Cheryl Tweedy

I've been feeling like being crafty lately but have balked at knitting due to a serious lack of cute yarn. Seriously, the closest places selling yarn to me are Michael's and Wal-Mart who both have such uninspiring selections. Maybe I'm just being picky. My other problem is that I'm ready to learn some new knitting skills but am not feeling patient enough to actually invest the time in acquiring them.

My solution? Try a new craft. Considering it was my first go, I'm pretty pleased with the results. They're supposed to be earring; however, because I made a silly mistake they're really nothing. I didn't put a big enough hole, and it shrunk to virtually nothing. Ah well, lessons learned. The next version will rock!

Getting my 'Thriller' mack on

Well, my need for all things 80s is officially over. Last night I survived the 80s porn-themed birthday party we through for Ravena's big day, and I rocked my outfit like Mary Lou Retton did the parallel bars. I'm officially washing my hands of 80s costumes though because seeing pictures this evening reminded me that (even 20 years later) that decade is not for me. Never again will these red locks be twisted into a side ponytail or will I wear fishnet leggings under a short skirt. I might bring back the bright blue shadow though because it makes my eyes pop.

We pre-gamed it by pulling on a pair of rollerskates and rocking the rink in Manassas. Yes. Rollerskates. The birthday girl requested, and who were we to argue. Walking into the brightly lit rink was a slightly mortifying given that I was wearing something similar to what I might have worn when I first started skating and that we were clearly the oldest people there without children. Once I got my skating legs back, I had a blast. Whipping around the rink and trying to remember how to crossover was sweet. Realizing I still didn't know how to stop was not so sweet. Some of those little kids were also death on wheels. I swear their parents sent them into my path to take me out. Last skate before we left was to Thriller. I almost passed out.

Back at Ravena's place, the more timid souls who wouldn't brave the rink joined us for a bit of revelry. The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, but I want to remember Allie's cupcakes, Ravena's penis shot glass, food fight, pink cigarettes (not), Tice in bunny ears, and the 80s dance party in the living room.

We Only Come Out At Night

Continuing on this '80s track, I've had legwarmers on the brain a lot lately. Until recently (when I went in search of a pair for my project), I saw them everywhere. Sadly, I remember when they were originally* the thing to wear. I legitimized my owning several pair by the fact that I was in ballet at the time. Of course, I did wear them over jeans in addition to over my tights.

Anyway, back to the present day. I determined I needed legwarmers for my project but have been having trouble finding a pair. Yes, I did wait until the last minute but still thought I had enough knitting talent and speed in me to whip up a pair of turquoise legwarmers in a couple of days. What I kept forgetting is that (1) I knit slowly and (2) the available free hours I have on any given day are few and usually after midnight. Add on top of that the fact that I get frustrated when I don't find a pattern I like and was proceeding to design my own pair, and you can pretty much guess the status of my legwarmers.



*At least as far as I know.

What a Feeling

I was looking for a little wardrobe inspiration last night and figured it couldn't hurt to look through old pictures. Flipping through the latest issue of Nylon and other magazines, it's clear that the '80s are back. I lived through the '80s and have an established relationship with the decade. If I had a fashion resume, this ten years of experience would surely get me hired to style the remake of Mannequin, right? We'll let you be the judge.

This is me going away to some kind of camp. Yes, that is a George Michael t-shirt and Umbra shorts.

Note the sky high bangs, blue eyeshadow and rolled jeans.

I'm not sure if I thought I was Tom Cruise. The feathered hair is fierce though.

This has to be my favorite. I look like it's my 50th birthday with that leather skirt, wide belt and shoulder pads of death.

And what would the '80s be without a poufy, gold party dress.

May Angels Lead You In

I picked up a copy of Good Magazine over the weekend and was completely taken in with the content. Reading about Hasan Elahi and his effort to track every minute of his existence was not only intriguing but mind-blowing in a completely paranoid way. Most definitely a victim of profiling in this post-9/11 world, he's turned the need for the Patriot Act on its head and taken blogging your life to the extreme. After reading the piece and learning about how the FBI's keen interest in him led him to start the project, I decided to visit his site. Insane. Using a Terraserver/GoogleMap type thing, he allows us to know exactly where he is at any given moment. He's outside of Houston right now, apparently on an airplane about to leave.

Then, just when my paranoia was getting the better of me, I turned a few pages and discovered a piece on the cameras that track our daily lives. Entitled the Path of Least Surveillance, the piece contends there are thousands of cameras (ATMs, traffic lights, buildings) everywhere that can track us throughout the urban landscape. Evidently iSEE has mapped out routes of least resistance for those interested in navigating the city sidewalks out of the camera's eye. I'm not that paranoid*, but I think it would interesting to walk some of their suggested routes. Or, better yet, why not walk the path with the most cameras and vogue for each and every one as you pass?

*Though every now and then I get this feeling of never being able to escape, hide. Anyway.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress

The metro has turned me into a woman on the edge. The confusion generated yesterday over the Smithsonian station closing would have been laughable had we all not been tired and hot and ready to be home. As I was headed out the door, I heard rumor of backups on the orange and blue lines but also knew I had to risk it anyway. When I got to McPherson Square, it was pandamonium. People coming up the escalator were telling people headed into the station to turn around. Surprisingly the platform wasn't freakishly crowded because so many people were afraid to even pass through the stalls.

No sooner had I made it to my side of the platform when we all noticed the blue line train that should have been on our side pulling into the station on the opposite track. Mass chaos. Everyone racing up the escalator, beating a path to the other side. They must be single-tracking it, right? Would have been too easy to actually make an announcement. Wait. What was that? An announcement about my orange line train coming on the other side just as I made it to the other platform? I pulled my own Amazing Race as I spun around and ran right back up the escalator to the other side in a matter of seconds. Running en masse, a number of us made it onto the orange line train toward Vienna wedged in a corner with bicycle handlebars poking me.

Because I was pressed up against one of the doors, it was my irritated face people saw as the train pulled into their station and they were deciding whether to press their way on. I get really annoyed when people push their way on an already overcrowded train, and last night, I felt like I had some sway in not making our situation worse. Maybe I was just punchy, but I started shaking my head no as we would pull into stations, indicating their was no fucking way any more people could squeeze into our car. I met my match at Rosslyn with a guy who didn't buy my 'no' and forced his way in (and right up against me). So, here I am on a hot, crowded train with the handlebars of a bike in my ass and an older guy in Docs practically pressed against my chest.
We continue to feel like cattle as we pull into Vienna and are forced to make our way up the one escalator open as people coming into the station try to make their way down.

Thinking this morning would surely be better, I got on at my usual stop only to have to listen to two grown men go at it. "Have you got a problem? Is there something you want to say to me?" "I don't have a problem." " I think you have a problem. Have you got a problem?" "It's common courtesy not to stand in front of the train doors." It went on and on and on (for three stops). I was to the point of breaking. Seriously, boys, just pull your dicks out and compare size and get it over with. All I want is to ride to work in a modicum of peace and was on the brink of saying all of this when the train pulled into McPherson Square.

I tell you...a woman on edge.

Where It's At

9:15 on a Sunday evening, and I'm quite literally sucking mocha syrup out of my cell phone. A wild party gone awry?

Grace has never been something that has come to me with ease. I am more ackward and clumsy, less nimble and fluid. Last night was no exception. Eager to get home, I was graciously pitching in at the "Starbucks" at my part-time job by hauling the steel canister of mocha syrup to the back. Karma bit me in the butt because, as I was complaining to someone about another employee, I managed to shift my grip on the canister in such a way that mocha syrup was beating a path into the pocket of my jacket without my even knowing. This would be the same pocket where I keep my phone (re: lifeline).

Experiencing serious flashbacks of the bathtub incident of 2006, my heart sank as I realized syrup had oozed its way into every possible crevice. Leonard* was experiencing its own form of cardiac arrest as it continually restarted itself. Never one to give up, I began CPR, unafraid to put my lips to some of the dangerous areas and attempt to suck mocha out and hopefully life back in to my phone.

For the moment, Leonard is hanging on. His symptoms are much like that of a stroke victim. We have partial paralysis on the right side of his body, so the left side is having to do all of the work. I'm already beginning to dread warmer days when the mocha that has surely hardened inside him decides to melt.

*My phone.

Night Drive

I don't usually blog Gilmore Girls; I leave that to Scarlet*. However, I finally got around to watching Tuesday's episode last night** and felt such a kinship with Lorelai in the most recent episode. I realized that Lorelai and I handle stressful situations in much the same way. Lorelai's opening scenes where she talked of how she had been driving and driving aimlessly all night as a response to splitting with Christopher hit home, and I was immediately reminded of the hours I spent behind the wheel driving to OC all because of a boy and how I needed that thinking time, that me time.

