What not to wear

During my bookstore shift last night, a man walks up to me and asks where I go to church. Already my guard is up. "Not around here. Somewhere in Alexandria*," I responded. "Oh," he said. "Are you apostolic?" At this point I'm perplexed and will readily admit I didn't know what "apostolic" was. I answered with "I'm baptist**." He then proceeds to drop the bomb. "Well, you dress the part, and it's so refreshing to see these days. Not many women do."

Fuck. In other words, I look plain and conservative. Looks like it's time to slut it up at work again. No more hair pulled back, skirt below the knee looks for me. Sigh.


*Leaving aside the fact that I technically haven't been to my church in a year.
**Though, technically, I have a real issue with the labels within Protestant religion.

Never combine alcohol and spray paint.

Friday evening was the culmination of a long week and meant to be low key. A few friends dropping in on a birthday party and then headed to a local bar for a drink or two. Party...check. Local bar...check. Drink or two...turned into several more. Really, I blame the need to consume more than two drinks on the cover band we were forced to listen to for $8. In fact, perhaps this is best racket going. Charge an $8 cover fee to hear a cover band that consisted of an Avril wannabe and an elven white guy with a gerry curl, thus forcing people to drink even more to tolerate the music and run up an even greater bar tab. An entire post could be written on how much fun we were and the "friends" we made. This, however, is not my point (see first sentence).

Still lit when I got dropped off at my apartment, I decided it would be the perfect time to make my debut as a graffiti artist. *shaking head* Grabbing the supplies that I've had ready for a couple months now, I loaded them in my tote and stumbled out the front door. Pumped with a drunken energy, I began texting and or calling my drunken mates to let them know of my foolishness. Not surprisingly, despite their (also) impaired state, they expressed concern at my stumbling alone to my pre-selected target at roughly 3 am. Brendan couldn't take it, I guess, and came back as my get away car and later accomplice.

Parking near my planned target (a target I had staked out for months, btw), we exited the car and proceeded to walk along the darkened sidewalk. I expressed concern that my shirt was white and not the best color for nefarious activity. It was decided I should take my white shirt off to better blend in. I was cognizant enough to realize that my pale skin probably glowed just as brightly in the dark. Still, we plodded along until I dropped to my knees in what I thought was the perfect area. Sliding my latex, hypoallergenic white* gloves over each arm, I pressed the stencil on the sidewalk had at it. It appeared the dark sidewalk, while perfect for camouflaging our activities, was not the best canvas for displaying my work. I knew of a better spot but was worried because it was well lit and potentially had a camera. Despite my moments of clarity, we convinced drunken selves this didn't matter and ended up there anyway.

To end what is now becoming my ode to bumbling criminality, I'll say that (1) smart decisions are not always made while drunk, (2) taking off one's shirt does not make one hide better in the dark, and (3) I need to get better at making stencils because mine failed tragically. All of that comedic effort and all I got were spray painted blobs.

*Really. What kind of nefarious artist do I imagine myself? Sigh.

Why I'm sometimes a bad environmentalist

I bust my ass all day trying to restore the rivers of the world; however, every now and then it hits me how bad of an environmentalist I can be sometimes.

1. I fell asleep during An Inconvenient Truth, even moaning a little.
2. The whole "if it's yellow, let it mellow" thing grosses me out, if it's not my toilet. I'm worried about the whole issue of accidental splash.
3. I listened to a whole powerpoint presentation on why recycling is bad without bothering to refute it (even though I disagreed).
4. I drink a lot of Diet Coke out of plastic bottles.
5. I like bubble baths and sometimes leave the water running when I brush my teeth.
6. I could probably start my own landfill with the amount of post-it notes I use.
7. In addition to post-it notes, I have a proclivity for all sorts of specialty paper products, sometimes wanting to own them "just because."

To do lists

I like lists. I like lists enough that I sometimes include making a list of the lists I need to make on my to do list. Why I like lists is beyond me, since the majority of my lists either go unfinished or never give me the satisfaction of "checking" completed things off.

