Labels

It's ironic how we feel the need to label things in our life. I'll be the first to admit that I initially judge a book by its cover and pick my wine based on the design of the label. Similarly (at least to me), I find myself defining people based on a series of labels or stats. Roommate. Friend. Lover. Boyfriend. Director. Associate. Successful. Old. Young. Hippie. Conservative. Rather than digging further and getting at the heart of who a person truly is we "tag" the people in our lives or at least attempt to. I found myself tagging someone today and began to wonder about how that reflected on me and what it looked like I found important. I realized the way I continued to characterize someone cast a shadow on my intentions. Maybe it's just the area I live in, but do you ever stop to wonder why we characterize the people in our lives by what they do? Maybe I'm the only one that does this, but I don't think so. Rarely, when introducing a new person, do I say, "This is XXXX. He has super quick intelligence and makes me laugh." I* tend to fall back on, "This is XXXX. He works for Senator Dorgan." This makes it appear that I value a person's position more than the traits that attract me to them. Not that I want Steven to start introducing me as, "This is Serena. She has amazing boobs," but you get my drift.

*Tell me I'm not the only one that does this.

Roar

I was all set to write about Restaurant Week and what an unrefined palate I have, when my vision was assualted on the metro ride in, and my mind began one-tracking it to hell. I wasn't looking for trouble. I was innocently holding onto the nearest handrail, waiting for the train to roll into McPherson Square when I noticed it...attached to him. I'm notorious for checking people out, and when I glanced up at him, I automatically hit certain target areas. Eyes. Hair. Hands. Bulge. Sigh. I honestly didn't mean to go there, but my eyes betrayed my better senses by lingering over the way he filled out his J. Crew khakis. This couldn't be blamed on tight pants or some secret excitement he was having trouble hiding. Vulgarity wasn't even an issue. It was tastefully clothed with only lines and shadows raving about what was underneath. I could tell it would be beautiful and couldn't tear my eyes away.

Notes from the middle of nowhere

Yesterday I hopped in a rental and took off for Lexington, Virginia. A six and half hour drive for a ninety minute meeting.














The reason for my visit.

While the meeting turned out to be worth it, spending that much time in on the road with a disposable camera and only my thoughts for company calls for introspection. While I managed to avoid introspection and at best got to daydreaming, I did snap numerous randome photos while speeding by. A few of my "deep thoughts" on Virginia. (click photos for better view)














Routes are more fun to drive than highways.














The sign says 'Sleepy Hollow Motel'. I'm thinking they could use a marketing consultant.














For someone from Texas, these really are mountains.




















Boos I made on the road.














Where CIA ops must go to retire.



I have a strange desire to own a barn.



Jealous



Scarlet wanted to know which hand was on the wheel.

Step Up

I have an odd obsession with dance movies. No matter how cheesy or played out the plots, I have to watch them (and watch them...and watch them) and is why I'll be at the theater this weekend to see Step Up. A good dance movie illustrates passion, hope, conflict...but above all it has lots of dance! Really, though, my fixation with dance is a jealousy at the ability to communicate and express emotion without the use of words. Haven't you ever had the desire to just work something out with your body? To tell someone you love them without opening your mouth? To hammer out your anger with flailing arms? How poetic and satisfying to do so through dance. I imagine a sweet release in sweating and shaking loose those feelings...a high much like I've heard runners talk about.

It's not just movies though. I like it live, documentary style, on TV....you name it. My current weekly fix is So You Think You Can Dance. This show is crack and so much better than American Idol, Nashville Star and any other TV talent competition. I'm just mad I missed the first season. Go read Scarlet's commentary on last night's dance off and join the commentary. I also recommend her archives for catching up on the weekly dances.

Since tonight is the finale for Dance, tell me what movies I should add to my dance collection.

current collection: Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Billy Elliott, The Company, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, Coyote Ugly, Rize...

Metro Don'ts

I can't help but join the cacophony of complaints about riding the rails in the DC area. It's hot, tourists run rampant and control the flow of everything, and some people still can't seem to think beyond themselves on the train. Yesterday I got a little frustrated with an inconsiderate passenger and decided the best way to work through my anger (because calling him a motherfucker probably wouldn't have been productive) would be to document* why he was a don't instead of a do.