What about the scene with Richard and Emily at the dinner table? Using humor to deflect a difficult situation? Check.

There is also how she deals with a difficult situation. Avoidance is key, but there's also the inevitability in her avoidance. She knows what has to be done and ususally hands it with a certain bravado. A great example is her needing to tell Emily about the split with Christopher.

Now if I could just find Luke...(ha)

*Who, by the way, is in the process of writing Gilmore Girls for Dummies. Stay tuned.
**Yes, I am that lame. I spent my Saturday evening watching Gilmore Girls.

A Million Ways*

Where as Hamlet pondered the iconic to be or not to be, my own recent dilemma is more consumer driven than life altering. To ipod or not to ipod, that is the question. I've actually been on the fence about getting one for a few years now and am really no closer to an answer. I love the idea of having all of my music in such a centralized, portable device. However, I wonder if I'd be a music poser. Some people are naturally meant for an ipod. Music is their life...their passion. The device becomes more a removable extension of their body, an extra appendage.

Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit. Music narrates my life. It makes me walk with a little more spunk and focuses my mind at work. I always have a song in my head and tie music to memories like nobody's business. I also assign songs to the people in my life, songs that remind me of them, songs we loved together, etc. Some people are even made up of entire playlists in my mind.

The thought of being able to tune out the world at a moment's notice is also appealing. On the flip side, though, I sometimes like listening to the world around me. I'm a chronic eavesdropper on public transportation and make up stories for the people around me. Would I lose some of this in becoming a pod person? Would I live more in my memories?

So...to ipod or not to ipod?

*Today's theme song thanks to OkGo and a certain person who recently got assigned this song in my memory bank.

Our Weekend Starts on Wednesday

I'm not Catholic, but every now and then I've given up something for Lent. It's something my church always encouraged, and I thought it sounded like a good idea. This year I've been a bit of a heathen and should probably be giving up quite a bit. When have I ever been good at doing what I'm told to do? I'm obstinate by nature, so this year I figured out a compromise. Armed with a list of five, this year I'll give up one thing and then turn fate on its head by engaging in four more positive activities.

(1) blog every day
(2) flirt every day
(3) touch nothing from the bake case at the Barn
(4) write a letter every day
(5) have a theme song every day*

I reserve the right to add more to this list** at any time during the Lenten season.

*Today's theme song is the title.
**I realize that technically you're not supposed to tell anyone about what your lent thing is, but I think encouragement is a good thing.

Chinatown to Chinatown

Despite having to leap over murky puddles of melted snow and navigate trash piled along the curbs, it was good to be back in New York this weekend. Stepping off the bus in Chinatown and into a street market tosses you right into the different cultures of the city. Navigating the streets with a pink duffle slung over my shoulder looking for a cab to hail just felt right.

Saturday brunch cocktails provided fuel for our trek through Greenwich, Soho and Tribeca. Despite my frumpy coat, we owned the sidewalks and would have been more at home if we had just been able to get Ravena out of the bloody map. She was the slayer of any dreams I had of not looking like a tourist.

Cupcake sluts that we are, we couldn't not stop at The Magnolia Bakery even though it meant waiting in a line that extended down the block. I can't say I'm generally for queueing up for things like food, but whatever. When in Rome, right? Final verdict on the cupcakes? Good, but Cakelove cupcakes (warm) win.

Walking back to the phat apartment Ravena secured for us*, I lusted over $300 vintage rock tees and cowboy boots in What Comes Around Goes Around and cute bags at Le Sport Sac. Realizing how irrational any of those purchases would be, our journey back to the apartment continued as we each plotted our strategy for the evening that lay before us.

What transpired that evening could a post in and of itself, but perhaps that's for another blog. The short of it is that the Peculier Bar turned out to be a good choice for those hunting the male of our species. Brits, loud Air Force guys, long-haired guys with nice eyes tucked into booths across the room...they made the evening worth it. I want to remember the following from that night: the way 'jumper' sounds, weapons of mass destruction, the sound of two glasses shattering, Scottish beer, the "did I ruin your Banana Republic scarf you imperialist bitch?" chick, and being the more sober one that night.

I miss New York already.

*Said apartment makes one more forgiving of tourist-like travesties.

New tricks

My mom has recently discovered email at work, and it's a hilarious and wonderful thing. At her old job, while she was on a computer all day long, they never had access to the internet or even email accounts. At her new job, she has her own office and personal email account, opening up a world of possibilities. She isn't one to surf the internet or blog like I do (hell, she won't even read mine), but she has discovered the single best way to get in touch with her daughter. Email. Lately we've been navigating the learning curve of a seasoned emailer versus someone playing in the email minors. For instance, I ended a sentence earlier this week with (:-p). What then ensued was a conversation dedicated to me explaining the fine art of emoticons and that that was akin to me sticking my tongue out at her. While she has yet to try one out herself, she has managed a 'right back at ya' and is turning into a fine email buddy*.


*A fine email buddy is defined as one that responds in a reasonable amount of time and provides either information, laughs or another justifiable distraction.

Someone is shitting on my rainbow

I hate that life is difficult sometimes. Why do we have to continue to be pushed to "grow" by traversing the difficult landscape of life? I want sunshine, rainbows and cupcakes all the time. I want life to be emotionally easy.

My mom leaves a voicemail on my phone yesterday afternoon that says not to call that night because my grandmother is back in the hospital and that she won't be home until late. That's it. The heifer says nothing about why my grandmother is in the hospital or not even a clue as to the seriousness. It's not like she's some distant relative I never see. This woman raised me right alongside my mom. I consider her part of my parental unit.

She's been weak and sick lately, a bad bout of arthritis taking its toll on her body. I feel useless being so far away and unable to do anything. Even worse is that I feel the fucked up part of me distancing myself from her emotionally because I fear the hurt that will inevitably come when she is gone. I worry about my mom who has to deal with this all on her own.

I want a pity party where I just sit in a corner and cry but know that will do no good. I have to do the standard and at least appear to be strong. Aren't I allowed to be weak for anyone?

Fair trade is more than just coffee

In cataloguing my books for The Library Thing, I realized exactly how many books I have that I haven’t even read, many that I have no intention of reading. Most of my unread books are advance reader copies I’ve rescued from the bookstore. I have a soft spot for unclaimed books that might have some redeeming value somewhere. So I adopt these books, eventually lugging them back to apartment where they take up residence on my bookshelves.

Well, no longer. These advance copies need homes with people who may actually want to read them. Peruse my catalogue on Library Thing, and look at the books tagged 'advance reader copy'. I’m interested in a trade. You tell me which book you want and what you’ve got to trade me for it. Deal?

Blonde zombies take over DC

Is it just me, or are there more blondes* roaming the streets these days? Everywhere I turn they seem to be moving in packs throughout the city and its bars. As someone so very not blonde, I'll readily admit that I started to wonder if I was missing out and should embrace my blonde roots.

I mean they looked like they might indeed be having more fun. They all had the prerequisite hair flip and smile down. If everyone wants to be blonde, shouldn't I? I know this sounds silly and like I'm making fun (and I am a bit), but I honestly started to question whether I was at a disadvantage because of my red locks.

I had some caffeine and sense finally returned to me. Why would I want to look like everyone else? Don't I have a competitive edge by being different? I'd like to think so. Blondes...watch out ; )

*Blondes are some of my favorite people, so please don't take offense.

Memory lane is really just a sidewalk

Last night was like hopping in the Delorean with Michael J. Fox and taking a step back in time. The "reunion" happy hour I had blogged about earlier was last night, and the best way to describe it really was like a 5-year college reunion. There were the nerves before going downstairs about wanting to look extra hott, the guy who you had the brief happy hour thing with, and the photos of everyone's children now grown up. How odd to be in a room with people who nurtured my early career and taught me pretty much everything I know about public relations and media. I felt a bit like the daughter coming home all grown up. Hearing from an even younger colleague how I had taught them so much and how they found themselves passing down the same lessons brought memories flooding back of nights slaving away under the fluorescent lights of corporate cubes throwing together press packets for a client who was paying way too much money and would show little appreciation. Add to the surreal list a conversation about online dating and botox with a divorced older colleague. It was quite the night.

Disgruntled ramblings

"Corporate America" drives me bloody batty sometimes. The Barn is back on their big dress code kick, posting missives about business casual. The reality is that this part-time retail job requires that I dress nicer* than my full-time job that pays the bills. While I meet their dress code requirements most of the time**, I don't appreciate being told what I can and cannot put on my body. I also find it ludicrous that this particular store is choosing to come up with its own interpretation of the company's dress code policy and expanding upon the employee handbook that I signed when I started.

