars
Rumor status: True

Seasons change; should scene changes be more frequent

I definitely don't consider myself someone who is "of the scene". Hell,
I don't even know what a scenester is and, if I could even fathom a
definition, would probably get it wrong. I am decidedly uncool and am
alright with that most of the time. That said, I did come to the
realization that I need different bar scenes depending on how social I'm
feeling.

My all-time favorite bar scene is the cozy bar. This is the dark, yet
well-lit bar with comfortable couches and potentially a fireplace. The
comfortable bar is where you can easily kick back with friends for a
drink and talk the night away. One of my favorite comfortable bars in
DC used to be Ozio.

Then there's the music bar where you can go to hear the really good (or
passably good) live music. Maybe you'll meet someone, maybe you'll
socialize but you're really there for the music. I actually can't think
of any places like this in DC that I favor. There's a place in
Georgetown that isn't bad, and I supppose the Black Cat could be this
place (just haven't been there enough). 9:30 club I don't consider a
bar.

Lately, I've been trying to make a swank place called Blue Gin (a new DC
place we all love) into one of those bars where you go to meet people.
Last night I came to the conclusion last night that, for all its
coolness, it wasn't that kind of place and couldn't be made into one. I
love dancing on its tiny dance floor and like the atmosphere, but it is
a place for couples and cliques. Even if you wanted to go there in an
attempt to meet men, you'd find the men decidedly stuffy (it is
Georgetown). Budding young politicians looking for their first
stay-at-home.

I honestly don't believe you can really "meet someone" in a bar, but
sometimes it's just nice to talk to new people. Not that we're on a
quest, but I continue to keep my eyes open for a place to hang that
doesn't turn my stomach or make me feel like I'm in some covert episode
of America's Next Top Model.
Serena

Free the elves

Holidays usually bring about time for reflection, at least they usually
do for me. This year, however, I've just bopped merrily along with nary
a pause for that deep, introspective thought. Even now, I just tried to
get worked into a frenzy about some injustice but couldn't quite manage
it. My mind just bounced back to thoughts of peppermint and holiday
balls. Because of the bad weather we're having the homeless people's
place on the sidewalk has been decimated. I registered it. It saddened
me, but I didn't come close to shedding the tear I might have in the
nonholiday season. Does internal happiness sometimes work as a shot of
immunity against noticing the wrongs of the world? Am I *too* happy to
let in a little grey? Hope not.
Serena

Baby, it's fucking cold outside

As much as I love this cold weather, standing out in the cold waiting on
a bus destined to be late just about kills this Texan. You can't laugh
off the experience riding the bus gives. I've done local buses, county
buses, commuter buses and even Greyhound to Texas. No matter the bus,
day or time, you are most assuredly guaranteed to meet some interesting
characters. Today, for example, I am joined by a girl who insists on
carrying on a cell conversation at decibals even the dead can hear. To
make matters more interesting, she's spent the last 10 minutes trying to
convince, what I can only assume to be her boyfriend, to pierce his
balls. I've met convicts, loons, excons who watched over me...all these
people on the bus. On my last trip home, I befriended a group of thugs
in back. Hell, I figure if something goes down I figure I wanted those
guys on my side.

Moral of the story: I recommend that any writer looking for ideas just
hop on a bus.
Serena

The merriment continues

Someone seriously needs to slap the Christmas spirit out of me. If the
leapings on my inside were visible on the outside, I would get on more
than my fair share of nerves. Some things that have kept me joyful:

*chocolate mint candy canes
*decorating Steven's Christmas tree while listening to Christmas cds
*decorating stockings
*having the makings for "real" eggnog
*cold weather and snow on the ground
*finding Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas on dvd
*colorful holiday balls
*cookie swap
*craft projects
*knowing what to get most everyone
*Christmas lights
*kissing balls (screw mistletoe)
--radicalflower

Mistletoe, snow & hot cocoa

It's not the best picture I've taken, but it does sort of encapsulate the internal stirrings of Christmas merriment I've been feeling. I'm giddy with holiday cheer and will probably explode before it's over because I don't have time to EXPEND any of it. I've been creating a mental list of everything I need to get done before December 23rd. I need to make time to put it in writing because I know I'm going to forget things and am really worried about forgetting people. It doesn't help that I feel all this creative energy and want to make a lot of my Christmas gifts (time keeps on ticking). I'm not even going to 98% of the holiday parties/open houses that have come across my desk. Maybe if I promise to put together a December to-do (including a list of who I'm giving a gift to and what they get) list before my head hits the pillow, then I'll be more apt to do it. Until then, ponder my HOLIDAY PHOTO CONTEST. What, pray tell, do I want? I want gorgeous, tacky, understated, over-the-top photos of holiday lights! Email them to me by noon on Monday, December 19th.

Holiday stress is so much more fun than regular stress!