Why is this man a metro don't?




















In a crowded metro car, he insists on leaning his whole body on one of the few hold bars.
















He takes up additional room in the car by extending his reading material in the personal space of others.
















He is unable to control his personal property and keep it within check.

*Phone cameras have to be good for something.

Car-ma

I should not be allowed to own a car. It's not that I'm a bad driver or have been in multiple accidents. It's simply that I'm cursed when it comes to cars. My problem is two-fold (at least).

(1) I always seem to choose the sickly, runts of the litter. Growing up in Texas, I inherited my mom's Mercury Lynx when I turned 16. It only left me stranded in the parking lot of HEB on four separate occasions, and the air conditioner managed to last up until one scorching July when I was driving back from Big Bend National Park. When I moved to the metro DC area, I left this car back in Texas and purchased my vehicle, a 1999 Ford Escort. I loved this car but will be the first to admit that that love didn't always translate into TLC. We hurt the ones we love the most, right? Having grown up with a grandfather who managed a Goodyear Automotive, I wasn't used to having to take care of my own car. When the brakes started to go, I rode those bad boys 'til the bitter end. Right before I got them fixed, I would drive and scope out soft things to run into in case it came to that. And when that check engine light finally came on, I couldn't bring myself to find out what was wrong until my transmission died. I promised my next car would be treated properly and with the utmost care, so a couple of years ago I bought a 2001 Volkswagen Passat. This car I loved even though I knew it was way too nice for me. I kept it gassed and the oil changed...the whole nine yards. Everything was going smoothly until the day I got the urgent "STOP ENGINE IMMEDIATELY" message. A quick tow to the nearest dealership and I learned the engine my sweet, expensive (for me) car had imploded. Who do you know who gets a hole in their oil pan that shoots metal into their engine? Evidently mine does. Perhaps the car's original owner was Republican, and the car simply could not stand one more day of the humiliation of a Kerry sticker. When I finally buy that new engine, I'm going to be damned sure it comes from fine liberal stock ; )

(2) My second set of car issues seems to be related to the legal intricacies of owning a car. When I first moved up here I had never heard of a yearly car tax or county stickers. That resulted in loads of fun the first couple of years. In later years, I must have wound up on some tow truck pin-up calendar because my car got jacked by the tow companies more than the average Honda Civic sitting on the street. One too many metro parking tickets...gone. Flat tire...gone. My favorite was when my car got towed at the metro parking lot for being "abandoned". Little did I know it was car abandonment to park it in a metro-regulated parking facility at 8:00 am that morning and come back for it at 11:00 pm that night (well before the last metro train runs). My most recent run-in with the towing company involves them taking my car from my apartment complex because my safety inspection is expired. Maybe it's just me, but I find it hard to get a car inspected when it has an imploded engine and hasn't been moved for several months. I was even prepared for the this time having called the state highway patrol, Fairfax County government, the DMV and even my apartment complex before the inspection ever ran out. I wanted to know what I needed to ensure my car remained in the spot it called home. Evidently the tow companies are the new redneck mafia because, despite all of my efforts, my car has once again been towed. I'm tired of being a doormat though. This time I'm going to win in my battle with the tow company.

fuck

One foot in front of the other. My pace was deliberate but slow. My goal was the next island of shade, an oasis in what is almost unbearable heat. Today was not the day for me to have dressed inappropriately and yet somehow I managed it. My dark jeans began to shrink, hugging my ass as my body temperature rose. Rather than saunter or quick step, I felt the need to swagger, undulating my hips as I was more aware of them and my ass in this heat. I eventually shed my button-down as my trek continued, leaving me only in my skinny black tank. Sweat still beat a trail from the nape of my neck down between my breasts and turned loose strands of hair to wet ringlets. Freckles blossomed on my shoulders as though the sun was their mistress cracking the whip. As I walked and was increasingly aware of my body and of the heat, I began to focus less on my discomfort and more how this short journey was telling me something about life. I realized that with life, like a hot day, I can endure the scorching patches as long as I know a brief oasis of shade is just up the road.