I'm most angry right now at how this is playing out for other folks. Manager X has a particular style that doesn't sit well with the latest store manager. While she technically meets the dress code according to the handbook, her clothes are baggier than they'd like, and if they're being honest with themselves, probably a bit manlier than they are comfortable with. Recently, they sat her down with a copy of What Not to Wear. I find this a tad hypocritical since the same store manager was known to bare her midriff during the warmer months. If no one counseled an older woman on whether or not she should really be dressing like her teen daughter, what right does she have to girlify another manager not comfortable in tight clothes? I don't particularly like Manager X's clothes, but the fact of the matter is that her clothes and style are her own. Her look offends no one and shouldn't be up for corporate debate.


*with the exception of any important meetings
**flipflops in the summer are my big exception

Too "nonprofit"

An email in my inbox this morning brought the past rushing back. The old public affairs group from my first post-college job is having a happy hour reunion at some old school DC establishment later this month. Immediately I was reminded of all the lessons I learned in the "big 5" PR world and of all of the characters I met. It's place where I learned that who you know really does matter. At the same time, I also learned that hard work pays off (sometimes). Profit and billable hours were my lingo, and even my idealism couldn't protect me from clients who were willing to shell out the big bucks for my pimping services. Three years of being worn down drove me to non-profit sector and a place where idealism is coddled. That said, the people I worked with had staying power. Most were good people who would have your back in a minute. Dare I show at happy hour? Am I too crunchy, liberal to even roll with the big boys anymore?

Cunt...offended?

Tonight our bookclub meets and discusses Cunt. I knew the selection of this title would cause quite a stir, but I didn't really think it would go as far as it has.

I should start by saying that, while this is not my favorite word, it doesn't offend me any more than any other word. It's just a word, and I firmly believe we give words power by making them so verboten*. A good friend challenged me to use it continually over the course of one day, and it totally desensitized me to it. In choosing this month's title, I thought it might give more positive ammunition in fighting the stigma of the word.

Turns out choosing a book called Cunt** for a Barnes & Noble (officially sanctioned) bookclub raises more than a few eyebrows. List it on the store's community events calendar? Give it the signage normal bookclub books get? Are you kidding me?! Haha. All of the marketing materials were actually printed before one of the store's printers got so concerned they contacted corporate headquarters in NYC. The big bosses up in NY evidently got their panties in such a wad that they called down to the store our bookclub is housed out of to ask what was up. Oh my...can't say I was disappointed in attracting the attention of corporate. I was, however, disappointed that Barnes & Noble is ok with selling and earning a profit from a book but not promoting it. Notice I said disappointed...not surprised. None of this is shocking.

The only thing that has shocked me at all is my discovery that I basically have no freedom of speech rights in the workplace. Perhaps it was a bit Pollyanna of me to think I had some kind of legal legs to stand on. Well, for the record, I do not. The courts have definitely not defined freedom of speech as an absolute. In the private sector, the First Amendment freedom of speech criteria (generalizing here...there are some instances where they may be applied) do not apply.


*I'm a bit of a hypocrite and will readily admit it. While I do believe we have also empowered the n* word, I would never say nor condone saying it.
**I can't say I was all that impressed with the actual book.

tickling itchy feet

It's what the Lonely Planet site has on the header of their WorldGuide, and it's a syndrome that I chronically suffer from. What do you do when you've got an itch? I don't know about you, but I'm a chronic scratcher. Today's top 5 is a list of random towns I want to visit soon.

1. Kutna Hora, Czech Republic
2. San Cristobal, Chiapas
3. Iceland (anywhere now that I've seen the amazing Flickr photos)
4. Bangalore, India
5. Lesotho, Africa

In other news, my trip to the airport late yesterday proved fruitful. After waiting in line at the American counter for 30 minutes, I finally had answers to the questions the Internet could not solve for me and the automated phone system refused to help with. Turns out my the return ticket I didn't use from San Angelo to BWI can be used anytime before December 27 as long as I pay the $100 change fee. I also learned that I can use my voucher pretty much however I want. Talk about a conundrum. I was left wondering whether I should go somewhere exotic alone or get two tickets to somewhere in the states and take a friend. I really want to share Austin with these two but think plans for a quick trip might need to be put on hold. One thing is certain; a jaunt around the globe will happen sooner rather than later.

Flashbacks and other such nonsense

Sometimes I think I'm two different people fighting it out in one body. There is the easy going, laid back Serena who truly is flexible and can roll with the punches. On the flip side of the coin, you have super sensitive Serena who gets her feelings hurt if the wind blows too hard and whose temper can't be blamed on her red hair.

That said, some of the stories I carried back from my holiday travels shouldn't be so surprising. Our first night on the road, we left Austin around 3:30 pm determined to get as close to the Texas border as possible. Roughly eight hours later, we rolled into a desolate* town of Van Horn, Texas. Tired from having spent the morning packing up a two bedroom apartment and driving (or in my case staring at the back of) a UHaul for hours on end, we decided grab a room in one of the 10 or so roadside motels. Who would have guessed that every single person driving I-10 had the same idea. Ten hotels and no vacancies. If I had been pregnant, I would have felt like Mary.

The car was low on gas, so we decide to head to the nearest gas station (re: truck stop) to fill up. Time for a game plan. My traveling partner reminded me that I had mentioned camping and that we could find a place to park the vehicles and camp out in them. No problem. My easy going self was totally fine with that. While I have my high maintenance moments, I'm not a total diva who demands a hotel room and a shower**. The problem arose when I misheard something my friend said. Let's just say I thought he was sending me off to sleep in the vast truck stop parking lot all by myself. Can you imagine? I've seen way too many movies where bad things happen to people in truck stop parking lots****. I was furious and terribly upset***. I'm sobbing and searching for a place to park a Honda Civic next to these gargantuan trucks. The walkie talkie beside me crackles, and I can only manage to sob, "leave me alone." Sobbing still, I wonder how I got myself into this mess and how I'm ever going to sleep parked next to all of these trucks.

Can you see where this is going? The easy going, laid back me is fine sleeping in a car and adjusting to the roadblocks of life. However, there's also the part of me that gets worked up so easily. I was devastated and angry at the way I thought I was being treated all at the same time. The story continues, but you get the drift. Needless to say, we talked the next morning, and I had misheard his original statement. Being so sensitive led me to take what I thought I heard and turn it into this huge THING.


*Not desolate enough, since we soon determined the town was FULL.
**OMG, how I wanted a shower after the sweating involved in loading a UHaul!
***I'm also stubborn and didn't bother to stop and clarify his statement.
****Joy Ride, Thelma & Louise, etc.

Set location

Have you ever been searching for that perfect thing only to find that, at the time you needed it most, it doesn’t appear to exist? We needed a coffee shop; however, not just any coffee shop will do. Two camera-toting adventurers needed the right amount of ambiance, right amount of lighting and a noise level you could easily talk over. Setting out, I couldn’t imagine how finding a coffee shop in Austin, Texas would be difficult. Seventeen coffee shops later, and I was singing a different tune. If there was lighting we could work with, then the music would be too loud. If there was atmosphere we could work with, then we had to contend with staff taking issue with video* being shot in their shop. Looking for that perfect place does get you a unique tour of Austin, the ability to combine Google and GPS while on the road, and a chance to talk to different people in an effort to find their perfect place for coffee in Austin. Looking for coffee in Austin? Try one of the ones with the double stars (**).

Tazza Fresca
Starbucks
Amy’s Ice Cream
The Hideout
Austin Java House (2)**
Epoch**
Jo’s Coffee House**
Flipnotics
It’s a Grind
Freddie’s Place
Flightpath**
Quack’s Bakery
Dulce Vita Espresso Bar
Spiderhouse**
Halcyon**
Kasbah

What do I regret? Not getting a coffee at each establishment, so I could write a proper review ; )

*Saying you're working on an indie documentary goes a long way toward getting you permission to shoot in Austin.

I make noises when I sleep, evidently quite a bit depending on the night. I have been told I moan, snore, whimper and many other things. I was told last week that I screamed. Truthfully, I've always had sleep issues. When I was little I used to walk in my sleep, even going so far as out the front door. As I got older, I walked less and talked more. I also remember having terrible nightmares and never wanting to go to sleep. Someone once told me they think my sleep issues are psychologically based. Isn't that a frightening thought?!

Last night I decided to do something about my noises...or something to start doing something. I decided to videotape myself sleeping. I figure I need to at least hear what other people are experiencing. The downside is that I only had about 55 minutes of tape to spare, so I only caught the first hour of sleep. Here's a recap of what I heard: shift, shift, heavy breathing, couple of light snorts, a moan at minute 18:18, heavy breathing, and some soft snoring. Last night must have been an easy night. I think I'm going to record myself every night this week to see if it changes. Maybe I'll even vary my sleep position. At the very least it's an interesting experiment.

