This is just the part I know

Dragons of 'ought'

2012-01-24T13:01:00.000-08:00

"I wrote fairy tales because the Fairy Tale seemed the ideal Form for the stuff I had to say.

I thought I saw how stories of this kind could steal past a certain inhibition which had paralysed much of my own religion in childhood.

Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or about the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to.

An obligation to feel can freeze feelings.

And reverence itself did harm. The whole subject was associated with lowered voices; almost as if it were something medical.

But supposing that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained glass and Sunday school associations, one could make them for the first time appear in their real potency?

Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could."

- C.S. Lewis, Sometimes Fairy Stories May Say Best What's to be Said

Clear eyes, full hearts.

2011-07-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

Just in case you're ever in a situation and you want people to love Texas, but you're not sure how to explain, NBC has created a really helpful tool.

Thanks to the Dillon Panthers, unsuspecting folks around the universe have fallen for my home state -- in all of it's big-haired glory. FNL has come with a vengeance to our house. Jac and I were glued to his laptop in front of the fire for at least eight episodes on Saturday and he's now finished the first and second season in a record-breaking three days. Last night at dinner, he announced, "Like, physically I'm here, but I'm actually not here. I'm actually in Dillon. Playing football."

The fact that Jac's escaping to another world -- that's no surprise. We all love to settle in when we hear his voice subtly change to the tone we've learned to know as "the voice Jac uses when exiting reality and entering his imaginary dream lives." It's always good. It usually involves several illustrious careers in all fields where one can become famous, and ends with a heartbreaking choice between Rhianna and Megan Fox as the lucky girl who gets to marry him. And then we all start rolling on the floor laughing, because it's way better live than I could possibly show here.

I'm just glad that now these dreams have taken a complete shift to be filled with cutoff t-shirts and Texan cuties. He even suggested that Bev make front-yard signs for him and wear a button with his face to his next rugby match. (Things I've been suggesting for months now, just quietly.)

If Texas gets a stint with Jac Cameron, you'll all be the better for it. And if it takes Coach Taylor and Lila Garrity to get him there, I'm not going to be one to throw a fuss.

In Timmy Riggins' own words,

"Here's to good friends and Texas."

The Gospel according to Jamie.

2011-07-06T23:57:00.000-07:00

"What's for dinner, Han?" Hames asked me, bouncing out of the back lounge for a momentary break from the world of COD. Knee-deep in basil and little red chilis and parmesan, I plugged the good part first: "Pesto pasta," and then mumbled the tagline, "...a la Jamie..."

The reaction was right on par: "YES! MY FAVORITE!" and then a pause -- "Oh wait. Is Jamie going to make it weird?!"

These days, Jamie Oliver's like our food prophet at 17 Tamboon Avenue. What Jamie says, goes. So we the cooks of the Cameron household have been making a point to slog out the dishes from Jamie's latest endeavor: 30 Minute Meals. (Hilariously, the US version that comes out in a few months is called Meals in Minutes -- like he knew that although the average human should be able to produce them in 30 minutes, there's no way an American could...) The great part about following Jamie's recipes is that when things go awry (see ensuing paragraphs), it turns out that Jamie the prophet also makes a great scapegoat: if it's bad, it's not your fault! Just blame it on Jamie!

Hames has learned to fear Jamie for a few reasons. Firstly, Jamie (and Hannie) love chili. I thought when I first started cooking here that I might train my new family out of their meat and potatoes ways and introduce them to the beautiful world beyond the door of spice. But no. I have not. I've tried. Jamie's tried. The Camjams just won't ever share my mantra of "it's not a real meal unless your face is sweating." Secondly, Jamie doesn't have a great track record. The Piri-Piri chicken was lemony to the extreme, the red prawn curry was good, but in a string of three curries in a row, in one week ("Can someone PLEASE tell me WHY WE'RE HAVING CURRY AGAIN?" -Jac) and now my pesto was make or break.

One night, Hames got to the foot of the stairs, and sniffed, "Yep, smells spicy even from here."

In the end the pesto was pretty good. With the caveat that we all woke up this morning smelling like we'd been munching on straight garlic all night. When Jamie says garlic or lemon, trust me: go halvesies. "Or, um, even a bit less..." according to the old Hambone.

I guess the jury's still out on whether Jamie's a prophet to be trusted. Don't sell your other cookbooks and move to an island yet. We still have a few more recipes to test before we're ready to put all of our faith in him.

Home(s)

2011-07-04T23:31:00.000-07:00

Home is where the heart is.

It's usually a faded, framed cross-stitch hung askew in country Texans' entry halls. It's a cup of hot chocolate when you're back for Christmas and a handful of sparklers on the 4th of July. It's about returning to a place, and giving your heart framework between it's four walls.

I remember telling someone a few years ago -- smugly, defiantly, desperately -- that "I live in D.C., but Texas will always be my home." The jigjagged borders of the country--I mean state--where I was born were the scaffolding holding up the person being built. I gripped onto Texas to explain my quirks, calm my fears, and most of all, to always be there as my emergency exit if I ever found myself in a life I didn't like.

And then I said it once.

I slipped.

In the middle of booking a return flight to D.C., I told my mom the flight number and said, "Yeah, I get home -- I mean, I mean, I get back to D.C. around...."

Was D.C. home?

Then, worse -- I was in Texas for a few weeks in February and Bev wrote on my Facebook wall:

Bev Cameron
‎5 more sleeps until you are home! So excited....

February 14 at 7:42am · · · See Friendship

Was Turramurra home?

This week, I've been a little sad, because I've realized that I have no home. Or rather, I don't have one home. I don't have one place that I walk in the door and breathe deeply and think "Aahhhhh. I'm home." I used to have that. But I don't anymore.

What I have instead is many homes. I have many places where I can walk in the door and breathe deeply and think, "Aahhhhh. I'm home." The thing about having many homes is that you're never in all of them at once. Which means there's always a tension between the home-ness where you are and the home-ness somewhere else. There are people and there is love in all of the homes. And you're always home, and yet, you're never home at the same time.

I realized that in searching for my one true home, I had lost sight of the truth: that I am a girl who has many true homes. And for me, the joy of having many homes outweighs the pain of not having one. Any day.

Turns out I'd been reading the old adage wrong all along. I'd been searching for my heart in the floorboards of a home -- hoping that a place would speak to me and tell me, finally, that it was where I belonged.

But "Home is where the heart is" means home comes with you.
It means, listen to your heart and you'll find your home.
Or your homes.

A little less rant, a little more rave.

2011-05-30T05:19:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Jock was giving Jac a little footy-team captaining pep talk. The advice basically boiled down to: "In one hand you have a stick. In the other, a carrot. You need them both. Keep the stick close at hand, but always use just a little more carrot than stick."

I love a little rant and I love a little rave.
I certainly keep one in each hand.

But if the advice holds true, (I'm stretching the context here; go with me) life's better if you're always throwing a few extra pennies in the rave jar. So get excited and stay tuned.

Today, however, I will continue to rant. I am justified and I am shocked and I must share these feelings with you, oh infinite, readerless universe!

Back up.

Remember when the iPhone 4 was released and the plans changed from unlimited data downloads to different plans with different gig thresholds? Sneakity sneaks. If you're not careful, they'll backstab you with overage charges. Now imagine that this same process applied to all WiFi. Imagine that when you install a router in your home or office, every time you watch a YouTube or buy a song or Skype with a faraway friend or spring for a late-night iTunes movie rental -- all of those practices chip away at your download limit.

It's garish. And it's reality in Australia.

(I found out about this reality after deciding I needed to watch all of the Harry Potter movies before the seventh one came out last November and rented them off of iTunes and sucked the entire family's internet experience away for the month. Really cool introduction to the new family you'll be living with for the next year, Hannie. Really cool.)

Because this system is just so absurd to the humble American mind, I've found it quite difficult to start thinking in MGs and GBs. While I did learn that downloading a whole album is about 2GBs, how much would an hour of streaming Grooveshark be? Watching an episode of Farmer Wants a Wife online? These are the questions I ponder.