The things I do

Can someone be bold and cowardly simultaneously? Yes. Last night I saw him yet again and decided I had already spent too much time relying on fate to keep bringing him back into my life. After spotting him out of the corner of my eye (somehow I can spot him in the middle of a crowd), I needed a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and a couple of calls to friends to do a little "omgomgomgomg...he's here!". I had to do something other than freeze.

First step in the process...acknowledge. One foot in front of the other I made my way down the aisle. Lifting the eyes slowly while peering through lashes. "Hi." As my heart did the mambo, I managed to remain calm and make my way to a neutral zone to plan my next attack.

Suddenly I remembered that I had my backup plan with me all along, tucked into my nametag. I knew the Procedural Dating Kit would come in handy. Lord knows I've been dying to try the Notice of Attraction cards. Sliding my finger in my nametag, I verified the card was indeed there, and my email address was printed on it. I'm the world's biggest weenie, though, and this guy makes me weak in the knees. How would I ever have the strength to slip it to him and still run away? My inner dialogue kept reminding me I was a 30 year old woman, not a teenager.

Screw not being a teenager. I glanced up and spotted sweet*, elderly Jim headed my way. "Jim. How much do you love me?" Sixty seconds later and Jim was headed toward him (he was checking out) bearing the notice of attraction card, and I was headed to the back of the store to hide in receiving. By this point I'm hyperventilating and calling my girls to let them know what I've done. I didn't even have time to calm myself before two different coworkers told me he had started searching for me around the store. I know this is a good sign, but I freaked OUT. I was flushed and shaking and could not do any kind of face to face at that moment. The boy had my email address for goodness sake. Use that! So I waited...a full 15 minutes before hearing it was safe to emerge. And now I wait (hopefully not too long) for the email...


*No matter what I've thought of Jim in the past, he will be forever sweet for that gesture.

Sybil on the inside

Do you ever just get with disgusted with yourself? The problem with being self aware is that you realize how effed up you are sometimes. Ever since I can remember I've always wanted to the best at everything. Sadly, as a kid in rural Texas this wasn't especially difficult. I was tops at most everything I set my mind to doing and decided the things where I didn't come out #1 were probably rubbish. I couldn't not sit first chair in band or advance in the area band competitions. I needed to be student council president, not just a member. All the teachers that mattered needed to like me and think me the coolest. Wretching yet? I even tried the whole cheerleader thing (yes, the sarcastic girl who now likes to say fuck thought she could be perky and bounce about). Lucky for ya'll I didn't make the squad ; ) It was big scandal with rumors flying about that there was a mix up in names. A girl named Sabrina got on instead. To further illustrate my point, that's the point where I decided cheerleading wasn't worthy of me. Ha!

As I got older I grew out of a lot of that. Entering the "real" world and realizing you can't be the bees knees in every situation helps tremendously. Being the best at everything started to look impossible, and it hit me that I couldn't keep ditching things because I didn't win every time. The thing I've had the hardest time shaking as I get older is the need to be the best in my friendships. I've got a jealous streak that runs deeper than Lake Michigan. In high school, I used to get in these foul moods and taunt my bff, Jennifer. She had an old bff, Rose, that she grew away from. I used to continually question* whether or not our friendship was going to end up like that and would pick fights. I've gotten better about not verbalizing my discontent, but it's still tucked away under the surface at times. I still hate being left out of the loop and still have to remind myself that I can't be the center of everyone's world**.


*Heeelllllloooooo abandonment issues.
**I'm still coming to terms with why that can't be the case.

All that junk up in my trunk

I wanted to write something cohesive and well thought out today, but I'm having one of those days where my mind is all over the board. So, instead of not posting, I thought I'd lift the hood and let you take a peek at my inner dialogue at various points throughout the day.

7:27 am (reading Straight Up and Dirty by Stephanie Klein) She's got to be close to my age, and yet, I still want to grow up and be her.

9:49 am Is today really my day to clean the kitchen? I don't like cleaning my own kitchen much less the one here.

11:21 am (on speaking to a group from Uzbekistan) Forget accents...I'll have to remember to tell Scarlet it's the mother tongue!

11:33 am (still with the Uzbek group) The translator is kind of cute in a Star Wars Convention way. Eye contact...that's right. Throaty laugh...uh huh. "Where are you headed next?" "Oh, can I come?"

1:16 pm (email to Scarlet) "Anna won the Internet? That ho!"