Laugh lines

I never understood the huge to-do made about transitioning from one year to the next, but I do appreciate the opportunity it offers for introspection. 2006 was filled with the ups and downs that generally constitute life, and maybe when I clear the fog that has taken up residence in my brain, I'll record them here. Somehow, though, I feel like I've lived a lifetime in the past two and half weeks. I feel older and wiser for having endured the emotional rollercoaster that was my winter break. I cried A LOT, laughed A LOT, and bonded A LOT. I need to write my "what I did over my holiday break" essay soon, so I don't forget all the little things that were both maddening and sweet.

However, until I manage to do that, I leave you with a meme* I was tagged for by Neil.

5 things you don't know about me:

(1) I've been bungee jumping....twice.

(2) I was kicked out of the capitol building in Texas for impersonating a state representative.

(3) I made up my first boyfriend in 1st grade.

(4) There were drive-by shootings at my house growing up in Texas.

(5) I've sold two paintings (yes, people really do lack taste).


*Remember that I hate memes only do them for the special.

Taking stock of Eddie Bauer

I don't envy men and the limited range of clothing that is deemed acceptable for them. Having spent Saturday afternoon buried in the closet of one of the male species I feel like I'm an expert in male closetology. As I hung up shirt after shirt, I found myself wondering if I could draw any psychological conclusions about a man from the kinds of clothes he bought for himself or the way he packed them away. This particular specimen seems to have a fondness for Eddie Bauer. In fact, every time I pulled a new shirt out of the army bag and discovered it to be Eddie Bauer, I began to wonder exactly how many marginally different kinds of shirts Eddie Bauer could make. Wearing Eddie Bauer could mean the individual is comfortable in his rugged outdoor self. Or maybe not. If the image Eddie Bauer wishes to portray conflicts with its actual corporate practices, couldn't the same hold true for the wearer?*

Delving deeper into the makings of a man's closet, what are we to make of a smattering of Kenneth Cole and a couple of Calvin Klein thrown in for good measure? Someone who cares about their appearance or personal style? A few things bought for them by a woman? Looking beyond labels, there is color and fabric to take stock of. Is a cotton/cotton-blend man with no exotic colors to be considered stable, a safe bet? What if you discover an errant tropical shirt** like I did? If I had found cords, would I have thought him professorial?

Moving on to the chest of drawers and the keeper of male knickers, what are we to think of the baller***? This one is fairly simple. It's probably a psychological plus compared to the man who feels the need to iron his knickers and sort them by color. The baller (ha!) is potentially a man in a hurry, who can't be bothered with actually folding something very few**** will actually see.

Really, I'm not sure examining the contents of a man's closet can really tell you anything. I don't necessarily believe that the clothes make the man...more the facade of a man but not the man. Obviously this is someone comfortable enough in who he is that he doesn't mind a woman arranging his closet and analyzing its contents.

*I don't think this is the case here, but the question should be pondered for the sake of closetology.
**Rumor has it that it was purchased for a themed party but never worn.
***Balls up the boxers and just shoves them in a drawer.
****Not that you won't be getting any...just saying.

Twilight zone

Texas really does feel like the twilight zone sometimes. Some gems...

(1) Not only does the town feel it needs TWO super Wal-Marts, but it seems to think it's a good idea to build the second one right NEXT to the old Wal-Mart that has just closed. Heaven forbid they at least reuse the old building.

(2) My family is so supportive of all of my endeavors, they insist on coming along with me in my tagging efforts...even after I explain to my grandmother that it's hard to be covert or plan a quick getaway pushing an old woman in a wheelchair.

(3) Somehow, half of the town has decided it is no longer dry. Now you'll find the latest in Vegas-designed liquor stores taking up residence on the good side of town. Evidently, the other side of town wasn't even allowed to vote. Huh?

(4) They built a new arena for calf roping and made sure the big stadium got astroturf. Too bad they couldn't inject some money into the town's infrastructure, since half the city had no access to water this past week.

(5) I've discovered why I'm comfortable in all neighborhoods, particularly those that others deem "bad". I grew up in the country ghetto. No bones about it.

Deep fried

Well, I'm home again and blogging from the Lonestar state. These past two days have been trying in terms of traveling, but seriously, I expect nothing less. My flight on American was oversold yesterday morning (no shocker there), so I gave up my seat for a $400 travel voucher and the promise I would make it to San Angelo last night. This meant that I trolled the terminals of BWI from 8:00 am until my new flight departed at 3:20 pm. It meant that, instead of catching early morning zzzs on a plane, I found a quiet corner of the floor and turned my laptop bag into a pillow.

13 hours later I finally touched down in San Angelo, TX. It's amazing how quickly you remember you never fit in in a certain place and never will. I never felt right for this town and still don't. It's funny how old habits do kick in though. Waiting in line* for the puddle jumper to San Angelo, everyone was friendly again and talking to each other. We were all up in eachother's business trying to figure out why each was headed to this desolate town. Maybe we all just bonded because we were a band of refugees being forced to return to the scene of the crime.

This morning we** headed out to pick up my brother for the holidays...in Austin. For all of you nonTexans, this jaunt was roughly 8 hours roundtrip, not helped by the fact that my mom prides herself on driving 5 miles UNDER the speed limit. Gotta love her.

Tomorrow is a new day with different Texas experiences. I'll be glad to be in one place and travelling.

*Also overheard while waiting was a story that (I swear) involved the phrase, "when grandma killed the pig."
**Mom, Grandma, Me.

Perpetual Motion

Even before I start typing this bloody posts I anticipate the collective groans from anyone who bothers to read it. Yes, I took the train today. Yes, I'm going to write about the fucking journey.

Really, you all should just blame this on the fact that I'm a research geek. I feel the need to explain myself so just leave me alone. As I mentioned in my previous post, I started thumbing through a friend's copy of Symbols of Judaism when I decided to photograph the Jewish cemetery. The geek in me keeps reading because I dig learning new things. Enlightenment came when I stumbled across the mezuzah. Evidently the mezuzah represents the idea of "setting into motion". The book goes on to talk about the process of traveling and the way is everything. We are closer to what we seek when we are on our way there, blah, blah. Yes! I'm not crazy in my pursuit of the journey. It validates a nomadic existence. I couldn't stop thinking about this today as I sat on the train. Thinking about the philosophy behind travel and how it allows growth, etc. Anyway, this is so rambling and random. Maybe I'm just sitting here trying to justify the gypsy lifestyle I want to lead...well, gypsy with a home base.

Special K

I was tagged by Amanda and feel obliged to respond* since it's book-related.

1. Grab the book closest to you.
2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence.
3. Post the text of next 3 sentences on your blog.
4. Name of the book and the author.
5. Tag three people.

"I set the hook. But as the rod bends hard, I know before I see it that this is no chub: this is one of Paul's Lahontan pets. It's not a leaping fish, but makes several strong runs."

The excerpt is from a book entitled My Story As Told By Water by David James Duncan. I wanted to cheat and use something that is likely on my bookshelf at home. Hell, wanted to cheat and use a different line from what is a beautiful book. You see, I'm at work and surrounded by only the geekiest titles. I could have also chosen to excerpt something from The Eternal Frontier by Tim Flannery, The Environmental Dictionary by Kemp, Trout, Trout, Trout: A Fish Chant by Sayre (children's book), or Trout and Salmon of North America by Tomelleri. Even my bag has a less than salacious reading selection. I've got the latest copy of Bust magazine, the Lonely Planet guide to San Francisco, and a research book entitled Symbols of Judaism**. Blog worthy? Doubtful.

That said, ignore the excerpt listed above and pick up a novel or My Story As Told By Water by David James Duncan. The man is truly a visionary and poet. Never before has the writing of anyone actually made me want to fish like his words do. Despite the titles on my desk, I don't even like fish. Duncan makes it a religious experience.

"I saw that, at a certain time of year, the rhythm of the river becomes impossible for these creatures to resist; that the mere act of swimming, mere caress of cold water, becomes a long slow copulation; that their entire upstream journey is an arduous act of sex. The dip in the gravel, nest of eggs, spraying of milt, was just the culmination of that weeks-long act. I looked again at the mountains veeing down toward the water. The gravel beneath us was made of fragments of those mountains, the current flowing past made of their melted snow. The brown trout I held was making love to the mountains and snow."

*I also only respond to tags from special people because most of you know how anti-meme I am.
**From my visit to the Jewish cemetary.

(photo by Dan)

Go look at Dan's photos. Maybe I'll blog about something interesting later.