Today's Personal To-Do List:

-buy groceries (spawning a separate list)
-paint the pool on my train set (*cough* art project)
-buy new comforter
-begin compiling stuff for all of the care packages I need to send
-blog
-take self portrait

Today's Work To-Do List:

-enter the remaining applicant information into the database
-set up site visits for Thursday
-sort and box all of the research and bibliographic data for Berkeley
-financial reporting
-slam my head in a door (see financial reporting)

Toy Story

Despite all of the stress I've been feeling as of late, I've also been feeling particularly inspired. I have all sorts of creative ideas for both arts and crafts projects. Two art projects I'm most excited about involve these toys I've been adopting from the bookstore before they are about to be thrown out.

A couple of months ago I snagged an aging Thomas the Train set that was on its way to that big green garbage can in the sky. Having no children and really not wishing to acquire any, I still couldn't let such a kitschy item die. Recycle-reuse, right? Currently my Thomas set is undergoing its makeover into fabulous, over-the-top pink and jeweled train concoction. Why? To photograph, as an art installation....hell, to sell on ebay.

Last night further entrenched my weirdness (err...creativeness) when I spotted a huge set of Lincoln Logs destined for the trash. I could just picture these fabulously tacky log cabins glued together and destined to be left in odd places. I'm still working on my overall messaging for that project, but pictures will definitely be up once I get going.

I can only dream of one day being as cool as the couple featured in this month's ReadyMade Magazine. Two artist rockers from Seattle and Austin were looking for a place to relocate to together and ended up settling on a small town in Kansas. Why? Abandoned schools. Urban flight has led to the closing of so many schools that evidently they are really cheap. She sold her house and with the money bought four abandoned schools near each other in Kansas. They live in part of one and are in the process of turning the whole thing into an artist colony. How cool is that?

I'm the grumpy carebear

Grumpy might be the wrong word, but I just don't remember a weary Carebear. Perhaps I should create a line of adult-themed Carebears. Could get ugly though.

I digress. I'm weary and so over being stressed out by work and life. Work has me so stressed out right now that I have a mini-panic attack every time I start to think of everything on my to-do list. I can't blog in the mornings because I feel guilty and like I should be using that time to work. I can't keep up with my favorite blogs (see previous sentence). And, now, I finally post, and it is to complain.

I can't even begin to think about how to blog about the family health issues tearing my heart apart chunk by chunk. The short of it is that my grandmother may have to have a leg amputated and is in a lot of pain. Knowing she has to go through this ordeal and that my mom has to be the strong one, the one carrying the emotional burden for everyone, fills me with a depressive tiredness, as if I've spent hours fighting my way through a taffy maze.

Mr. Roboto

Thursday took me to Fredericksburg for a work meeting on fisheries in the Chesapeake Bay. Rather than rent a car or take the train, I grabbed my traveling cohort, and we hit the road. On the way, we decided that, since we were already so close, there was no way we could not head on down to Richmond after my meeting and go to Sticky Rice. Once there, though, we determined we weren't yet hungry enough for the sushi and tots of Sticky Rice and should do some exploring of Carytown. Next thing I know, we're both sucked into the charms of Cary Street and the independent stores that line its path.

World of Mirth stopped us in our tracks. Our inner children shrieked and whizzed through the store with glazed eyes, periodically stopping to shout, "look at this" or "OMG, Allie, you've got to see this." Wind up sushi, Paul Frank wallets and shirts, skulls, skulls, skulls. I was almost ready to consider having a kid just to be able to buy the skull bib. Instead, I decided Allie needed to get knocked up. I walked out of World of Mirth with a robot and a promise to myself to go back soon.

We never did make it to Sticky Rice proper*. We wandered from shop to shop investing some loot in For the Love of Chocolate, finally snagging a Nancy Pearl action figure from Plan 9, and drooling over yarn in the local yarn store. I thought about feeling guilty for the toys I snagged but quickly pushed that thought aside. I work hard and think hard. Life is full of serious moments, both personally, professionally and globally. Toys give our lives color and creativity and a break from all of that seriousness.

My inner child had a blast.

*We did snag some tots from their carry out place, ToGoGo. I also should have snagged the number for the hot tattooed guy behind the counter.