Something of my own

Closing by yourself in the music department (me:last night:Barn) tends to allow time for introspection or at least a more random thought life. As I was flipping through the cds, thinking of ones I wanted to buy, I began thinking back to the music that has been in my life. Almost every group I have listened to for the past 15-17 years has been at the influence of someone in my life. I listened to Garth Brooks in high school because David loved Garth and I liked David. In my early 20s I listened to a lot of jazz and broadway because that's what Michael listened to. My gospel and R&B taste came from the current roommate. Even now, the indie-punk-whatever bands are at the influence of Scarlet and Allie. While I like all of this music (past and present), even love some of it, I started questioning whether or not I truly had taste or an opinion of my own. I got to thinking about the movie, Runaway Bride, with Julia Roberts. In it, Richard Gere calls attention to the fact that Julia doesn't even know how she likes her eggs cooked. For most of her adult life she has eaten her eggs the way her current man had been eating his. I felt like that was me with music. In my adult/young adult life, had I ever come to a band on my own?

It didn't take me long to realize that I had come about one of my favorite bands on my own. Smashing Pumpkins is all mine. I found them and loved them all on my own without anyone I knew even knowing who they were. I actually remember (seriously) shopping in Hastings Books & Music for a cd for my brother when I spied a cd by some group called the Smashing Pumpkins. Siamese Dream was the first of their cds I purchased that day. I had never heard of it nor them (San Angelo, TX...not well known for its music scene) but made the purchase like I do many of the things that I buy. They had an interesting name and an attention-grabbing cover, so it was mine. I considered giving it to my brother, but after that first listen, I knew I'd have to go out shopping again. I didn't stop at Siamese Dream and have owned many of their cds over the years. They were even my first rock concert. I watched Billy Corgan get pissed at a lame Texas crowd that kept throwing trash on the stage, lecturing the crowd and ending the show early. The point of this is that by the end of the night I felt ok about this. I do know how I like my eggs cooked, and I'll always have the Pumpkins.

An apple a day

Isn't it odd how forces sometimes coalesce around certain issues in your life, seeming to dare you to respond? Who am I to argue with fate?

I consider myself a plebian. I come from plebian stock and hope to remain in touch with my plebian roots throughout my entire life. I hope to raise children who carry a plebian mindset with them in all they do. I never want to be mistaken for an elitist or someone who isn't willing
to work for something. Why the rambling? I got sucked into a debate today on the merits of a private school education versus a public school education. For those of you who don't know me very well, let me state that education is one of my "hot button" issues (hot button issue=an
issue I care deeply about and will cause me pull out the nearest soapbox). The conversation itself was fairly innocuous because I was speaking with a like-minded individual. However, it did bring years of resentment toward the education system to the forefront of my mind.

I am continually amazed at the politicization of our education system and how it has turned into a battle of the haves versus the havenots. (I'm going to oversimplify here because I'm a lazy blogger.) Take public school versus private school for example. Generally (remember I'm generalizing here and realize there are exceptions to this), people who have the means are the only ones able to send their children to private school. Private schools have, in fact, been referred to as training grounds for the new elite and are becoming widespread enough to cause me to wonder whether our government and its people have given up on public school. If mainly those with means can send their kids to private school and the government is investing less in public school, then where does this leave public school children? Public schools, particularly in lower income school districts, get treated like second class citizens. I speak from experience on this issue, having gone to school on "the wrong side of town". My high school lacked in so many of the opportunities afforded the high school on the other side of town. I hadn't even heard of AP tests until I graduated college.

It's not just about public versus private education. It's also about the general dumbing down of our kids. Teaching to standardized tests is not teaching. Allowing any Suzy Sixpack to educate her kids at home is not teaching. Assuming your kid deserves a higher grade than they got or deserved is not helping their education. I'm not just pulling these things out of thin air. I have witnessed this myself or have seen friends who are teachers go through it.

I am so not done with post but should stop before it becomes a manifesto. Let's just say that if we can't effing teach our kids (ALL kids) then what are we coming to?

I *heart* art

I love art. Simplistic, complicated, beautiful, obtuse, paint, photography, illustration, graphic design, music, the written word...love it all. I spent the last few hours of my evening flipping
through one of my old issues of Look-Look magazine, a publication aimed at promoting the work of young artists in a variety of mediums. The emotion and creativity displayed by those with little formal training always blows my mind. It makes me want to drink wine, put on a good cd
and create something. Some people want to bring forth life in the form of children; I want to give life to art of some kind. I have a hard time choosing a favorite artistic medium, but the flexibility of photography amazes me. I guess the point of this post (other than the rambling it has afforded me) is urge you to check out one of my favorite photographers. Go to Scarlet's online photo montage, and let your jealousy build looking at her photos. Start with her 'favorites' folder...you won't regret it.