It was an uneventful weekend with not much to add. I spent a lot of time trying to edit a proposal and instead wound up staring at the computer screen. I can definitely sense myself mentally preparing to be back in Texas. Two years. That's how long it's been since I've gone back. I miss my family terribly and am excited to see them again. I'm also a little afraid. Being back in San Angelo means acknowledging that everyone is getting older, that family will look more frail. I also start to wonder about who I may run into...old faces I might see. Many faces I don't want to see. The sentimental part of me has been mulling over getting together for lunch with a couple of old friends. One lunch to catch up...make myself feel better for not having settled. Another lunch to put the final nail in a coffin that should have sealed years ago. I'm honestly not sure this is a good idea, and the rational side of me realizes that my time in SA is so brief that I need to focus. Luckily, Scarlet has tasked me with capturing my hometown on film, so that gives me a focus (in addition to family) and will keep me away from dangerous lunches.

Let the countdown begin...11 days!

Wednesdays...one of my favorite days of the week

Exploratory

I'm a curious girl with a fascination for other cultures and finding out what makes people tick...even geeky enough to love research. That said, my curiousity was piqued a few weeks ago when a friend told me I could never be buried in a Jewish cemetery because of my tattoos. So, following up on last week's visit to a cemetery in Fairfax, I decided to visit two old Jewish cemeteries in Alexandria.

The Agudas Achim Cemetery was down a dirt path that was lined with trees, their canopy forming an arch. I was very aware* of the nature surrounding me as I made my way into the cemetery. A squirrel stalked my progression by running alongside me through the trees, and I would swear a beaver ran by once I entered the cemetery. Immediately, I was struck by the simplicity and uniformity of the headstones as compared to more ostentacious ones in different cemeteries. The stones piled on the markers took me back to my time in Germany, and while a quick google search turned up several different explanations for the symbolism of placing stones, I believe it a truly beautiful practice whatever the reasoning.

About 100 yards down the road is the Home of Peace Cemetery, thought to be the oldest Jewish cemetery in Alexandria. Home of Peace gave me new thoughts to mull over and questions to research. There was an overwhelming sense of family and connectedness present in this cemetery. Family plots were typically demarcated with a low brick perimeter and a large family headstone or obelisk. Smaller markers were within the plot for each family member. I know being buried next to your loved ones is fairly common, but the manor in which it was done at Home of Peace seemed especially binding**. While google didn't shed a lot of light into this particular style of burial, I did learn quite a bit about bereavement in Judaism in the process.

*I also start thinking a lot about zombies when in a cemetery. Weird...yes.
**I can't think of the word I really mean to use here. The use of binding in this context is meant to infer being bound together by a common thread.

An obsession?

It occured to me this morning that this is the second time this month a certain group of ladies has embarked on a road trip with tater tots being the end goal. Disturbing? A little. I've got a theory though (go figure).

This weekend we decided that Wednesday night would be the night to verify the rumor that a Sonic Drive-In had indeed been built in Fredericksburg. So, piling into Scarlet's rental post-rush hour traffic, we beat a hasty path down I-95. It took us 45 minutes to get there and only about 15-20 minutes to order and eat. Again, the odds sound a little loony. I bet you find yourself wondering if cheesy tater tots and cherry limeade (don't forget the use of rollerblades in order delivery) are worth it.

Well, I contend it's not really about the tater tots. It's about the trip...the journey* and comraderie. It's about playing the right music and the sex** game. It's detouring to avoid a police incident*** and choosing to get back on the main highway right before you actually get to said incident. The tater tots are really just an added bonus at the end.















*Sorry about the fact that I don't ever shut up about the journey.
**Don't go too far into the gutter, people. It's just a word game where you have to choose which of the two choices given you'd sleep with if you had to. It passes the time. What's funny is that we all chose the same two guys for a threesome...again, if we had to.
***Does anybody know what the hell was going on I-95 last night? What were all of those cops looking for? I'm thinking body or fugitive.

Is there such a thing as good grief?

Tomorrow morning I'm going my third funeral. I don't know if three is considered high when it comes to funerals, but I feel lucky to have only experienced three. When looking back at my funeral history, I wonder if it's telling to compare the funerals I chose to attend versus those I didn't go to.

The first funeral I could ever bring myself to attend was for Casey Wheeless my senior year in high school. Casey was the first boy I ever kissed and the only boy that a girl has wanted to kick my ass over. I still remember the sobs, his mother and the closed casket.

Years passed and my next memorial service was for the daughter of a colleague at the PR firm where I worked. She was three and ran out into the street. The service was held in a tent at her favorite playground. It was the first snow of the season that day, and I couldn't stop sobbing.

Number three is tomorrow.

I did not attend my father's funeral when I was 12. It was hard enough for my mom to get me to go to the hospital to say a final goodbye. Stubborn...that's me. I also didn't attend the funeral for my great grandmother. I think with her I was spared because I was so young.

At first glance, I'm sure you could argue that I'm uncomfortable dealing with the death of those I love (as opposed to friends and acquaintances I have cared deeply for). However, I would counter that with the fact that I was not super close to my great grandmother and had been estranged from my father. Or, you could also argue that I have had time to mature and learn to deal with death. All I know is that I hope my dealings with it continue to be limited.

Blessing that wear costumes

I went to bed the night before Thanksgiving feeling less than thankful. I had sat and stared at the computer for a good two hours willing a pleasant thought to make its way through my fingers poised over the keyboard. You know the old adage about if you can't say something nice...well, I went to bed without saying anything at all.

I'm guessing the cats I'm pet sitting for thought I could use a little extra love that night, a reason to be thankful. I awoke to discover one sharing my pillow with me and the other sleeping partially on my legs. Either they sensed I needed a little closeness, some family or thought that if they suffocated me that I'd at least stop that damned moaning in my sleep.

Thankfulness did indeed come on Thanksgiving day as I was surrounded by friends old and new. As much as I am loathe to admit it sometimes, I need people in my life. They make me stronger, push me to new limits. I'm thankful for the love of friends and family and for just not giving up.

Church of Rehoboth

Yesterday morning I stood on Rehoboth Beach listening to the waves crash into shore. I stood, waiting as the sky slowly lightened and a beautiful sunrise played hide and seek among the clouds. I breathed deeply and realized again how thankful I was that I was alive and able to experience mornings like that. Thankful that I could see the various colors a sunrise creates and that I could hear the waves. Snapping photo after photo, I smiled at the few others who eventually made their way down to the sand. I was surprised that melancholy had left me, since it was what drove me to the beach and the sunrise in the first place. Instead, I once again was basking in the simple pleasure of being.














Every now and then I get these fantastical ideas in my head and can't be stopped. Part of the problem lies in the fact that I spent a decent chunk of time on both Friday and Saturday driving back and forth between Virginia, BWI and West Virginia and had only my thoughts to keep me company...a dangerous thing for a girl with fantastical ideas. My mood became melancholy and increasingly contemplative the more I drove. I finally determined that truly the only thing that would make me happy at that moment would be to be on the beach watching the sun rise. I needed the journey enough that it made perfect sense for me to get back in the car at midnight (after an 8-hour bookstore shift after the West Virginia travel) and drive four hours to the beach only to watch the sunrise and contemplate life.

As you can see above, the additional 8-hour drive and full 40 hours without sleep was absolutely worth it. I was right. Standing on a beach and watching the sunrise was exactly what I needed. Being alone with myself in the car with nothing but a mix cd* for inspiration was exactly what I needed.

*Allie proved again how well she knows what's going on in my head by making the perfect cd for my roadtrip.

Love and Mathematics by Broken Social Scene
Out of Love by Aberfeldy
Paperweight by Josh Radi & Schulyer Fisk
El Salvador by Athlete
If You Find Yourself Caught in Love by Belle & Sebastian
I See Spiders When I Close My Eyes by Boy Least Likely To
I'll Never Fall in Love Again by Elvis Costello & Burt Bacharach
Paper Bag by Fiona Apple
Want to Know What Love Is by Foreigner
Impossible by David Figurine
The Last Time by Gnarls Barkley
Fly Me Away by Goldfrapp
Golddigger by Kanye West/Jamie Foxx
Steam Machine by Daft Punk
Across the Universe by Rufus Wainwright
SuperSexyWoman by Sufjan Stevens
Dance Me In by Sons & Daughters

Lunchtime shenanigans

Lunch time is always such a chore for me because it usually means I'm left (on my own) to decide where to eat lunch. Honestly, I usually decide it's not worth the effort and choose not to consume anything other than Diet Coke. Hunger and the desire for fresh air drove me out of the office this afternoon and into the door of a Greek restaurant. God must have decided I needed a little pick-me-up because I swear the clouds parted and harps were playing as my breath left me. You know those guys, right? The ones that take your breath away simply by being in their presence? Roughly 6'5" with dark hair...dark eyes...dark everything. He was beefy, manly, and even a little hairy*. As he handed me back my change, my lips refused to even form the words thank you. Yes, I was struck dumb. I think my eyes had even glossed over.