Return of my lover

I fall in and out of love with reading. Actually, it's more like the lover whom you know so well that you take for granted, often seeking a little something different in its stead. Our romance has been renewed recently with a few new additions to my collection. Jim Crace has always been an author I've had my eye on for a while but just never got around to reading. When an advance copy of his latest novel, The Pesthouse, arrived at the bookstore a week ago, I snatched it up and set about immediately devouring it. A sweet love story set in a post-apocalyptic* world.

Feeling rejuvinated by a good read, I decided the timing was right to slide right into the next read. I have dozens of unread books, but two recent purchases begged to be read, Love is a Mix Tape and How Sassy Changed My Life. Love is a Mix Tape won out. I've only just begun but adored the idea of the book before I ever picked it up. Blowing through the first chapter was like a romp down my pop culture memory lane. Two chapters in and he not only had my heart aching just a little for him but also had me reminiscing about the songs that made up the mix tape of my own life.

I've posted in the past about how different men (loves, crushes, obsessions, etc.) have each been assigned their own song. Thinking of these songs fighting each other for favorite song status on a mix tape cracks me up. I've** listed a few of the songs below. Judge for yourself, but I think they'd make a pretty crappy mix tape.

Serena's Hypothetical Man Mix Tape:

Thunder Rolls by Garth Brooks
Unforgettable by Natalie Cole/Nat King Cole
Paper Bag by Fiona Apple
Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers (I think)
Million Ways to be Cruel by OkGo
Memories by Elvis Presley
I've Got Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks
Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

Seriously, seeing that combination typed out makes me shudder.


*I'm big on post-apocalyptic novels, movies, tv shows, everything.
**I'm rushing this post because Allie is waiting on me and keeps singing/scatting The Final Countdown and is driving me batty with it.

Blow me away

I watched The Holiday this weekend, and while many of you film snobs may not consider it worthy of any mention, I enjoyed the smarm and the way everyone got what they needed in the end. I really only mention the movie because there are scenes where this insane wind blows and Jack Black's character talks about how it's the Santa Ana winds and crazy things can happen when they blow. Well, the Santa Ana* winds blew into DC yesterday and are still wreaking havoc. It's the wind of scary stories that blows the bad guy into town. If it weren't so freaking cold, I'd be completely enamored.

Crazy weather brings about crazy things, or in my case, the discovery of hidden talents. Guitar riffs, manic drums, and the keyboard. I rock at air instruments. Jimmy Hendrix would envy my air guitar, and Ben Gibbard only wishes his air keyboard was as fine. Maybe it's my weak wrists, but my air drums still need a lot of work. I'd be amenable to a real drummer boyfriend who would help me perfect my technique.


*I fully realize we can't have Santa Ana winds here, but you know what I mean.

Where is spring

Rain has the power to amplify whatever mood I'm in. If I'm a little down or melancholy, rain further drains my energy, the world weighing heavy like a sodden coat. If I'm upbeat, happy, the rain energizes me, even making me a little hyper. Today's rain, oddly enough, isn't really doing anything. I can almost feel it wanting to bring me down, but I keep fighting it. Waiting for the bus with only a black umbrella over my head, I began to sing (yes...in the rain) to keep my spirits lifted. Before I ventured outside, I let the drumbeat of the falling rain be my music as I brightened up my surroundings with color. When the day is gray, there's nothing like color and a little red stain on your lips to keep things bright.

Was it all about the outfits?

Do you know how hard it is to take a picture of yourself every day and make it interesting? Since the second week of January, I’ve been participating in a 365 self portrait challenge* where you take a picture of yourself everyday, and this past week I finally broke down and took a break. I’ve been having fun doing it and think it’s an awesome endeavor. Because of the self portrait challenge, I have (1) learned which side is my good side, (2) no longer cringe at having my picture taken, and (3) have perfected “the serena”. However, I end up taking practically the same picture every day and am so bored with that. Remedy? I need to use this to work on a specific skill. Each week will have a theme, and my self portraits will need to reflect that theme. For example, I’m kicking this off again (after my one week hiatus) with a black and white theme. All self portraits this week will be done in black and white. Hopefully this will stave off any potential boredom.