As with most people, my bosses (at the small not-for-profit where I work three days a week) don't check their plan often. I made a (subconscious?) decision not to find out -- because I live by a simple mantra: forgiveness is better than permission.

Well it turns out the office only had 10GB.

And the bills were not pretty.

(It's not all my fault, since this plan is shared by four people, [insert excuse], [insert excuse], [insert excuse].)

So as a peace offering, I offered to go into the ring with the beast to get our plan upgraded, streamlined, bundled and cheapified. How hard could it be? Call up the large, presumably professional phone/internet company and get 'er done. Rightio, mate.

Kaz gave me a hug before I made the first call. "I once wanted to change the name on my account. It took 26 phone calls for me to give up. The name never changed."

My first call was an hour and a half. There was talk of filling out forms, submitting paperwork and I was told I would "know something more in 3-5 business days." Those days came and went and I called back to check the progress. Turns out all of my requests had been rejected and they were never going to tell me if I hadn't called back. Cool. Even better, the customer service rep couldn't even access my account, because their system had been upgraded and none of the accounts from the old system were migrated. "So you're telling me that your job is to access accounts and you physically can't do it?" "Right." "Wow, so your job must be really horrible, huh?" "Yeah, it's pretty awful." The only solution she came up with was for me to physically bring my bill to the Telstra store and try to get one of the reps to sort me out.

Jock, suitably riled by this scenario and not close to giving in, revved up the Kluger and we jetted off to the closest retail store, where we descended on an unsuspecting business plan consultant about 27 seconds after the shop opened. She sympathized with our plight, but things weren't looking hopeful when even she had to give recorded voice commands and landed in a call center in India.

Today, three emails and five phone calls since then, I finally raised our gig limit to 50/month.

At least I hope I did. It was hard to tell with the din of Chennai in the background, but I think I heard the guy say it's going to take 10 days for the order to be processed. Kaz suggested that maybe this is because they transport the reams of paper forms on camel back, which I would say is a viable option.

The last time I tried to call our consultant, her assistant told me she had a concussion on the way to work (surely a violation of employee health disclosure of some kind). If it's true, I hope she seizes this as the perfect exit from a horrible job.

I'm literally stunned that Telstra is in business.
I can guarantee I'll never take Pandora for granted again.

Things Australians do well #978645: Write books.

2011-05-29T04:42:00.000-07:00

"As the days cannoned on, and the heat got meaner, everybody did things crazier than normal. They bought things, they said things, they heard things, they moved things, they lost things, they joined things and left things. They were mad, loony, loopy with summer."

- Cloudstreet, by Tim Winton

I'm on page 146 (of 426) and I'm stocking up on midnight-oil, people.

Happy summer, northern hemisphere!

This is why I love Molly Gittemeier.

2011-05-06T18:58:00.000-07:00

Because she sends me things like this on a Saturday morning. Also, for those who have not experienced Jock's dance moves, this gives you a pretty good idea.

How to rattle my chain, Volume 8972662

2011-03-19T22:51:00.000-07:00

This morning, I went to a women's conference.

Yes, it was an unusual occurrence in the life of Hanna Schmidt.

Yes, I was glad I went.

Yes, a few things happened that rattled my chain.

There was something a bit eerie about looking around a room filled with 10,000 mascara-ed humans coming together to find something they were missing, or chiseling something already within themselves. Packs of Van's-wearing 20-something guys eagerly hung around the entrances decked out in pitch black tees branded with a huge coral V (olunteer) -- like kids on Christmas morning. Literally? Today was their luckiest of lucky days. (As long as they didn't have to use the restroom, since all of the venue's urinals closed up shop and all the stalls were reallocated to the chicks.)

I'm not going to bury my inner cynic just yet, but I have to say that today it felt like the edges I usually hang my hat on had gotten a bit of a sand-down job. There were some good things said, and there were some wrong things assumed, there was some theatrics with the lights and the sound and the music and there was some real beauty in corporate, authentic searching -- but I was less inclined to either take offense or jump on a bandwagon.

All around me, it happened, and I could just let it be.

That is, until someone with a microphone took a crack at the world of literature.

I'm still a little sore from this, and so maybe "taking a crack" is actually a little harsh, but when the words left her mouth it was like a rooster in my chest flared all its feathers and I wanted to jump up and say no. Just no.

To end her talk, the speaker had decided to end with a reading that she felt applied to the things she said. It's a classic move and its one that I love: to crescendo and crescendo using someone else's words, creating a memorable experience that triggers people back to the topic of the talk. I was fine with all of this.

Until she said these words:

"This quote comes from a secular book, by a guy who survived the Holocaust..."

I was stunned.

I hate it when people use the word secular to describe literature. Secular? Really? The dance of words and syntax and cadence and order that twirls events into stories and traits into characters -- if that's not spirituality at its best, I don't know what is.

Yes, literature can be used as a tool of destruction.

It can rip and roar and stick into us.

But I think words want to be used to redeem. And when they're woven well, they speak for themselves.

Here's my cynic rearing its head again, but covers of books found on the spiritual shelf at the bookstore flashed in my head as she labeled this book "secular" -- books that I actually find destructive and a disgrace to the words butchered on their pages.

"It's a secular book," she said, but there was something beautiful to be learned from it.

Wince. Cringe. Wince again.

This is part of the quote that she read. (Updating this as soon as I have the full text in hand.)

"The darkness enveloped us.

All I could hear was the violin and it was as if Juliek's soul had become the bow.

He was playing his life...He played that which he would never play again."

The scene she read was from Night by Elie Wiesel. Although I've not yet read the book in its whole, the words entranced me and captured me and connected to my soul, singing "yes, yes, YES!" like no other words that had been spoken throughout the day.

I'm sorry, but there's nothing secular about the Holocaust. There's nothing secular about Elie Wiesel. And there's certainly nothing secular about a book whose words latch on and live in people's souls for decades and generations and across classes, countries and languages.

Poor thing, she didn't mean to. She doesn't even know me. For crying out loud, she said this in passing.

But now you know. If you really want to rattle my chain, start by throwing around the word "secular" willy nilly. It obviously works.

Warning: does NOT contain cool photos or design inspiration

2011-01-24T04:20:00.000-08:00

I've recently learned from a credible source that it's not cool to use blogs as a medium to write anymore.

Which, of course, is fine, because a total of two people (plus or minus Dad) actually read what I write (typically plus). I'm totes okay with it. And I love feeling inspired by the photos, posters, chambray shirts and scalloped skirts I'm seeing out there. I promise I'm not being sarcastic. I really do.

The problem is that at the moment (and for the next several thousand moments), I am living out of two well-stuffed suitcases in the upstairs of my Australian family's home and trying to figure out how to wear the least amount of clothing possible and still be deemed respectable. (Would we call that a problem?)

So basically, what I have at the moment is words. Maybe I'll follow my life trend of being one season behind and start a sweet eclectic hodge-podge blog of letterpressed goodness next year. Stay tuned.

For now:

I don't know how you people feel about homeopathy. Some people swear by it. Enter my DC family, the Deans. Some people believe that it's a crock of $%*&. Enter my Sydney family, the Camerons.

Under the Deans influence, I started taking gelsemium last year to help me sleep. Inexplicably, gelsemium is also a cure for stage fright, which is actually the primary symptom listed on the little blue tube. At some early stage in my life at 17 Tamboon, this fact was made public. Hamie (who is skyrocketing to the top of my list of favorite 13 year old boys) especially enjoyed including my stage fright pills in as many conversations as possible.

So you can imagine their wonder when I announced, after their return from New Year's in Scotland, that I'd tossed the stage fright pills. Hamish had a helpful suggestion for the next time I have a public speaking endeavor -- "just eat a teaspoon of sugar, that's all those little pills are anyway." He also said that feels certain I'm hiding another stash at the office and that I should probably spend some energy "facing my fears."