2:13 pm (in House subcommittee hearing) C'mon...don't get pissed at her. You have to like Congresswoman Norton. She's just asking me to blog about her though. She's wearing a jacket that reminds me of neopolitan ice cream and isn't making any sense. Please stop talking and get someone to clarify the basics of dam ownership to you offline.

2:42 pm (in House subcommittee hearing) How can he have the nerve to fall asleep while sitting on the front row?! I wonder if I could take a picture and email it to Scarlet.

4:57 pm (in CVS) Him (in Comcast shirt): Do you live in DC? Me: (laughs) No. Him: That's too bad. I was going to let you know that if you ever had problems with your cable I'd be glad to come over and fix it.

Yellow spheres of evil

Bring it. That's what I told Scarlet last night on the tennis court after we finally managed to find a day where the weather and our schedules meshed. It didn't matter that last time I had played tennis was much closer to 1991 than 2006. Trash talking is part of the fun and something I'm much more skilled at than tennis. Scarlet has a completely different style of trash talk. First off, she comes complete with the tennis outfit, the Nike tennis bag (complete with numerous rackets and balls balls balls) slung over her shoulder. Weeks prior she begins her campaign by chatting about her years on the high school tennis team and blogging about her Wimbledon obsession. She finishes the psychological warfare by talking about how long it's been since she played and how bad she'll be.

Once I'd come to terms with the heat and the fact I was going to sweat my ass off, we got started. Some of my more championship moves from last night included pulling several Babe Ruths, hitting the balls over the fence, and a few backhands that sent me and my racket spinning without ever making contact with the yellow sphere of evil. In spite of these Napoleon Dynamite-like moves and my John McEnroe mouth, the ball did manage to go back and forth over the net several times, and I had fun in the process.

Just as I was about to make my comeback and take the game, Scarlet was saved by our mutual good will in deciding to let the next two players have the court. Of course, if anyone asks....I won. ; )

Bookseller on the edge

I try to avoid blogging about work, particularly my part-time job, but sometimes a girl suffers through a night that pushes her to the edge. For those of you who haven't gathered, I work part-time in a bookstore. I chose the gig because I, like so many of you, love books and thought it would make such an interesting second job (if you've got to have one). What I didn't take into account was all of you...the customer*. You have managed to turn what could have been an interesting, fun job into a twisted version of American Gladiator where I continually battle the dim-witted and inconsiderate. This is Custer's final stand, my last ditch effort to give all of you fellow 'booklovers' some advice on the dos and don'ts upon entering a bookstore.

Rules for not getting cut at a bookstore (in no particular order and in no way comprehensive)