As I stumbled back out into the sunlight and started breathing again, I was able to make one decision. I'm definitely going Greek more often at lunch.


*Not typically my style.

A man who knew how to take his whiskey

A kind and brilliant man died this weekend, and all I can do is stare in shock at my computer, continually amazed at the stealth at which death can be known to operate. We weren't related; I wouldn't even really call us friends. He was the chair of our Board of Directors and by far my favorite. He was the first board member I ever met and spent a good 30 minutes talking to this naive 25 year old who then knew little about rivers. Over the years, he always made this shy girl feel like her opinion mattered and was always quick with a smile and a joke. He also refused to shy away from asking the tough questions and demanded we give them their due. I feel lucky to have just seen his warm, friendly face last week.

I hear you left this world on a river...just know you left it a better place. We'll miss you, Tony.

The episode where they drove all the way to Richmond

Who drives an hour and a half for sushi? Evidently we do. The girls piled into two cars last night sans boys* and hit I-95 hard, like Bobby hit Whitney. Despite potential roadblocks***, we had a table and buckets of tots in front of us by 9:30. Yes, I said tots...at the sushi restaurant. You may laugh, scoff even, but tater tots with tot sauce do make for the perfect appetizer on a sushi-filled evening. The sushi menu always presents a problem because there are just so many things to try. You find yourself wondering if you should even bother with the California roll or tuna roll even though you really like them. Last night my sushi partner and I went for the hot hippy, goochland, garden of eden, and unagi. It was my first go at unagi, and I'll admit to being afraid. It was much bigger than I anticipated, and I sat there worrying if I'd have to choke it down. I got a kick out of Allie telling herself she was practicing for the Amazing Race. Obviously, she missed what they had to eat in last week's episode, or she would have known there was no comparison. Luckily, no choking occurred as I discovered that I actually liked unagi. *whew*


*Despite our better efforts, they** flaked.
**Well, one flaked. The other had to work.
***Does parallel parking count as a roadblock?

Happiness is bullshit

I was perusing the weekend section of the Guardian and came across this gem. Fairly poignant.

"Happiness is bullshit. The whole concept is. Asking what happiness is is a question of the order of asking what is the secret of the universe. It implies someone is either happy or unhappy, denying the reality that almost all of us live with a mixture of the two. Happiness means different things to different people: floating your boat if you can, avoidance of pain, replacing fear and desire with indifference, paying the mortgage or rent. For me it is the feeling that I am winning the battle to remain as alive as possible."

*snaps*

I'm no Robin

Unlike most of the modern world, I can't be bothered to blog about the recent election results or what it's going to mean in the coming years. Honestly, I'm afraid I'm battling a bad case of cynicism and loss of hope that any true change will occur inside government.

So, what's on my mind? Sidekicks. Do you ever notice that a lot of the relationships we build do indeed break down into the leader/superhero role and the sidekick role? Political candidates have their running mates, usually a lesser known that few people really care about. What about housewifes/househusbands? Couldn't they be viewed as the sidekick of the more dominant partner? Even friendships form around this dynamic. Really what sparked this whole thought process was watching the interaction among two friends. Tall, blonde girl walks purposefully and is clearly directing the course of the shopping trip, as well as that of the friendship. The shorter girl is left trailing after her. I very much got the impression I was watching a live action version of the cartoon in which the sidekick bounds around the lead muttering, "which way did they go, George? Which way did they go?"

I suppose I'm blathering on about all of this because it made me realize that I don't want to be a sidekick. At the same time, I don't want someone to play my sidekick either. I want equality...or maybe duality. The perfect situation is all parties in a relationship/friendship/whatever constantly switching between lead/sidekick roles depending on the situation. That said, I always want someone to make the decision on where to eat.

Is this the sound of settling?

I have some of the best friends ever. They made this girl's birthday more than special on Saturday evening by truly spoiling me with attention and a gift that I don't deserve.

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the weekend as a whole and step back from any super analytical mode I'm prone to fall into. I spent quite a bit of time with a certain blogger out there and think a friendship started online is now cemented in a sort of reality. Sunday was one of the better days I've had in a while. Napping and talking on a couch...just the physical act of being. As someone who is always on the go, I don't get that very much, and I'm going to cherish that closeness for quite some time. What did I learn this weekend? I learned about sweetness and silence and that a certain depth lurks under it. I learned sharing and communication are probably for the best. I learned that I know nothing and that even though I think I know some people better than they think I do...maybe I really don't.

Don't knock my confessional

I have to admit this somewhere, so it might as well be here. I'm nervous. Tomorrow night I'm going to pick a fellow blogger up from the airport that I've never met and proceed to spend the weekend with him. We have talked for months, but I still can't help but wonder if it's different in person. Does the sheer cloak of anonymity provide us with a certain level of comfort, of ease? He'll meet my friends, the people closest to me here and judging will happen. It's a fact of life. It's not even like this nervousness is unique to him. I was wreck before Scarlet and I met the lovely Barmaid. Just a friendly get together of bloggers who seem to have something in common, and I was fretting about what to wear and what that first impression would be like. I keep putting off hanging with Velvet for the same reasons. So, really, is it any shock that I'm more than a little nervous about tomorrow? Not really.

Facts of life

I truly believe that life has the ability to be inordinately simple. If so, then why do I always find a way to complicate things, fuck it up? Stewing in my own thoughts, I realize that almost every complicating factor in my life ultimately became complicated because of me. I rocked the boat and made the simple dramatic and hard. Sometimes I just yearn for those days where my toughest decision used to be what color to make the sky. Right now, I'd make the sky green and the grass blue.

It's not all sunshine and sugar plums

I work at a bookstore part-time and can't manage to sell books I would actually recommend or have enjoyed. Every time I've tried I am met with the same blank look, the same curl of the lip. They approach you looking for something different, something good. However, the deeper you delve the more you hear phrases like "something light", "not too difficult". They are looking for cotton candy, and I'm prepared to give them creme brulee. Disappointed, I automatically dim the lights in a certain part of my brain and begin offering up the latest bestseller or the one that everyone else has just loved. Don't get me wrong, every once in a while I want a light read and can be seen curling up with a Carl Hiaasen. However, I have discovered my taste in books gravitates toward fiction that doesn't always give you a happy ending or the resolution you may need. I crave memoirs, travelogues, and books classified cultural studies. I say all of this not to say my taste is better than anyone else's but more that I haven't found the right kind of customer. I guess you could say that I'm still looking for my reading soul mate.

On a side note, if you're a Chuck Palahnuik fan and have read Survivor, email me for information on our book group discussion this Friday at 8 pm.

Throwing salt

I have rituals either in things that I need to do each day or in the order that I do the mundane things that everyone typically does. For example, I have to have a bath before going to bed every night. This may seem like a fairly common occurrence, but I tend to take it to an obsessive level. On any given evening, I can be found unwinding after a brutal (or not so) day in a warm bubble bath. I end 99.9% of my days in this manner. Some nights I add a glass of wine, others see candlelight but always the bubbles and the warm bath. It turns into a quirk when you factor in how ingrained this is for me. If I get off work at midnight, there’s a bubble bath by 12:30. Late night at a concert, bubble bath once home to wash away the cigarette smoke. Falling on my ass drunk, bath when I get home. That’s right. Even on the nights I have been falling down drunk and barely able to remember my name, I’ve managed to pour myself into a bath before bed. A few years ago at a staff retreat I probably came close to drowning myself. After imbibing in much alcohol and dancing, earning myself the nickname whirling dervish, I couldn’t even make it back to my cabin on my own*. That said, the next thing I remember about that night is sitting in the middle of the big Jacuzzi tub in my cabin literally frolicking in the water like a 2 year old, still drunk off my ass. Funny how some habits just stick.


*Upon exiting the party cabin, I promptly fell off the front porch and smacked my head on the ground.