Did I mention that Hamie is the cutest kid ever? Oh yeah, I think I did.

After getting in trouble for forgetting sunscreen on a blistery (literally) day at Mona Vale beach, he responded as only he could: by composing new lyrics to Teenage Dream featuring helpful tips about sunscreen application and the fact that being pasty means his "skin cells are alright right right."

The term "wrapped around his little finger" is taking on a whole new meaning.

In other news, I have a new personal best in the field of burger-cooking. To Jac's delight, I've finally conquered my fear of the outdoor grill, and if tonight's any indication, I think I'm starting to figure out how to make it sing. It's amazing how far a bowl of crispy potato wedges (oh sweet carby goodness) and a hunk of meat will get you. Sidebar: I checked in with Ree over at Pioneer Woman before seasoning my meat to see what she throws in hers, and I had to re-read the recipe a few times before I realized that -- holy freaking smokes, it wasn't a typo -- she actually uses 1 lb of meat for EACH BURGER. Mine were 1/3 lb and they were huge. It seems humanly impossible that Ree is not morbidly obese.

Update: Hamie just popped into my room to say goodnight. He left all the lights on upstairs last night because he just got his own room for the first time and my door was closed, so he was a little nervy. I left my door open tonight for breeze and solidarity.

Hear that? Oh yeah. That's the sound of my heart melting.

Plus/Minus, Australia version.

2010-10-05T01:30:00.001-07:00

+23 The “spot” – Just outside the Cameron front step, there’s a patch in the trees that makes for a perfect sunlight pathway in the mornings. You can find me basking there, with a cuppa tea, hot chokkie or a ghetto mocha worshipping the sun. PTL for the sun.

+44 The construction worker, garbage collector and general public servant uniforms in this country – They involve fluorescent (“fluoro”) tank tops (“singlets”), above-the-knee shorty shorts, and work boots. The most hilarious thing about this uniform is that it’s ridiculously common. And normal. And awesome.

-64 The width of the main highways (I really should put highways in quotes) – Think Glebe Rd (or N New Braunfels) with no shoulders, and you’ll be imagining what is the equivalent of 281 or the GW Parkway. Like, TINY. This makes for my other -1000, which is the road rage that happens as a result of the general lack of space.

+89 Bev’s parenting techniques – These typically involve giving a good strong wedgie to whichever boy is causing the most damage at the moment (typically Jac or Jocko) and following up with a wet-willy if that doesn’t work. It never stops being funny.

+12,098,949,127,847,180,273,089,723,098 The coffee – I just can’t explain how good the coffee is here. Coffee is almost too common of a word. It’s a lifestyle. My new standard drink is the equivalent of a double short latte. Sometimes I go skim, but as Jock likes to tell me, “it’s been scientifically proven that people who drink skim actually gain weight,” so I usually spring for real deal, and just go for a run to balance it out. Oh sweet Jesus it’s good. At Pablo’s, I typically get three hearts in my foam, which I’m hoping will translate into three kisses from the Hottie McHotterson barista who makes it for me.

-98 Running hills – My wheezy lungs are just starting to get comfy with flat and/or downhill treks (and treadmills) but these straight-up numbers are giving me a run for my money. I think if I just strolled up them occasionally, I would get my booty in shape. I’m going to keep thinking that.

+1000 The hotness of the average bloke (also +1000 for the word bloke) – I mean, just sitting here in my regular old coffee shop, tapping at my regular old MacBook, these two guys walk in who somehow bring sexiness to a painter’s uniform and make skinny jeans look manly. I can’t explain it, but it’s real.

+57 Chargrilled Charlie’s (commonly known as “Chooka’s”) – These folks have taken the chicken sandwich and created a whole new level of delicious with it that I didn’t know was possible before. Our favorite, the Chicken Charlie Chomper, comes grilled with cheese, bacon and drippy-sweet pineapple. Oooh baby. And if I’m feeling sinful, I’ll get the meal, adding on a bag of seasoned chips. If I’m not feeling sinful, I’ll just snag a few handfuls of Jac’s on the way home, because calories that you don’t buy for yourself are not real calories. Chik-fil-a, you just got TOLD.

+100 Beaufields – Beaufields the music, but even more, Beaufields the people. Hannah and Cat are two of my favorites in this country, and the sweet-as melodies they write together are icing on the cake. We’ve had a blast getting to know their worlds, going for a boogie with them, and swimming in the icy cold sea together (if there’s an ocean nearby, Cat’s typically running headlong for it). They’re inspired, they’re poets, they’re authentic, and they’re hilarious. Watch out USA. Stateside tour is coming in Jan/Feb.

-1 Zillion Officeworks’ Customer Service – From what we can tell, Officeworks seems to employ people with negative IQ’s and not allow them to actually do any work at all. To say customer service is low might be the understatement of the year. These folks just couldn’t be bothered to a) know what they sell, b) tell us what they sell, or even c) sell us any products. We’re still a little baffled and it’s been days.

+77 Club 2073 – The gym where I’ve managed to con a membership (since Hannah Cam isn’t using her free membership now that she lives across town, they’re letting me use hers, and I have a gym pass that just says, “Hannah” on it) is both tiny, ultra hip and doing the trick for me. It’s painted neon green outside, and all the trainers wear all black, but are walking advertising, since their lime fleeces shout “Get lean at the green machine” on the backs. I’ve become a 6am regular with Bev, and am working on a membership for Molls, mostly because she’s my personal trainer and I need her along for the ride. Also because it’s hard for us to be apart for more than 20 minutes.

And finally,

+1 billion trillion kajillion vermillion Being here, now, with Molls – I seriously can’t imagine doing something that is simultaneously a dramatic life change and season of sweet rest. It’s so far from all I’ve known and yet getting so close to the core of who I am. It’s like in coming here, in extracting myself from the things that were normal to me, I tugged on a random dangly thread that, as it unravels, I’m finding is actually headed straight for the center of myself. And I couldn’t have picked a better comrade if I actually had picked one. As our friend Julz was packing up her boxes to move to New Zealand, she found a card from Molls dated February 2007 that said, “It was so great meeting you at the Prayer Breakfast. I hear Hanna Schmidt is thinking about coming out there – which would be awesome!” Three years later, here we are: actually friends and actually here. Thank you to all the things and people and Higher Power that managed to get us here together.

Bits and pieces.

2010-09-01T06:32:00.001-07:00

I'm trying to think if I've ever laughed this hard, this much, in this short of a time.

It's like my new friend Jono said the other night (after eating Molly's killer brownies): "I've been going through my history of best brownies I've ever tasted -- 'Grandma's house 2006 -- no not quite as fudgy' -- and I think these are the best I've ever tasted."

I'm going through my rolodex of laughter and I think this past month might take the cake.

There are plenty of reasons for the laughter.

One, of course, is that everything is new. Everything seems a bit more hilarious when it's new -- the grocery stores full of elderly folk in Gordon, the 17 year olds in straw boaters walking to the train, the thousands of funeral shops (?!??) that line the Pacific Highway.

Another factor is that I now spend my work week with the lovely Karen Stephen, a Texan transplant who found love in Aussieland -- and she is one of the best laugh-comrades I have ever encountered. Who knows how it starts, but most days K ends up with mascara streaming down her face and I'm on the floor and we just laugh uncontrollably. Molls typically starts laughing with head cocked and eye scrunched, but her laugh is out of confusion and amusement because, let's get real, whatever K and I are laughing about is probably just not quite as funny as we seem to think.