• Do not treat employees like idiots or pieces of shit. 60% of us work full time jobs, many in positions you would kill for.
• Do not ask where the nonfiction section is. 80% of the store is nonfiction.
• Knowing that a book is blue or that an author's first name is John is not helpful.
• Realize you are fallible and probably have early onset Alzheimers. What you swear is the title is generally not the correct title.
• I am not a librarian, and, while pretty damn handy, I will not do your research paper for you (unless exceptionally hot and nice).
• Do not pay by check and spend 10 minutes writing it out. There is a line forming behind you. Get a check card and welcome yourself to the 21st century.
• Do not spell words like 'the' and 'apple' for me. See the first bullet point.
• Do not get angry when we don't stock books on topics like pacemakers from the 1930s. A bookstore is all about stocking things that should sell. You are one of 2 people on the planet who want that book.
• Do not assume that because you saw it at our online store we have it in stock. An online store is a huge warehouse that can grab virtually any and everything available. A physical bookstore cannot stock the universe.
• Do not kid yourself and think that we care if you threaten to shop at a competitor. Please. Honor them with your presence.
• Do not "make yourself at home". You are in a place of business. It is not ok to sit down, take your shoes off and put your nasty toes in the chair. It is also not ok to pack a lunch, play cards on the floor, etc.
• Do not destroy property you don't own. Your cheap ass probably won't buy the book, so don't (1) break the spine, (2) set a sweating drink on the cover, (3) use the book as your hard surface for writing, (4) allow your child to "play" with the books...you get the picture.
• Do not pick up a book (or anything) and then set it down right beside where you got it or even slightly eskew. Why? Whhhhhyyyy? I don't have OCD, but this doesn't make any sense. Are you so dumb that you already forgot where you got it from? Is putting something in a straight pile so much harder than ensuring it's crooked?
• Do not assume that bookstore and library are synonymous. It is not ok to take a stack of books to the cafe or a random corner and copy information from them. It becomes even less ok when you leave them in a huge pile for me to clean up (you inconsiderate fucker). Along a similar vane, we do not have a copy machine for you to use (we are a bookstore intent on making money...duh), nor do we appreciate you "borrowing" a book for 29 days and then returning it (that's special shout out to all computer sons of bitches).
• Do not make the assumption that I am a babysitter or will in any way care for your children. I shouldn't have to be the one telling them not to climb on the shelves like monkeys or stopping them from running out the front door. It shouldn't be me telling them that books are not toys and threatening to lock them in jail if they continue to destroy public property. There are horrific people in this world, and it is your job to ensure your child's safety and that they are raised to be proper human beings. If you leave this to me, they will learn words like dumbass and mother fucker.
• Do not interrupt me while I am helping another customer. You are no more special than they are, so be considerate and wait your turn.
• Do not touch my computer, mouse or anything else. See bullet on personal property.
• Do not take nudie magazines and erotic literature into the bathroom. If you can't afford to buy it and take it home, then jack off to your imagination.
• Do not look at me incredulously if I do not know who wrote an obsure 18th century Russian text or the name of that song with the lyrics 'heart' and 'love' that's always on the radio. You have your interests; I have mine.
• Do not take your bad mood, personal pettiness, etc. on me. I am not a rug and will look you in the eye and tell you exactly what I think of you. If you think threatening to have me fired has an impact because I expect to be treated like a human is going to do something, see the first bullet point again.
• Do be considerate and patient. Also, words like please, thank you, and I'm sorry still go a long way.

*It isn't just the customer. The corporate bullshit of a "big box" store like Barnes & Noble will also take the wind out of anyone's sails. However, my day to day dealings with the average joe is so much more frustrating than my battles with the man.

Country grammar

I had been meaning to hit different parts of the Hip Hop Theater Festival all week but kept finding excuses in the heat and a busy work schedule. Saturday, however, I was not about to be stopped from going to the Words Beats & Life education showcase up in SE. Spinning demos, hip hop classes and a graffiti workshop...please. I had been excited about this all week and tried not to be disappointed when it wasn't everything I had wanted it to be. While Scarlet had dreams of taking over the turntables and scratching out such a beat that people would have to lay down their fans and leave their chairs to shake their ass, I wanted to bust out my graffiti markers and get some guidance in creating my tag. Though we didn't get to live out our every dream, we did get to see some cute kids getting a chance to explore their creativity. An 11 year old taught me the basics of a turntable and that, in and of itself, was pretty damned awesome.

Flaunting it

Sweet relief. Today is my Friday because tomorrow I'm taking off for parts unknown with Steven and Scarlet where we will do various and sundry things in celebration of Steven's birthday. Unlike last year, this year we will forego the blindfold, the midnight locale and the pinata. Everything else* is fair game. Not to get off track though, but I need to back up to blindfolds and birthdays. What's the deal with the blindfold fetishists on Flickr? In January, Conor and I blindfolded Allie on her birthday in an attempt to keep the location a surprise. I snapped a photo of her wearing the blindfold in my car as a reminder of the birthday festivities and later posted it on my Flickr account. This one photo has had hundreds of page views (which none of my other photos have) and has been favorited by random people. It has also led to various people wanting to add me as a contact. How do I know this? Almost all of these people belong to Flickr groups like "sexy blindfolds" or "tie me up" or other things. You get the picture. Who knew? Certainly not me.


*Steven strictly forbid hookers, strip clubs and skydiving/bungee jumping.