Just like Buddy Holly

I spent the early part of the week in a veritable electronics black hole. Before hopping a plane for business in Hartford, I realized I had walked out the door without the spare charger for my phone. If you know me at all, you know this is akin to chopping off your favorite arm. Sitting at gate B12 at BWI, I suddenly felt alone in the world as my phone issued for a low moan and the battery light blinked with an exclamation point. As I powered my phone off, I contemplated how I would survive without access to email and instant messenger. Even my chances of browsing the internet looked shady. My fears were only confirmed when I stepped through the sliding doors at Bradley International Airport and out into the chilly evening air of Connecticut. I had chosen to take a flight that got into Hartford around 10:40 pm and was supposed to be picked up by Sara. As I searched the cars lined up waiting claim friends and family for Sara’s face, I was disappointed to find she wasn’t among them. I patiently claimed a place under the Southwest sign and waited as circling vehicles slowed and craned their necks in hopes their people were waiting. Still no Sara. The minutes ticked by and people would come and go. The closer it got to midnight, the more I began to panic slightly that I was being abandoned*. Had my cell phone been charged, a quick call to figure out where the fuck she was would have been easy. But, no, I was instead trying to figure out how to find an ATM for my screwy ATM card and potentially get a hotel to wait out the evening. At this point, I even found myself wondering if the airport stayed open 24 hours and if I could just sleep there. When Sara rolled up just shy of any full blown panic attack, I sighed relief that my cell phone woes hadn’t been tested further.

The other missing piece of electronic equipment this week was a camera. I got a dull ache as we passed fall foliage that could only be recorded in my mind (sorry, Scarlet). Even more painful was witnessing the crawling man and not being able to capture him. I’m unsure if this was a UMASS cultural thing, the man truly couldn’t walk, or if he thrived on having a gimmick. However, we saw a man crawling around Amherst to various locations, periodically pausing to stop and kiss the ground. He was a middle aged bloke dressed in New England prep and didn’t appear homeless. Apparently this wasn’t just a day long schtick because Sara and others had witnessed him crawling into a bar on Sunday night, too.

Edit (6:58 pm, 10/18/06):
Well, fuck. I’m waiting at the airport for my return flight and just saw the baggage claim boys taping one of their fellow workers to one of the baggage belts. He was practically mummified with tape and was then driven off into the sunset on the mobile belt. Oh for the love a digital camera.


*Damn those fears of abandonment carried with me since childhood.

Tips for all of you Amazing Race Wannabes

This week found me traveling for work and afforded me precious hours of airport time to do nothing but observe (and worry…but we won’t talk about the worrying). I found myself playing virtual Amazing Race to keep me entertained and determined there are some obvious dos and don’ts that might help* all future Amazing Race contestants.

(1) Learn to pack appropriately. Mobility is a key element in getting ahead, and you shouldn’t load yourself down with a cumbersome pack. Your partner won’t be your pack mule, so don’t rely on them.
(2) Appropriate clothing is important. Think neutral, comfortable and stylish. Both over- and underdressing will only call negative attention to you and your partner. Sweat pants scrunched up under your knees or gauchos aren’t really appropriate. In that same vein, think in terms of layers and combinations. Packing lightly is important (see #1), so loading your pack with clothes is counterproductive.
(3) Find that happy medium between killing people with kindness and being you. Acting like an ass just because you don’t understand the language or the culture doesn’t give you the right to yell, curse, call people stupid, or otherwise get angry. At the same time, being so disgustingly sweet that everyone wants to throw up may backfire, too. This rule applies to everyone from how you treat others in the service industry, nice citizens who stop to offer assistance and even your travel partner.
(4) Abuse modern day technology. Not sure if it’s legal, but, if so, buy one of those fancy pocket PCs and find a way to finagle international service. Talk about making your fellow competitors jealous.
(5) Train. People who really want something practice and train for it. You don’t just wake up one day and decide to run a marathon or play at Carnegie Hall the next day. Hell, you might do this but probably won’t fair very well. The same holds true for Amazing Race.
a. Run. The thing that might stand between you coming in last place may be a footrace with another team. You might as well get used to running now.
b. Study a couple of languages and cultures. You probably won’t have time to memorize everything about every country, but even boning up on a few of the big ones and learn some key phrases in several languages could give you a leg up or at least make you more comfortable.
c. Row a boat.
d. Climb a wall.
(I’m sure there are many more ways to train. Help me out with ideas.)
(6) Get a clue. Being a dumb blonde is not considered an asset when you can’t figure out which gate is yours even though you’re sitting at it. It’s not cute for the gate attendant to have to page you to board.

Edit (11:46 pm 10/18/06): I won my own Amazing Race tonight and scored major karma points in the process. Flying into BWI, I had booked a train ticket to DC with a super tight turn around time. I needed desperately to make that last train home. Booking it out of baggage claim, I held my tongue and didn’t curse the old people slowly making their way onto the airport shuttle to the train station. A ragtag** set of the old folks latched onto me and declared they would be following me to the train station since I apparently knew what I was doing. I didn’t mention to them that I would hurdle any of them in order to make it on the train it was becoming apparent I would miss. Turns out luck was already on my side and the Amtrak train was running 25 minutes behind. Luck must have been on the side of the old folks, too, because they acquired a tour guide (*cough* me). They pumped me for info on how to get to Pentagon City while waiting for the train and declared they would be following me. A younger guy overheard us talking and decided to tag along, since he was also headed to Vienna and had never taken the train. I began referring to the group as my ducklings since from that point on they trailed me like I was their mama leading them to water. Major karma points for making all of my connections all the while leading the ducklings through the intricacies of Amtrak and the metro system.

*This advice truly won’t help you since one of my future Amazing Race partners and I are sure to win.
**The leader fixed and installed air conditioners in Palm Beach. He was coming to visit his sister and escort “Ed”, a man somewhere between 80 and 90 years of age, to a reunion of retired United pilots. Also along for the ride was the hard-ridden female sidekick who I later learned worked safety at some desert casino in Palm Springs. The leader informed me she came along for her EMT skills. I secretly think the leader wanted a chance to bone her.

Be ye not defeated

Well, I survived my own adventures in babysitting last night*. I seriously don't know how people do it. I was basically left to handle 1/2 of what turned out to be a two kid equation and still found it difficult. Do you know how difficult it is to hold a baby, a bottle and a diet coke while walking down the stairs? The baby seriously cramped my ability to adequately caffienate myself or send email/texts. Despite these setbacks, he was still pretty cool**...until he got tired and started to cry (and cry and cry). Somehow I managed to convince him to fall asleep as Allie was putting Cordelia (the three year old) to bed; however, because the parentals had told me how he liked silence we sat there in the dark, afraid to turn on the light or the TV. How pathetic is that? We actually made it 45 minutes before the crying started again. At that point, we just said screw it and turned the TV on. The silence we were rewarded was only after 15 minutes of tears. I will readily admit to wondering how in the hell I would know if he were even broken.

Some of the more memorable moments...

*Cordelia telling Allie her butt hurt.
*Having to change my first diaper...ever.
*Trying to convince Cordelia to dip her PB&J into the ketchup.
*Thor (the baby) rolling over my glass of diet coke.
*Finally falling asleep on the couch around 11.


*Thanks in large part to Allie, who handled the first round of diapers and took care of 1/2 of the kid equation.
**I'm pretty sure I'm too selfish to even consider kids. I explained to little Thor that people like him don't travel well.

Anger management

Do you ever believe that things like your DNA, cultural makeup, day you were born on, etc. predispose you to be a certain way? I am quick to anger, allowing my temper to incubate and seethe at times. I've blogged about my Ally McBeal moments of envisioning small acts of vengefulness I'll never take. Is my significant portion of Irish running through my blood to blame for my temper? Does the fact that I'm a Scorpio born in November explain the fact that I frustrate easily? Try as I might, I just won't believe that that's all that makes me who I am.

Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Wiggles

I'm not naturally a kid person. I was never one of those girls who babysat a lot as a teen (didn't at all, in fact), and though an older sister, my younger brother is only 3 years younger. I'm pretty sure I won't wind up with any of my own. Despite all of this, I have somehow found myself babysitting 4 wee ones a week from today.

You read correctly. Next Tuesday, I'll be babysitting two babies (somewhere around 8 months old) and two toddlers (approximately 3 years old). Thankfully I will have help and will not be facing this squadron of screams alone. While the little one took a liking to me at our last meeting (I personally think he just thought he could get some milk out of these boobs), his older sister did not take to kindly to my trying to get her to dance to Sexyback.

The highlight of the only other time I babysat was realizing all of the cool words I could teach a two year old to say and how she was totally into getting my Diet Coke for me ; )

There's a chance it will just be two (instead of four), but somehow I still don't think that's going to get me out of having to watch the Wiggles.

Boo? Bring us some of that Groth!

Friday afternoon commenced our afternoon of debauchery and wine week, part deux. This is the closest I'll get to ever being one of the ladies who lunch, and if the three martini lunch ever makes a come back, I'm not sure I could hang. Even partaking in this drunken excess twice a year feels lavish and more than a bit Karen*.