Today's primary source of laughter was largely centered around driving. Me driving in this country is pretty amusing. The skills are all there, but something about the switched-up road sides slows down the processing time, so my instincts are a little under par these days. Naturally, this elicits all kinds of "eeeeeeek" and "bleeeyyehhhghgh" and "what the frik fraks" as I make my way up and down the the PacHwy. Molls and I decided that driving in Australia is really a two man (or two gal, in our case) job. Molls is there for me -- checking my mirrors, reminding me that my parking brake is on when I putz up a hill, responding to my in-action questions ("Molls, can I turn heeeerrrrrrree? Tooooo laaaaaaaate!") with, "Sure." I need her. Knock on wood, but for all our mini-ventures, we're actually doing pretty well on the roads. Last week we had some trauma -- just trying to go one suburb to the East for yoga, we ended up in the back road with Molls reading the road atlas as I searched for a protected right turn. Then when we tried to head the other direction, just a few miles up to Hornsby, we ended up on the F3, the major highway that runs north. I meant to write a blog the night that happened, titled, "FU, F3," but I was just to exhausted from the drama and had to get to bed.

As can probably be imagined, we (and by we I mean, me) are still a major source of laughter for those around us as well. Today, we were all in Jock's car taking Hamish and Jac up to the train station, when Hames started talking about the frog that had hopped in the car. I started whimpering of course, about my hatred and fear of frogs and keeping my feet up off the floor as Jocko pulled up photos of "the type of toads that roam this area" on his iPhone. I bought it hook, line and sinker for 5 minutes at least, when he finally told me it was all a big farce. To be honest, I was shocked that he'd let me off that soon and that easy.

Molly laughs when I admit that I'd like to bring words like "bloke" into my everyday vocabulary, and I'm constantly asking her if it's too soon for me to say, "mate" or "how're you going?" One Aussie-ism that I've locked as part of my own lingo is "good on ya" -- the verbal version of a high five. It's just such a great thing to say. When I told Peter (who goes by Farmer, since he's from the Outback) that I wanted to start saying "bloke" he started laughing too and informed me that "you just don't hear too many lasses using the word bloke, but if you want to, righto." When I gave him my best Queensland accent this arvo, he just said, "Yeah. That's a bit more pirate than Queensland. Last I checked we don't speak pirate on the farm."

Whatever the reason, the point is that this lass is living full of good laughs (and good coffee, which will have a post of its own), pulling together all the bits and pieces that make up life in a new place and loving the people that I get to do it with.

On one of our excursions today, Molls turned to me and said, "Thank God we like each other. Just makes this whole thing a lot more fun." Yes, Molls. Thank God. Laughing alone has it's time and place, but laughing together is like pinging into the vocal chords of the universe and saying, "is life good or is LIFE GOOD?!"

It's good.

Oh, hey, LIFE.

2010-07-28T23:32:00.000-07:00

Life's funny.

In April, those ranunculus and Bernie's quote were getting me through the day.
Today, I'm packing up to see if Bernie's homeland is all it's cracked up to be.

And I really need some ranunculus. Badly.

In past lives, I used to make lists a lot. Lists of things to do, places to go, and endless, endless options of lives to live and people to live them with. If I'd made one for 2010, here's what it would've looked like.

January - Spilled coffee on my winter-white coat at least 30/31 days, laughed with Katie, tried to survive winter, sat around a campfire with Australian friends and wondered if I should move to their country.

February - Spilled coffee 28/28 days, stayed up too late during the week of the Prayer Breakfast, made a million memories that can be filed under 'Snowmaggedon,' wondered if winter would ever end.

March - Stopped wearing my coat in defiance of winter, said farewell to one of my faves, watched the Oscars with chocolate sauce and the Deans, wondered what my next job would be.

April - Was infected again with Potomac Fever, laughed at tourists, loved the cherry blossoms, remembered why I love Cora so much, spent an unexpected Easter in a most delightful way and wondered if I was the first person whose life had literally been saved by ranunculus.

May - Cried for joy at the airport in Dallas, cried with hope in the Fairmont lobby with SJ, cried with horror at Minneapolis (and all it implies), emailed Australia-friends with a wild idea, traipsed the Frenchie Riv with Cora and the family, cried with anticipation after an early morning call from Molls, quit my job, wondered what the hell I was doing.

June - Danced at Vegas, mourned the loss of the 'costia, packed the basement, hugged goodbyes at IJM, wished for answers but enjoyed questions, was introduced by Gavs to a drink that altered my life forever, started a business with P, wondered how I ever deserved the friends I have.

July - Trekked from DC to Bulverde via Chattanooga, New Orleans, and Breauxbridge, ate fried alligator, listened to Ryan Bingham on repeat, wooed Er, DG and Katch into love with my home state, ate Mexican food, sweated through Bikram, procrastinated packing by writing blog posts, wondered how cold it's really going to be in the Sydney winter.

August - Loaded some belongings and re-lit the adventure soul, learned what 15 hours on Qantas is really like, lived with my fifth family in the past 3 years, started a new job (or two), learned Aussie slang, wondered what the rest of the year would bring.

September - TBD, Tamboon Ave.

October - TBD, Tamboon Ave.

November - TBD, Tamboon Ave.

December - Home in time for my birthday, and hopefully not ready to spill coffee on the white coat and start the cycle over again...

All this planning, all these musings, all the memories laugh-able and cry-able -- they really are just the part I know. Hopefully I'll know more in the next months. I'll write if I do.

Orange Ranunculus and Far-off Friendship

2010-04-21T21:26:00.000-07:00

"Each and every time, we, I, can never express enough the whole experience in any better way than to say, It is obvious when God has His Hand on anything we do, it is always beyond the general understanding."

(Bernie Glaser, reflecting on time with our Aussie/Texan friends in February)

Like/Dislike

2010-03-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

I just read this in one of the favorite books,

To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying 'Amen' to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.

(Robert Louis Stevenson)

It made me think of this quote, from one of my favorite posts on one of my favorite blogs,

“You have two options,” he said, “chocolate or vanilla ice cream. Which do you choose?”

“Chocolate,” she replied.

He asked why, and then she gave her reason.

He repeated his initial question: chocolate or vanilla? Her answer came with a different reason. They repeated this back and forth twenty or so times.

Finally, having asked “Chocolate or vanilla?” and hearing the response “chocolate” once more, he again asked why.

“Because I choose chocolate! That’s why.”

“Good. You’ve just made the first choice of your life.”

I decided to some things I like* this weekend.
Just because I like them.

Happy Friday.
Do something you like.

*These include, but are not limited to: margaritas, hiking in Shenandoah, and neon nail polish.

See ya, Gluten

2010-03-17T20:20:00.000-07:00

There were a lot of things that were weird about my freshman orientation, Bible Belt edition, at A&M. First of all, all of the groups were named after the 12 tribes of Israel. So for every large group session, each tribe would come in cheering "RUBEN, RUBEN" or "GAD is RAD."

It was weird.

Also weird was the fact that I even signed up for the weekend, since a) I don't like conferences, b) I don't do team sports, and c) I really hate camp food. You get it. Essentially this was my perfect hell.

One of the ice breaker things we did was memorize everyone in our tribe based on something that they self-identified as a defining thing about themselves. I have no idea what I said about myself. Actually, I have no idea what anyone said about themselves, except for one girl. When it came to her, the one word, the one nugget, her whole self that she wanted to be known as by this gangly group of 18-year-olds who she potentially would interact with for the rest of college -- the word she said was simply,

"Bread."

Bread?

Bread.

She really liked bread. I guess the ice breaker worked because literally every time I saw her for the next three and a half years, her name would sometimes escape me, but I always thought about bread. I really judged her for it then. I mean literally? Bread? Is it really possible to be that obsessed with bread?

Recently, I've realized that I'm not so far from her. A hot mess of thick-crusted sourdough with a little olive oil and fresh ground pepper makes me a little bit weak in the knees. I would trade dessert for a week for that. Or maybe a month.

I love it.

I love sourdough.
I love Ezekial.
I love ciabatta.
I love kalamata bread.
I love it all.

In college, my favorite place for a $2-5 lunch (or dinner, or breakfast) was the one and only Blue Baker. I hid in the corner, between the pillars and the window and set up my 17" Dell laptop that weighed 20 lbs and wrote and studied and dipped my fresh, hot bread in a cup of tomato bisque. In the same way that Christian intro camp felt like hell, this scenario was my perfect heaven.