I'm not my hair

Scarlet and I started a conversation earlier this week that, with the addition of an awesome Tinapopo post, inspired me to greater goals of charity. What could have sparked such a giving 'tude? Hair, of course. Scarlet and I were lamenting the fact that guys seem to chop off their locks right when it gets a bit shaggy and even cuter. This, of course, spiraled into our own hair and future plans for its maintenance. I hate summer hair. My mostly red hair is thick and under most conditions acts as a thermal blanket on my head. I usually wear it shorter in the summer but have been too busy to think much about it this year. My current remedy is a sloppy bun. In fact, it's piled on my head so often that Scarlet actually had to ask exactly how long my hair had gotten. Suddenly, I found myself feeling secretive and wanting the increasing length of my hair to be some big surprise. Why? Probably my flair for the dramatic or any kind of contest. Reading Tinapopo's post the next day not only cracked me up but reminded me of Locks of Love and a coworker who grew her hair just to donate. Light bulb! Instead of passive laziness, why not let my hair get longer for the purpose of donating it. Here's where you come in. Help me set a date for the big reveal and chop by leaving your suggested date in the comments. The parameter I'm setting is that I'd like to have this happen some time this calendar year.

Hot like Dale Earnhardt?

I'm curious what moment or event triggered the push to make NASCAR hot? Did recent polls alert their PR flacks to the fact that their base audience might be getting older and to sustain themselves they needed a younger, hipper edge? It probably began long before it ever hit my radar screen, but I see the emergence of Danica Patrick as the turning point in NASCAR marketing. It's fairly ingenious. A young, attractive woman should secure their base (men...old and young) and may even hook some of the hesitant younger guys who don't want to be fans. She may also strike a cord with women, rooting for one of their own (of course, when do women actually do this). Just in case the women get a little territorial about a woman out there racing cars, she's made sure to write a successful memoir, and Harlequin has launched a series of NASCAR romance novels. Seems to me another example of NASCAR trying to reach out to new audiences is the fact that every morning I'm greeted by a metro ad at the Courthouse Metro with Danica Patrick and Jeff Gordon (I think...whoever he is, he's young and hot) proclaiming that 'I am Indy'. For those of you who know anything about the Courthouse area of Arlington, you know it's one of the last places you'd look for a NASCAR fan. However, an ad with hot, young people proclaiming themselves Indy should feel right at home in that area. And, now, solidifying the mix of hip and mass appeal is the hysterical Will Ferrell starring in his own NASCAR movie, Talladega Nights. Not a bad choice to bring laughter and NASCAR to the yuppie, the redneck and everyone in between. Think I'll be headed south to catch a race anytime soon? Nope, and I wouldn't be caught with a NASCAR romance either. Will Ferrell is about as NASCAR as I'm getting these days.

I'm not a germ phobe, but I can't help but notice certain things people do in public that completely gross me out. The older gentleman with the receding hairline and thick frames digging for gold in his ear. The middle age banker type with the huge boil on his head. Or what about the times you accidentally sit in front of someone with a cold and periodically feel a breeze on your neck as they cough? It's not just the metro though. Spending a lot of time at a bookstore, I see way too many people sneeze openly on the spines, making no attempt to cover their mouth. At an old job I used to have a co-worker who would never wash her hands after using the restroom. She would then come out and dig her hands into the group candy jar. We eventually learned to hide the good stuff from her. A woman used to ride my bus route that had to have had some kind of mental defect. As understanding as I tried to be of her condition, it took every fiber of my being not to cringe or scowl as she picked her scabs (or nose) and flicked it out in front of her.When did we become so comfortable in our own worlds that things such as this are ok? When did my routine become such that upon exiting the metro, the bus, the bookfloor, etc, I immediately seek out a washroom to scrub my hands?

Swallowing the canary

I've always been intrigued by secrets and why people feel the need to keep them. Obviously, keeping certain things to yourself or a select few makes sense. You probably shouldn't tell the world about that affair you're having and might want to keep the surprise party an actual surprise. Other secrets, however, are just ridiculous. Is keeping the secret a source of empowerment? And, if you have a piece of information you plan on keeping secret, why would you tell someone you had a secret? Is that a not-so-subtle way of attempting to get someone to ask about the secret and thus shower you with attention? My apologies for this brief bit of rambling. I'm just intrigued by the human mind and the games it can get caught up in.