Speaking of boredom, I’m almost embarrassed to admit one of the things I spent yesterday afternoon doing. Ha. Ah well, that’s what blogs are for, right? Remember the Blythe doll I purchased? Well, I was hanging out at Allie's house yesterday afternoon just eating, stealing wireless, and gabbing when we get a brilliant idea. Allie's mom has kept all of her Barbie's in tubs in the basement, so we decide to raid the contents for potential James (the Blythe) outfits. Suddenly I was 10 years old again and memory lane was the path spread out before me. There we are, two virtually grown women, sitting at the table surrounded by Barbies. There was the Jem collective and Brenda from 90210, too. The '80s were in full force with these outfits, most so horrific that they hurt to look at and be reminded that we once thought this was fashionable. Neon pink tulle skirt, printed leggins, shoulder pads, gold, glitter, the shirtdress, pleats. And, let's not forget the Barbie outfit Allie had made as a child, complete with puff paint. Ah...looking back is fun, but I'm glad to be moving forward.

*My “daily me” photos are on Flickr account, but you probably can’t see them unless you’re a Flickr “friend”.

dueling banjos

I know we all have many different aspects to our personalities, but sometimes I feel like there are two very distinct individuals that live inside of me. Don't freak out; I'm not talking about any kind of split personality. It's just that the two sides of my coin are night and day.

There is the kind, compassionate side that is prohibitively shy. She hates big groups and parties and meeting new people. New situations make her nervous and cause her to break out in a cold sweat.

The other side of me is this very forward, bold woman who goes after what she wants. She takes charge and is just as likely to back you into a corner and have her way with you as she is apt to give you a verbal tongue lashing for the wrongs you've done to her.

Scarlet and I have talked about this 49%-51% split we all all have. Well..let's just say that last night the bold side took more than its fair percentage.

Writhing bodies for sale

As the only tall indie guys in the entire world found their way in front of me and bodies began closing in on all sides, I began to wonder what I was doing there. I could feel my hair physically frizzing as sweat trickled down the small of my back. A sea of heads bopped up and down before me in an almost zombie-like unison. The band playing, Land of Talk, was fun...good beats. Still, I couldn't help but ask myself why we subjected ourselves to concerts and shows when we could listen to the music in the comfort of our own homes, our cars, where ever.

Seconds later, as the driving beat was palpable and I fought my body's urge to follow it, I knew why we come to the live shows. Listening to a cd doesn't give you that visceral experience. You don't feel the beats in the same way, don't get that euphoric high when they hit that note just right, and miss all of the extras when they just decide to jam. The same crowd that makes you sweat also feeds your energy. The outfits, the shenanigans...

...this is why I love live music.

I think that maybe today I have the time and energy for an actual post. The combination of a hectic work week with deadlines and meetings piling on and our semi-annual trek to Smith & Wollensky (S&W) for Wine Week left me brain dead.

Work has been getting increasingly crazy as we enter into what we refer to as "restoration season". Somehow, I've also found myself (over the past couple of years) managing a big government grant and dealing with federal contracting issues. This is not my forte...looking at millions of dollars on paper makes my brain hurt and my eyes cross. Thursday and Friday found me wading through government paperwork and forms, and by noon on Friday, I was ready for that wine reservation. Getting off the phone with my boss after a harrowing thirty minutes of federal contract talk, I told her I was going to send this email and then go get drunk and pretend the conversation we had just had didn't happen.*

As usual, the wine flowed at S&W...the three glasses in front of me rarely empty. Merlot, Syrah, Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio, Reisling, and a great sparkling later...work was forgotten. In fact, any good sense I had was apparently forgotten as well. I'm too embarrassed here to repeat some of the text messages and emails I sent, but let's just say that I was a very friendly and blunt girl.

You would think that would be enough, but no. We had plans to meet up with some people for happy hour at The Russia House and couldn't disappoint. One long, stumbling walk up Dupont and two (maybe three) mango martinis later, and I was done for. Completely tanked by 6 pm. Enough alcohol in my system that hours later, while at home, I was still drunk.

Despite the debauchery, I would never recommend giving up wine week and suggest everyone give it a whirl once in a while.