They baked two specialty breads every day, and you'd better believe that I knew that schedule by heart.

This whole reminiscing is, in part, a eulogy. I've just discovered that I'm allergic to wheat, which may be the most tragic news I've received since, well, ever. And saying goodbye to wheat means saying goodbye to bread for me.

To say this is going to be hard would be the understatement of the year. For one thing, my sister S works at one of the best bakeries on the East Coast, and she's really able to hold her own in the bread department now. Furthermore, it just sucks to have to give up bread. Period.

I guess that all I can hope for is that I'll outgrow this. That happens sometimes with allergies, I hear. Please God.

spring omnipotent goddess Thou

2010-03-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

spring omnipotent goddess Thou
dost stuff parks
with overgrown pimply
chevaliers and gumchewing giggly

damosels Thou dost
persuade to serenade
his lady the musical tom-cat
Thou dost inveigle

into crossing sidewalks the
unwary june-bug and the frivolous
angleworm
Thou dost hang canary birds in parlour windows

Spring slattern of seasons
you have soggy legs
and a muddy petticoat
drowsy

is your hair your
eyes are sticky with
dream and you have a sloppy body from

being brought to bed of crocuses
when you sing in your whisky voice
the grass rises on the head of the earth
and all the trees are put on edge

spring
of the excellent jostle of
thy hips
and the superior

ee cummings

Good night, that's an early morning.

2009-10-09T08:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't slept since July.

I think it was July, at least.

July is the month that I've attributed to long, restful nights of 8+ hours of sleep. July is when I gave up caffeine. July is when I read summery book after summery book.

And then it all changed.

I've been trying, since July, to figure out whose fault it is that I don't sleep anymore. I think it's MB's fault.

When she signed a lease up at 125th and Columbus, her move to NYC became more than a fluttery little dream. Part of facing the reality that was coming on September 1st was a commitment to 'do something fun in DC every day' until MB left.

This is where the problems arose.

See, for one of the two of us (hint: she's taller than 5 1'), this kind of socializing had to be intentional. For the other, who has long suffered and recently been diagnosed with FOMO (fear of missing out), a challenge like this was just a needle in the hand of an addict. A no-max credit card in the hands of a shopaholic. This is what this excess of plans were like for me.

It's a real problem. A very real problem.

I keep telling myself that it's a good problem to have. I mean, it is, right? To just enjoy humanity that much that I can't say no to hanging out?

Just to be clear, it's not always a plethora of plans that keeps me from sleeping at night. There is another culprit. It's the simple fact that many (a possible majority?) of my friends fall into one or more of the following occupational buckets: unemployed, partially employed, or bizarrely employed.

In contrast, I would just consider myself traditionally, 9-5ishly, suit-wearingly DC employed.

Unemployed, partially employed and bizarrely employed do not follow the same schedule as the rest of the universe. For some, evenings begin at 12 am and breakfast doesn't happen till afternoon of the next day. For another lucky crew, the whole day is spent in the comfort of Tryst, or a living room, or a park, solving the issues of the world one Gmail ping at a time.

They generally aren't forced to look alive by 8:30 (or 9 if I'm pushing it). So when they want to laugh til dawn, or bake at midnight, or go for a late movie on a Tuesday, it's simple. I just give in.

But there are some things, as the CEO of the org where I work likes to say, that are just true.

For me, the truest thing at the moment is that I will just die if I don't get a grip. My October Mom, MD, is reminding me of this every morning, smilingly saying that if we have an in-house H1N1 outbreak, I'm going to be the first to go.

Here's what I'm proposing for myself:
Mondays - sleep by 11
Tuesdays - sleep by 11*
Wednesdays - sleep by 11
Thursdays - sleep by 12:30
Fridays - ???
Saturdays - sleep the heck in

Stay tuned.
Maybe I will be able to start my next post with "I've been sleeping since October..."

*Tuesdays when Hanson is playing do not apply to this schedule.

Because I promised.

2009-08-26T22:16:00.001-07:00

(this is life right now)

Accio, writer-Hanna (!)

2009-02-21T07:20:00.000-08:00

The crowds are clamoring, so here I am, back. By 'crowds,' of course I mean EH and LC, the only two readers of this online chatterboard where my brain unloads from time to time. This is for you, my dears, so when I look back in a year or two (or a month or two?) horrified that I thought I had something worthy for the world to know -- you're the ones to whom I'll direct all the rolling eyes and embarrassing references.

With that disclaimer, I proceed.

It turned cold again, yesterday. Like, COLD. The cold has made me want to suggest to the director of the universe an amendment to the current layout of seasons -- my recommendation would be as follows:

January-April: 60-76 degrees
May-August: 78-89 degrees
September-October: the 60s
November: the 50s
December: the 40s, with 6 days of frigid weather

In addition, I would request a few days of rain in April and October, and the occasional breeze to spread around the Vitamin D in June/July/August.

I just don't know how much longer I can stand it. There are no hints of tan lines anywhere on my body. In fact, I could probably just have the Origins lady match a makeup to a white piece of paper and it would be perfect for my skin tone.

Ugh.

It's time for some life! It's time for some green grass and neon pedicures! Knock knock, spring -- come save me before it's too late! Why am I using exclamation marks?! I hate exclamation marks! The winter is making me go off my rocker!

To give it some credit, this winter did mark some big milestones in the life of this summer-souled Texginian. I learned how to change a license, title and register a car, and attach license plates. It's hard to express how adult-like I felt after this hurdle was crossed. Also, the license plates sat in my windshield until I was pulled over for expired registration and the very confused officer saw my current plates sitting in my windshield and stalled for several minutes acting like he was going to give me a ticket for stupidity and then just said, "Ma'am, go find a screwdriver. Put these on your car." Yowza.

Also, it marked a year of living in the hometown of American democracy. The faces that were new when I first moved to 21st Rd are the familiar ones now. People are asking me for directions, and I can give them. I know where I am now, and I know who I am here.

This winter, I skiied for the first time this side of the Mississippi with new friends and my own ski goggles (slowly owning more, borrowing less). I experienced the inauguration on the slopes, humming hail to the Chief as I froze my face off on the slowest lift in America -- and let the 2 million visitors freeze their faces off on the Mall. I thought I'd finally get warm driving back in RG's XTerra, but his dictatorship over the floor heat (read -- NO heat) made BG and I rebel by playing Rockapella and dcTalk the whole way back from West Virginia. Good times.

I passed the half-a-year mark at my job and continue to thank my lucky stars that I get to work in such a great environment. I also continue to thank my lucky stars that they implemented the mandatory administrative skills test (a practical where you have you use Outlook, make a travel advance, manage a calendar) after I was hired. I still hire KM as my e-mail organization consultant regularly. I've learned a ton this year, and I'll take anyone on who says they might have a better boss or better coworkers than me. It's impossible.

This winter was my first Obama NPB, my first time to be visited by SJE and my first time dance at a motown club (!!). I'm trying my hand at web-text writing for the relaunch of some friends' NGO site and delving deeper into the world of atrocities facing children that just need to be told. The savvy ones around me have gotten me hooked on Twitter (which I once hated on as 'facebook for old people') and I lost another retainer, so it was me and the bracefaced 14 year olds back at the ortho all over again. He laughed actually, and said, 'Well -- you only wear this at night, so it should be pretty hard to lose, unless your dog eats it.' I said, 'Well, funny story...' (Miss you, Jorge) I've continued to buy books all winter and I'm slowly getting through them. Latika's Theme and long conversations with KPA have been distracting me from the frigidity of my basement apartment (what Emma calls 'legit cold'), and Sadie's laughy stories are keeping me close to ATX (at heart).

The tune of my life is coming together -- it's an off beat melody with high highs and low lows, but is being made interesting by loves and lovers from Highland Park to Addis Ababa and everywhere in between.