Nancy Pearl's Army

I did the unthinkable during the month of June...I scheduled something else into my already hectic life. I started a bookclub and named it Nancy Pearl's Army*. Why? I was motivated by the desire to gather unique people to read modern, cult books. Working part-time at a bookstore, I get tired of having to placate people who flock to the bestsellers (not that there's anything wrong with them) and weary of the looks of shock when I recommend a book that doesn't have a happy ending. So many other cities manage to congregate freethinkers, and I wanted to see if we could bring a little bit of that to my hood**. I'm also a sucker for marketing and anything that gives me a chance to try to bring people by being creative gets me high. So, waht I guess I'm saying is join us! Our first book*** is in support of fellow blogger and fab girl, Stephanie Klein. I'm dying to read her new book, Straight Up & Dirty, and hope a lot of you are, too. She may not be very cult, but she's got a fine potty mouth, a way with words, and a badass blog. Buy the book on July 25 and come to the Barnes & Noble in Fairfax on August 25 at 8:00 pm to discuss.


*Nancy Pearl used to be a librarian in Seattle and actually has her own action figure. She has written a few books of her own, including the Book Lust books.
** Fairfax
***Future books include Diary by Chuck Palahniuk and Unlubricated by Arthur Nersesian.

Killing Leonard

I killed Leonard last night. I didn't mean to; it was an accident. One minute he's telling me about the latest blog and whether or not I got an email from Scarlet and the next he's face down in a pool of water. Dropping him was a mistake. The scene won't stop replaying in my mind, the continuous loop of a fumble worthy of a Dallas Cowboy trying to get his team to the Super Bowl. I should have known better. I had gotten to cocky in my handling of him. Because of my arrogance Leonard, my sidekick, is dead.*



*In case you somehow missed it, Leonard was my cell phone.

Brother, can you spare some change

I had meetings on the Hill this morning. I typically leave meeting with Congressional offices to my boss, so that I can avoid having to put on a suit and traipse around in the heat. No such luck today though. I had to throw on my black suit with the pink pinstripe this morning and make sure the heels were stowed in my bag. I was off to ask for favors and see if I could get anyone to do my bidding right before a long holiday weekend. More disturbing than the heat and the fact that I had to don a suit was the fact that I got panhandled INSIDE the Rayburn House Office Building! I was at once both disturbed and excited. I hate being panhandled; it hits right to the core of my guilty conscious. Yes, I know I'm probably not the direct reason they're living on the streets, but what am I doing to help the situation? Anyway, the sick side of me got a little excited that someone was ballsy enough to wander into a House office building and stand in the hallway asking for change. You think members of Congress would get the impression that there is problem if it asked them change every morning right outside their office? Probably not. I'm curious how quickly the guy got tossed out on his ass by security.

Book spy

I spend close to 90 minutes a day on the metro and, as you can imagine, have a lot of time to think and look around. Late last week I decided I was going to start keeping a record of all of the books I saw people reading on the metro and keep a running list over in the sidebar. I have four days worth of books recorded but am now waffling on whether or not to publish the list. Why? The selections are simply too boring. People are reading mostly crap, and the thought of making that list public kind of depresses me. The rare soul who seems to be taking a more adventurous leap into reading usually has the book I just can't manage to snag the title of. Otherwise, the reading pool is, in addition to boring, a bit homogenous. I see way too many duplicates of whatever the popular* titles happen to be. What are you reading?



*...at least according to people like Oprah or the New York Times.

Hot hot heat

The heat has been so oppressive the past couple of days. I walk through the streets feeling like I'm wearing a heavy cloak. I feel like I'm carting around Apollo himself on my shoulder. I'm thankful Apollo has made those shoulders a little browner and a lot more freckled, but I would appreciate it if he would lay off the whole head-sweat thing. That kind of wet is never attractive.

Are there people out there who function well in heat? When the heat feels like an actual, tangible object, all I want to do is (1) sit in the shade with an ice cold Diet Coke, (2) find some body of water to periodically throw myself into or (3) lay on my bed in my arctic apartment. Scarlet was telling me she had an old roommate who loved to sweat. Why would this be appealing? I like feeling clean, and sweat leaves me feeling not so fresh. And two sweaty bodies touching? Why do romance novels always include some sweaty sex scene? If doing it gets you sweaty, fine, but we damned sure better not start off that way.