*Seriously, how can I not love working for a nonprofit like this?

Rocketship to the moon

As I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, the face staring back at me was different. My pupils were mere pinpricks of their former selves, dilated, reflecting the far away look in my eyes. My skin was more flush than normal, contrasting sharply with my red locks. No, I didn't do drugs today. Arousal. I could go into more, since I am currently affected (or should it be afflicted); however, too many people from the office know about and potentially read this blog. None of them are the cause for said physical reaction, but I'm not sure I want them knowing more than what I've already said.

Reasons I should be aroused are this phat new Mac Powerbook I'm blogging on. Yep...that's right. This girl got herself a new computer today at a steal. Thanks to Ravena, I've practically got the computer of my dreams. I'd say my current look of elation has a much different origin than my dilated pupils of early afternoon.

Manic Monday

I had what feels like one of the most hectic weekends I've had in a while. Maybe it had something to do with creating a to-do list so long that I knew I'd never make it through everything. Did I work on any of the work projects I wanted to this weekend? No. Did I clean and reorganize my apartment? No. Did I ever put that first coat of gesso on that art project? No.

I did...

• work two insanely long shifts at the part-time;
• try out a new martini bar out in the sticks and didn't hate it;
• purchase my first lomo camera and shoot that first role of film;
• pick up the first piece of artwork I've actually purchased;
• continued my consumer binge by snagging two hott skirts and some apricot baby oil;
• visited the sick and shut-in;
• four hour online liaison that was more than satisfactory; and
• even managed to do some laundry.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

I've always been one of those weird people who find that Benadryl actually helps my allergies and doesn't make me tired. Yesterday, I became a statistic.

Spring is a bitch for those who suffer from allergies, and on the recommendation of a friend, I bought some of the new Benadryl strips that dissolve right on your tongue. Knowing these contained medicine didn't quell the thought that I was dropping acid. A few hours later and I was indeed wondering if I'd obtained a "special" batch of the strips.

Kneeling down in Children's department at the part-time I felt my heart speed up and suddenly the world grew hazy. I was tripping the light fantastic with Hello Kitty swirling in front of me. Several minutes later, I still felt like I was going to pass out and had trouble focusing on the world around me. A coworker mentioned how small my pupils were.

Benadryl Strips...you may have helped the sneezing, but you weren't exactly the high I was looking for.

Washington D.C.*

We went to the opening reception for the DCist Exposed Photography Show. My overall impressions of the show are very positive. The vast majority of the photos were amazing with only a few that left me thinking of the contrived, the average. The Warehouse Theater, which was home to the show, wasn't disappointing. The minimum amount of square footage, though crowded, was also cozy, and I fell in love with the room that appeared unfinished. Things I would have liked: someplace to drop my heavy coat, free drinks, and for it to be a bit more clear how to buy a photograph**.

I left inspired, which is always the idea. Good job, DCist!

*I finished Mailtunes and was not the last. This one of the few songs in my mix.
**Maybe this is my fault since I don't play on the DC art scene much. Maybe I'm just not familiar with the rules.

Ginger Snaps (And Sugar Winks)

I hate feeling constipated emotionally. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I find myself getting angry at situations and events with no real outlet for my anger. About 50% of my anger is simply impatience and a quick temper and is best not finding an outlet. The rest of my anger and frustration is most definitely valid and should be expressed in some productive way, preferably a way that results in a solution.

Humor me, and let me give an example. I get an email from my mom this morning telling me my grandparents got bad news yesterday. Evidently, my grandfather's company is changing its retiree policy such that they will no longer have life insurance and the premiums for their health insurance are increasing exponentially. How in the bloody hell can a company tell you they're providing you with life insurance (telling you this for decades) and then suddenly decide not to? Shouldn't they at least provide life insurance that was "banked" up until the point they decided to end it? It's like he's been screwed out of years of getting his own insurance policy. Don't even get me started on the health care crap.

It is situations like this where I feel like I have no real outlet for my anger, no way to affect change. Sure, you can tell me to vote or something similar, but I want change NOW. I want a way to make these companies, our system pay.

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.