So, yeah. The winter's been alright, I guess. But I'm readier for spring than I ever thought I could be. I've set a date for my foot tattooing and I've recruited a friend to hold my hand. It's time.

You Texans enjoy that sunshine; I'll keep taking my Vitamin D supplements and hunker down till April explodes.

X's and O's,
hs

Writer's slump.

2009-01-09T08:36:00.000-08:00

This is the third attempt of the morning at writing.

The first two were drastic failures.

2009 is supposed to be the year of writing, but it's turning into the year of writer's slumping.

I think that means it's time for an adventure.

Another reason I know it's time for an adventure is that I verifiably got excited this morning when I realized the perfect number of Sugar in the Raw packets that it takes to sweeten a 16 oz. coffee from the cafeteria downstairs.

If that's not pathetic beyond all belief, I don't know what is.

So I'm turning 2009 into the year of getting out of writers slump via adventure.

There have, of course, been a few mini-ventures lately -- the trip last night to Taqueria Distrito Federal (or as NF calls it, 'TDF') up in Columbia Heights for the best green chile salsa I've had since leaving Paloma Blanca and a great conversation with the owner, Mike. Mike liked me, I think, because he said he would start looking around Crystal City for a franchise location when I promised to come back pronto.

There was also the too-short trip to Tryst a couple of nights ago -- sadly, I've been going so seldom, that a Tryst outing can actually be classified in the realm of mini-ventures. New friends and a new waitress (her name is Secret -- ask for her every time) made my reunion with the old favorite especially good, not to mention the delicious decaf version of my favorite hippielatte. I always have to employ a slight restraining order on myself after hanging out with these friends -- people from DTJ -- otherwise, my hand's on the mouse ready to buy a ticket to Timbuktu, and my suits are in a bag on their way to Goodwill. The order is working, but being with them is still totally fresh air for the soul.

So, yeah -- I'm working on getting out of my slump. And whether my embarrassingly small joys will get published regularly? Stay tuned.

XOXO, dcgirl.

2008-10-28T18:17:00.000-07:00

I did something mildly terrifying last night.
If you had told me a year ago that I would someday do what I did, I wouldn't have believed you.
It's all Serena Van der Woodsen's fault.

To my credit (maybe?), it was a director of the non-profit where I work who got me hooked on the show. And she has a MDiv from Princeton.

If she can love Gossip Girl, I can love Gossip Girl.

But last night, it just rolled off my tongue -- "SIDEBAR," I said, and then continued with my tangent. "SIDEBAR," I said, just like B, when she drags Chuck off for a snipey lecture. "SIDEBAR," I said, and then realized how effortlessly I had just incorporated GG lingo into my everyday vocabulary.

So move over, Shakespeare -- the Upper East Siders are the vocab factories of the 21st century.

I was in their home this weekend for the first time since May. And it was glorious. For the first time ever, NY seemed like a place I could be and enjoy and not just bustle about in. This was probably because I prepared this time.

My preparation consisted of consulting KMK to find his 'can't live without 'em' spots, which should really be everyone's first stop when planning a vaca or a stayca. He suggested these two spots, which I will, in turn suggest to you:

Jack's Stir Brew Coffee - Everything a coffeehouse should be -- cozy, fair-trade, organic, tasteful chalkboards, eclectic people with big textbooks. Home run.

Three Lives and Co. - Everything a bookstore should be -- wood floors, packed shelves, witty greeting card collection, on a cobblestone street. Home run, part two.

Being in the W Village led me to an important conclusion: I like NY if I can be in it. I could maybe even live in NY if I could live in it. But that's a sidebar. (!)

Other weekend highlights included some great tunes by The Northern (I keep saying 'I knew them when...') and the halftime show during Columbia football's win over Dartmouth. If only I had had a video camera to film their 'marching band,' I would be skyrocketing to YouTube stardom. As a taste, there was one point when a band member portrayed Sarah Palin running around with her trumpet as a gun trying to kill the 'Dartmoose...'

Other firsts of the weekend included hearing Tim Keller live, dreaming DTJ with Wade McM, reflecting in Central Park with my pen and paper, the NY Public Library, and the beauty of Penn Station's straight shot to DC.

It was pure glory.

Now I'm back in what WGTS 91.9 calls, 'the most important city in the world -- the city of Freedom,' and I'm feeling important and free.

I'm also feeling like I'm going to miss the FRCS's and MRCS's when they abandon ship next week. The memorabilia is getting even more intricate these days -- silk scarves for the ladies, woven belts for the men, all branded with that very Mavericky logo.

Mostly, I'm feeling back. I'm another month older and another month yuppier and I'm picking up new vocab from pop teen shows every day. I love my life.

XOXO.

Orienting the leaf

2008-10-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm back.

'I promise I'm not crying, I just have this weird eye thing'

2008-10-03T20:23:00.000-07:00

I have said that phrase at least five times today.

One second, I'm fine. The next, my eye (usually only one at a time) is gushing and as CM noted tonight, I 'look like [my] dog died.' Awesome. Hopefully my steroid eye drops will kick in pronto. Could years of over-emotionalism have locked my tear glands into permanent overtime?!

So yeah, this is a disclaimer. I do cry. A lot. But this time, if you hear my phrase -- the one about not crying and the weird eye thing -- I swear I'm not making it up.

Before you ask about my dog's health (Jorge!) or offer me chocolate, try Visene.

Thanks and gig 'em.

Trips to Texas Between January and June: ZERO

2008-09-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

Am I a homebody?
You decide.

SA: June 2-16
Boerne: July 10-14
SA/Austin: August 12-18
Dallas: October 10-15
SA/Comfort: November 26-30
SA/Comfort/Austin: December 19-28

The pursuit of yuppie-ness.

2008-09-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

A block from my old house, on the Hill, there was a church billboard that read, "Seeking: Yuppies and Buppies."

It was a little weird.

When I read it the first time, I thought to myself, 'I'm no yuppie and I'm a little unsure of what a buppie is, so see ya.' But friends, yuppie-ness is upon me. This week, I've been both fighting it and giving in pretty equal measures, so I'll let you all decide where I stand.

I carpool to work. MB and I have a schedule, we meet outside at 8:05, we share a parking pass. We talk about how the 9-5 is tolling on our sleep habits, about how to take advantage of living the DC life, about how to maintain our bohemian souls while teetering around the cubicles in heels.

I shop (in my suit) for heels during lunch. There is no question. Only yuppies do this.

I pick up dinner from the salad bar at Whole Foods. Me and every other Clarendon twenty-something -- everyone stole my original idea! As I ordered my Cajun-spiced sweet potatoes, I did console myself that, unlike the shaved-head workout guy next to me, I didn't refer to the WF prepared foods server as 'my main man.'

I am in a book club, reading a Russian novel. Granted, I'm about 140 pages behind, and keep reading The Prisoner of Azkaban to distract myself. But I'm in a book club, with, ahem, colleagues. And we're reading the quintessential Brothers Karamazov.

I take yoga. Power yoga, that is. My friend and I didn't actually realize it was power yoga until we were doing what seemed like a million sets of down-dog/plank/up-dog.

I speak in Outlook lingo. It's pathetic.

I'm researching adult art classes. Digital photography at the Art League? Mosaic-making on Sundays? Typography?

One day, I'll live in that little hut I keep talking about -- the cinderblock one that I build myself, but for now, the question remains:

Am I in pursuit of yuppie-ness?
Or is yuppie-ness in pursuit of me?

The four faces of Crystal City.

2008-08-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

When you visit Crystal City for the first time, you might feel like it is an interesting or diverse place. Quickly enough though, you would realize you were wrong - you just had not yet learned to accurately identify and distinguish between the four faces of Crystal City.

Only four faces, you say?

Yes. Only four faces.

I rolled into the next-door hotel's Starbucks around 8:32 this morning, and until 8:56ish analyzed and categorized people to my little heart's content, from the comfort of my corner spot by the window. More and more undercaffeinated twenty to fifty-somethings stood glassy-eyed in line, and more and more I enjoyed the game I was playing with myself. I started to complicate my game a little by categorizing each individual before they walked in the door and then getting fancy by actually predicting their drink.