I adore the waitstaff at Smith & Wollensky and how they embrace just how tanked you're going to get. The crisp white linens and the outdoor table only set the stage for the leading characters...the wine. Two glasses are placed before you, and this year they don't even bother with the silver bucket. Our waiter doesn't even flinch when we call him boo and ask to try that Groth he has in his hands. I even enjoyed my first zin (nod to Dan).

The restaurant should actually have a contingency plan in place for all of its drunk patrons to protect them from themselves.

(1) They should confiscate all cell phones and other electronic communication devices at the door so that tipsy wine week revelers won't be tempted into emailing pictures of their cleavage to certain people (cough).
(2) All wine week participants should be sequestered in the restaurant so that they are not unleashed upon a sober workforce in their inebriated state. They especially shouldn't be allowed on buses where they grope male passengers as they stumble.

Actually, those two rules should pretty much do it...would protect the not-so-innocent and all.

*Will & Grace's beloved alcoholic...duh.

The single girl's anti-hero

I inadvertantly created a new superhero last night, an anti-hero really. Obsessogirl. Obsessogirl isn't able to leap tall buildings in a single bound or see through that trench with her x-ray vision. She does possess an amazing ability to overthink even the simplest situation and can spend hours obsessing over alternative scenarios for life, love and the pursuit of happiness. Her strength lies in her research capabilities (i.e., spying and information gathering skills) even though these sometimes feed into the entire obsessive loop. Obsessogirl can be a jealous bitch and has a temper that burns hotter than her fiery hair. Don't piss her off lest she cut you.

I don't know about you, but I'm kind of trying to ditch her.

Tabula Rasa

It's easy to wipe away the signs of some drunken nights. Allie will be upset, but the drunken post had to disappear. It's not my style.

As I walked down the streets of DC this morning, I tried to inhale deeply only to choke on the exhaust fumes of a passing bus. Raked over by the wind, I dodged the splatter of last night's excess on the sidewalk. There is no one to wash away the evidence on the weekend, sending it careening down the stormwater drains. Leave it. We need the reminders of how far we fall and the loss of dignity.

I make my way to work and see the last of the prostitutes packing up shop. I pass the stolen shoes displayed on the foldout table. Dueling panhandlers flanked the entry to CVS and were all that stood between me and caffeine.

This is my city.

Candy striping causes tooth rot

It's a little after midnight, and all I can do is fall into bed. I had tickets to see The Gossip in concert tonight and had planned to have a jack & ginger in my hands right about now. Instead I spent another evening at the hospital after taking a call around 3:30 from my sobbing roommate. Seven hours, one emergency room, one ultrasound and hospital room 487 later, I'm exhausted. It's too hard having to watch so many people in pain. A two-year old with blood staining her nose and soiling her mother's clothes. The woman who slowly slid out of her wheelchair and onto the floor. Her son struggling to pick her back up. Watching my roommate scratch her chest so much that she is bleeding.

Since Labor Day, I've been at the hospital more often than I care to think about. My roommate bounced out of a whitewater raft in NC and raked a few layers of skin off her shin. But who the fuck gets an infection and then has a violent allergic reaction to the meds supposedly fighting the infection? Her body is covered in a rash worthy of the Old Testament. I started calling her Job today. It was so bad that backup emergency doctors were called and eventually two infectious disease doctors. They went all medical CSI...creepy. At least they finally admitted her to the hospital to get the mess worked out.

So no concert, no dancing, and lots of disinfectant. At least I have my bed.

Riding the Rogue Wave

Went to see Rogue Wave at the Black Cat tonight with Allie. It was a good show with all of the acts being fun and worthy of a listen. I like it when bands touring together seem like families. It's late, so I think I'll just share an inside look at my thoughtlife this evening.

*If she backs into those flower pots, I'm going to be so embarrassed.
*After what I did tonight, you had better be effing worth it.
*I know you love the band, but please stop humping my ass as you press me against the stage in an attempt to dance.
*Thanks for making eyes boys and for the ego boost when you moved up to stand by us.
*Guys should really take advantage of the fact that most girls get turned on by the guys in the band at concerts.
*Tattoos on men turn me on.
*Graham (Rogue Wave), you're a cocky bastard, but I bet you have a veritable harem.
*I refuse to do the indie head bop.

I spent many of my formative years pretending to be dumber than I was. Being deemed "smart" by other kids in San Angelo, Texas was a burden, the metaphorical albatross. She's smart was said with derision. Being asked to help others with homework or carrying everyone else's load on a group project quickly grew old. Toward the end of elementary school and into junior high I began to try to shed the rumors I was smart. I learned to play dumb. They say girls are less participatory in class and raise their hands less than boys. My goal wasn't to blatantly contribute to this practice. I wasn't stupid but also wasn't about to take that intellectual risk and find myself labeled. In my mind, I had nothing to prove to the teacher and needed to build up some social credit with my peeps. While I couldn't shake it entirely*, I got pretty damned good at it. Hell, I actually think I did get stupider. High school presented a new opportunity to see how low I could go. Maybe too many issues of Cosmo and Seventeen had warped me into thinking I needed to be dumber than any boy I was interested in. I can't really say. All I know is that embraced the role.

Patrick was the red-headed upperclassman I dated as a freshman. We played the same instrument in band, and I made sure to fumble my chair test so he could "do better" than me. When we broke up, I aced the next chair test and moved to 1st.

Jim was cute and played drums in a band. He was the upperclassman who ensured this sophmore got to senior prom. Poor guy was also dumber than most dirt. He ended up not passing the test required to ensure high school graduation. I realized even I couldn't beat that.

Jason was the smartest boy in school, the one that aced his SATs and snagged that valedictorian title. He made me want to drop the role. Unfortunately, getting help with my calculus homework just proved too much fun.

A funny thing happened once I got to college. Things weren't handed to me, and I wasn't automatically good at everything I tried. I didn't have to fake it because there was so much I didn't know. Suddenly the desire to play dumb fell away, and I found myself wanting to be that smart. Guess you could say I was on my way to growing up.



*being in honors and g/t classes automatically lends some credibility to "smart" rumors

snobbery

Confesseion: I'm not one of those people who is comfortable in a large group. In fact, I pretty much detest it. In school I was always considered snobby because I stuck with small, well-defined group of friends. The reality was that it had nothing to do with snobbery and everything to do with my loathing of large groups of people and an (sometimes) extreme shyness. I'm not even good in larger groups of people I'm familiar with or that are acquaintances. To that end, I generally dislike parties, conferences, networking, etc. I'm good with a you+me equation or a slightly bigger us. Groups nearing 10 or more and you start to see me hover around a select one or two.

This post is brought to you by too much time on the metro.

Frustration Nation

I've developed this coping mechanism with the Bush Administration where I avoid many major forms of media and try to forget he's President. I can go deaf in two seconds flat if I hear his minions on the television and have been known to turn my back on the motorcade. Pieces of the wall I have built between myself and this Administration began crumbling down on Monday afternoon. Though I wasn't really watching it, I had left HBO on while I was folding laundry. When I saw Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke was coming on, I knew I should change the channel. I ended up in another room fiddling with something else. It had started by the time I had returned to the blue room. I was trapped.

As I watched the interviews and the Administration's attempt at a nonresponse, I was transported back to a year ago. Livid. Bush. Cheney. Vacation. Barbara Bush's comment in Houston about how many people are probably making out better because of the hurricane. I was red hot. I was cursing at no one...everyone. I threw my remote across the room. I remembered the war we were in, the funding he had cut, the fucking people he had turned his back on. Feeling helpless stoked my temper. This man who calls himself leader has spent the years not doing a damned thing for people who really need him. I want to block it out again. I want to not remember he's president. I can't even hope for a fucking coup because the only bastards that would pull it off are the ones just like him.

Divertissement

I finally saw Step Up yesterday afternoon, and it only further cemented my love of dance movies. Are they formulaic? Indeed. I can't imagine anyone watching your average dance movie for the plot. I don't care. I have accepted the basic plot structure of a dance movie and embrace it. I have no qualms about going to a theater simply to treat myself to a little eye candy...even if it means that Allie and I are probably the oldest people in the theater. Despite this, we may also have been the most annoying. None of other middle school rejects were looking at Kevin Costner in a preview of his new movie and saying, "I'd tap that."

**potential, tiny spoiler**

I knew something would happen to Skinny and that all of their shenanigans would lead to the part where the guy has to choose between a shady life and wanting something better for himself (hello...can you say Save the Last Dance?). I knew he'd get the girl, lose the girl, and wind up winning the girl back. What I didn't expect was for Channing Tatum to be so hott or have such sweet street moves. I was also surprised at how cute the dance outfits were.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I've finally given in. I signed up for ballet on Friday...the first time in roughly 20 years. Is it bad that I'm mostly worried about what outfit I'm going to wear?