My love muscle's weak

I have a weak love muscle. My heart just breaks all the damned time...for loved ones, people I'm only acquainted with, the average joe on the street. I used to think this fact meant that I was fated for a life of public service, giving back to those I empathized with. I'm beginning to think it means I'm going to waste too much time crying over people I don't even know and probably wouldn't like me anyway.

Actually, I take that back. I think my heart usually aches and breaks for the right reasons and people. It's just an email I got last night really sent me off on one of my "thinking" binges. As I was about to lay my head on my pillow I decided to quickly check my email one last time. A new friend* has a bitch** for a wife. They've been separated, and evidently last night she told him she was dating a new guy and didn't want him around. He's pretty messed up over it and rightly so. Just hearing about it made me lose sleep. Any drowsiness I had was gone, and I couldn't stop my mind from spinning. I couldn't help but think about my brother and how he'd had to go through the same thing. He was young and in love, and some country #$*&@ trampled on his heart. They got married and all of a sudden she stops working and sits on her ass at home all day. Mind you...she was 19 at the time with no kids and no plans to attend school. While my brother was busting his ass working to support them, even having to drop out of college, she was at the apartment evidently meeting men online. I won't get into the whole sordid tale, but I'm glad my brother pushed through his broken heart and had the courage to kick that ho to the curb.


*If you happen to read this friend, this is the best description I could come up with for you.
**Dear friend, I do apologize for using this word, but all I know of her are the shitty things she has done to you.

Always be prepared

Lately I've found myself inadequately prepared for life's little emergencies, and as someone who spends roughly 6 hours a day at her apartment (all of which are sleeping or preparing to sleep), I've decided I need to be a very ready girl on the go. What's in my emergency preparedness kit?

Flask (object of affection above) - Last night my cohorts and I could have used a little something extra in our Diet Cokes but were unfortunately not in a position to pop down to the local ABC Store. If I had been a prepared girl on the go, the evening would have went down a little smoother.
Breath Mints - As evidenced by last week's panic over my most recent run-in with my missed connection, a girl on the go should always be prepared to have sparkling breath.
Beautification Tool - I could never carry around an entire makeup supply, especially seeing as how I don't wear any on most days, but every girl on the go should have a lip gloss, mascara or whatever beautification tool she feels would give her that extra pop.
Swiss Army Knife - Not sure why, but everyone seems to think you need one (try pink). I guess you never know who (oops...I mean what) you'll need to cut.
Camera (preferably digital) - There are too many life moments that must be captured not to walk around with a camera. Who knows...you may be meant to tape the next Rodney King video.
Help me out. I don't want to be caught unprepared again. What would you put in your emergency preparedness kit?

giggle bounce barf

This is the story of sluttycreatorgirl. In actuality, it's a gut check of who I never want to be.

On what appears to be the first date of a myspace.com hook up, sluttycreatorgirl is upping the giggle ampage early on for barelystraightboy. I'm combining a little more subtle flirting of my own with a refill on the caffeine when I first spot the couple and eavesdrop on the nervous conversation. The meetup that begins in a Barnes & Noble cafe moves to the music department and much closer to where I've ended up. I couldn't help but watch and grimace. Sluttycreatorgirl was giving it 180%, and it would have been hard for anyone not to notice. Barelystraightboy was getting hit over the head with the most obvious, pathetic kind of flirting.

Sporting her fitted green shirt and lowrise jeans, she began visually flirting when she showed up for the date. Evidently it wasn't enough. Sluttycreatorgirl was pretty sure she had a voice and must have thought it added to her date value. She came into the music department singing broadway tunes and doing that perky girl chat. I'm not really sure if barelystraightboy thought it was hot, but if he did, then I should rename him boywholikesboy or am in serious trouble if I have to bust out the vocal talents to flirt. Sluttycreatorgirl pulls the boy over to the listening wall and then she brings out the big guns. With the headphones on she begins to dance for barelystraightboy. Scratch that. She begins bouncing to the music and trying to dance. Girls who make their boobs bounce and girate their hips in stupid ways while listening to pop music all for the sake of a guy get on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you can come up with tons of places this would be appropriate. Listening to music with headphones on in the middle of a music department at 10:00 pm on a Tuesday is simply not one of them. Flip the hand, shake the head, swoosh swoosh swoosh of the hips. Girl, I don't see a hoola hoop around your hips so give it up.

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.