Now, at this point, you're either about to call a rehab center for Starbucks addicts and have me checked in tomorrow morning, or you're going to think I've actually been doing something with that little bit of Sociology I took in college.

It's a little of both.

I digress. The four faces.

The four precise categories of people in Crystal City are as follows:

Category 1 - Tourist
Category 2 - Government Employee
Category 3 - Republican Campaign Staffer
Category 4 - IJM Staffer

It is important to realize that a) each of these are highly distinct groups, and b) with a little guidance, you will be able to recognize and tell each group apart at a moment's notice. We'll first go through the exterior indicators before moving on the more tricky (and at first, confusing) nuances.

Category 1 - Tourist

This group should actually be broken into two categories: Eighth-graders and Other.

Approximately 7 billion eighth-graders grace the streets of Crystal City every year. This is because a) it is in the book of eighth-grade law that every human should visit Washington, DC before beginning high school, and b) Crystal City is cheap. If you're not quick enough to distinguish this group by age alone at 8 am, check their hat, their shoes, and their cash. The hat will be flat-billed with DC embroidered on it, and you can be 99% certain it was purchased from a street vendor yesterday. The shoes are either Etnies or Reefs, depending on the type of eighth-grader, and the cash is all in crisp 50s and 20s (from Dad).

The 'Other' category will make up everyone else who is a tourist. They can be spotted mostly in family groups, with a breakdown a little something like this:

Annoyingly-DC loving Dad
White tennis shoe-wearing Mom
Deeply aggrivated 14-year-old girl (texting)
Ecstatic 11-year-old boy (hanging with Dad)

Dad, Mom and 11-year-old will be wearing last year's Old Navy flag tshirts and khaki. The teen will be in American Eagle from head to toe, with an emphasis on the black liquid eyeliner.

Tourists have been known to order many drinks at Starbucks, but the key thing to keep in mind is that going to Starbucks is still 'cool' to them, as opposed to it's absolutely irreplaceable role in the rest of our lives. Generally, they go with whatever is chalked up as the 'drink of the day,' or 'barista's pick.'

Category 2 - Government Employee

Some might argue that government employees are the most noticeable of all, because they often wear matching camo suits, with matching tan lace up boots, and matching haircuts from the 80s. I would argue that Category 3 is actually the most noticeable group, but we'll get there in a moment. Something to remember is that some government employees do not wear the camo and boots, but nearly all have haircuts from the 80s. If somehow, they are missing these two features, check around their neck: they ALL wear lanyards with ID cards. This is also helpful if you are trying to distinguish between a Category 2 and a Category 1, 3 or 4. No one else wears lanyards.

If it should come to a point of listening to drink orders to positively ID a lifer in the government, listen for two things: a ridiculous drink choice and extreme anger when it is made incorrectly.

For example, this morning a female government employee (in her case with camo, boots, 80s haircut AND lanyard) was texting on her Blackberry when the barista called her order. She barely looked at him before shoving it back across the counter and saying, "This is WRONG. I ordered a CHOCOLATE banana Vivanno."

Poor guy. He looked at her with pity. "I mean, lady, if all you can order is a tall chocolate banana Vivanno and you think you're cool in that camo and boots: fine, I'll remake it for you."

Category 3 - Republican Campaign Staffer

As I mentioned previously, this group is, in my opinion, the most noticeable and the most fascinating. Again, we have two subcategories: Male Republican Campaign Staffer (MRCS) and Female Republican Campaign Staffer (FRCS).

The MRCS's are a cinch, they all look exactly the same and always order the same drink. Think pleated khaki, Polo Oxford (color options limited to white, blue, pink, yellow and lavender), bow tie or striped regular tie, and tan driving shoes.

They order Venti drip coffee, and pronounce Venti ven-teeeee. The farthest north they come from is Alexandria, and the farthest west Knoxville.

The FRCS's can be a bit more difficult, simply because a) they have more clothes, and b) they either straighten or curl their hair depending on the humidity level. You can generally be certain, however, that they will be in J. Crew from head to toe, have highlights, and a Southern drawl. They are also perpetually underdressed, except on Fridays, when they're told to wear skinny jeans and Tori Burch flats. Judging by the quantities of these you will see each Friday, there is simply no other explanation.

FRCS's are generally patronizing at the ordering counter, slowly drawling out their order so that the baristas (most of whom are of Ethiopian origin) can 'understand' them. They could save themselves the step, though, because, similarly to the MRCS's, they all order the same thing: a Grande skim, 1 pump sugar-free vanilla latte, over ice. On the days that FRCS's need an extra boost (read, hangover), they order a Venti, but unlike MRCS's, they pronounce it vennn-taaaay, because they learned that when they studied in Florence the summer after their junior year.

If you miss the MRCS/FRCS crowd at Starbucks, you can quickly find them at their second favorite hangout, the front circle, for an afternoon smoke break.

Category 4 – IJM Staffer

Category 4 folks are really the glue that holds the little microcosm of Crystal City together. They are justice seekers by trade, idealists at core and hipsters on the weekends. They are at Starbucks in the morning either because they arrived at HQ at 7:58 and are ready for a break by the time Stillness rolls around, or they time their commute just right to put them in line at 8:32. They're in a suit, and they look good in it. They carry a Moleskin, a pen, the New Yorker, and a book by either Dallas Willard, or, for the old faithfuls – Oswald.

They're nice in line, they know their favorite barista's name, and they always put their change in the tip cup. This proves highly effective, as baristas have been known to give free upgrades and drinks to many kind-hearted and gentle-tongued IJMers. Because most Category 4s are at Starbucks in protest to the bucket of drip in the break room, they generally order uncomplicated, yet insightful drinks. The go-to would be the latte, but often times the more health-conscious Category 4s opt for soy to both cream and sweeten their drink guilt-free.

On nice days, all Category 4s are outdoors, dreaming of the weekend, when they will either be brunching at Eastern Market, camping with colleagues, or kayaking. In winter, and when the humidity level peaks above 87%, they are more likely to remain indoors, in the corner stuffed chair with their tall steaming cup of joy. Either way, at 8:57 every morning, they rise from their seats and walk together towards the elevator lobby. Often, they meet each other on this path, and join forces until it's a small army that waits for one of the two working elevator to the next-to-the-top floor.

Category 4s are a smaller contingency than any of the other three faces of Crystal City, but by the looks they get in line, it is clear that their presence is known and their status coveted.

These, friends, are the four faces of Crystal City.

Now that you understand the basics, it should be noted that, due to the laws of human error, you will sometimes mistake one category for another. A very-young FRCS might be mistaken as the overdressed teen daughter of a tourist family. A government employee might have forgotten his lanyard and added a bow tie from the 80s to match his hair from the 80s and be taken for a washed up MRCS. Tourist dads are also easy to mistake for over-zealous call-center workers. It happens.

IJMers, are never mistaken for government employees, simply because they are nice to the baristas, and they never order chocolate banana Vivannos.

Of all mistaken identities, the most troubling is when a Category 4 is believed to be a Category 3. Usually the mistake is made by a Category 2, who has been been officing in the building so long that all faces without lanyards just look alike. Apparently, it is difficult to distinguish between classy dark toned pant-suits with well-placed accessories and splashes of color and the fruitbasket of J. Crew's summer skirt line and espadrilles. If you find yourself unsure, simply look at the reading material: no Category 4 will read People, especially not during Stillness. And C4s never, ever take smoke breaks.

Knowing this information and having the ability that you now do will be immensely helpful as you traverse the wilds of Crystal City. Before they even punch the buttons, you will be able to predict how many floors you will be stopping at before reaching your destination. (Note: Although it is generally undesirable to be in an elevator with all C3s, it is fast – you have only two floors at which to unload.) You will know the weather forecast by one check of the FRCSs hairdo's (scrunched curls when rain's on the horizon), and you will know the sidewalk vendors' summer collection like the back of your hand.

Most importantly, you will know that you should never, ever accuse a Category 4 of being an FRCS. All of her justice-seeking passions will likely be turned momentarily toward vindicating her own image from guilt by association, and she will valiantly sport her blazer every time she leaves her desk.

Really? Me? An FRCS?

Welcome to the Kinkade Palace.

2008-08-04T19:32:00.000-07:00

I honestly don't know how I possibly could have missed it. It's big. It's cottage-y. It has glowing windows and sunny rays all over the trickling, sparkling brook. It has a sunset that maybe even God couldn't paint.

But somehow I missed it, till KMK quietly said, 'Um. Now, who do we have above the couch?'

Thomas Kinkade, folks. That's who we have above the couch.
And that is why, in my head, I will never refer to my new home as anything less than the Kinkade Palace.

Today is my one-week anniversary of living in the KP -- and let me tell you, it has been a glorious week. Here are a few reasons:

Day 1 commute: 8:08-8:19 am/5:43-5:52 pm
Matisyahu in Call and Response
Spout Run is pretty
Me and Bluebucks were reunited
My new built-ins are full of books
MJCP lives around the corner now
In Russia, my room would be housing three generations; it's just that big
At church, the pastor listed great heroes of the faith as being, 'Wilberforce, Mother Theresa, Haugen...'
The KP's lighthouse motif*
The communion server at TFC**

I keep finding myself saying (in my head, duh) '---aaaand, she's back.' That's how I feel: back. The dust is settling and I'm shaking some of it off my shoulders and I'm shifting into adventure mode and it's a place I love to be. Back means you're revisiting what was and back means being open to the life that's on it's way.

I'm so glad to be back. And I'm so glad to be living in the shadow of the Kinkade.

*Includes key rack, three framed prints and the most amazing bedside lamps in modern history. One switch lights up the lighthouse cutouts only, two switches the bulb only, three switches both. I generally stick with one switch because it's awesome.

**The sermon was about how church-people often turn people off to the church -- and was highlighted by this order-loving parishioner. When the man in front of me reached into her little silver bowl of communion wafers (probably was Baptist or used to pass-the-plate communion), she snapped. In a loud whisper, she commanded, 'Sir. Could you PLEASE fold your hands? Thank you.' I almost wondered if she'd been planted to prove a point about the sermon, but either way, her little interlude made my Sunday.

I don't think US Airways is a real airline.

2008-07-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

We haven't been able to steal internet from the upstairs neighbors for the past few weeks, and I am still yet to figure out the modem/Verizon service we've been paying for since May, so I probably should change my title to 'This was just the part I knew...'

I spent last weekend in Texas.

It's a good thing I love Texas, because the airlines didn't make it easy on me to get there and back. Actually, they made it almost impossible. Kayak.com is awesome, yes, but sometimes you've got to pay the big bucks for little luxuries while flying -- and by little luxuries, I mean, like, arriving in your destination.

It started out well enough -- LH gave me a midday ride to mine and Jesus' favorite airport, just a hop/skip/jump from work and a pleasant place to spend the mandatory pre-boarding hour. They even have a Brooks Brothers, complete with mannequins in double-popped Polos and critter shorts (unfortunately my phone upload was too blurry -- use your imagination) and fresh mozzarella melts at Cosi.

I digress.

The trouble started when I arrived in Charlotte. I was scheduled for a one-hour layover, but when I got to the gate, the lights were flashing a time two hours later. I was sad about being stuck in the airport, but really I was saddest that the layover meant I'd be missing LN's bachelorette party at my favorite restaurant in the world.

So I did the logical thing. I put on my best, "I'm Hanna Schmidt and I get what I want" cap and called the 1-800 number for USAirways. I told them I was going to be late for a wedding -- which was mostly true, but to no avail. I sucked it up and decided I'd get my prickly pear margarita and queso sometime soon.

Luckily, I didn't settle in too deeply though, because when I decided to take a little stroll down the corridor, I noticed that there was a sign flashing at the next gate, advertising my flight leaving for SA in five minutes.

Please bear in mind that nearly a hundred others were waiting for the same flight at the same gate where I'd been, and they had no idea our flight was about to take off without us. I mentioned this as a problem to the USAirways clerk, but it didn't really phase her, so for the good of humanity, I ran back down to gate 12, and yelled, "If you're going to San Antonio, it's leaving in five minutes from Gate 13!" This was followed by a stampede of tired Texans, who just wanted to get home.

We were then instructed to trek across the tarmac and board our little plane via rolling stairway.

The flight got weirder when I boarded and noticed a woman in first class with an air cast on her right leg. It's not that people with air casts are that weird, but I shot her a double take when I saw that she had no pants on. That's right folks. I'm sure adjusting that air cast was uncomfortable, but even in first class, a plane is just not the time/place to be wearing no pants. It was hugely bizarre.

This was followed by many more weird things.

I was almost certain that US Airways not a real airline when we finally lurched to a stop in SA and I suddenly noticed the logos embroidered on the seats (again, the Centro camera failed me -- I should've broken down and gotten the iPhone) which in no way resembled the US Airways logo. They were a cross between a sunset and a 'W' -- probably some defunct airline that went broke in 1991 (the last time it was reupholstered).

Anyway.

Despite a rough start (I did miss those fantastic little gorditas...) the weekend was fantastic.

I always forget how wonderful my friends are until I'm forced by miles to live without them. But being back with Kusiak, SJ, Whit, Charlotte and Lesbo was a breath of fresh air.

You can take the girls out of the sorority, but you can't take the snuggle out of the girls...

I love you.

Thanks for the lessons on lime use in Coronas...

If only Jorge could have come!

Lemons and limes

The weekend was spectacular, the friends even more so -- Carlota, there's hope for you and the wedding singer, I could see it in his eyes. The 'getting back to DC' saga is too long to post -- let's just say that after 14 hours in a variety of airports, the Henshaws were a welcome sight on Monday night...

I love you, friends.
I love you, Texas.
I disdain you, US Airways.

See ya, June.

2008-06-30T20:35:00.000-07:00

There are 24 minutes left in June.

June has been good to me this year -- it brought news of a new job, a much-needed homecoming, pools, Kerbey Lane, Father's Day. There were five days of DC with Mom, and wicker furniture and Container Store runs. It brought Saturday mornings with the Deans and long walks with Laurel and a new cubicle and a new schedule and new/old friends. June made me think, June made me laugh, June made me cry and June made me remember who I am.

Based on recent posting trends, it's clear that a (large, enormous) part of who I am (and thus part of what I've been remembering) revolves around Texas. Because of this, my Aggie roommate and I trotted down Constitution on Sunday afternoon to 'see our people' at the Folklife Festival. There were so many things to write about, I almost grabbed a napkin from the Texas Rib Stand to make notes.

In order of discovery:

1/4 of a watermelon sold as a 'slice' for $3 - LJ's face was dwarfed by it. Amazing.

The Dancehall - The 9 minutes we spent in this tent could probably provide enough material (and certainly enough characters) for my first novel -- It was cool inside, so the crowds were loving the folding chairs and rickety metal fans. A band was playing two-stepping tunes from the front, and it didn't take long to see that the people who braved the dancefloor didn't feel like they were braving anything. They were awesome, and they knew they were awesome. My favorite couples were:

5) Thirty-year-old dad in Keens dancing with his toddler in arms; totally in their own world.
4) Jack Sprat couple look-alikes, she with whitish-gray pigtails, a full-length denim skirt, tennis shoes and, if my memory serves me, a fanny pack. Estimated age: 72.
3) Lesbian hiking duo. They were GOOD.
2) Presenters, who apparently do this for the whole festival. This group included a cute brunette in a blue sundress and a gray-haired guy with chops whose screen-print t-shirt was so sweaty after the first dance that he took a break to exchange it for an alternate screen-print t-shirt.
1) Asian 60-year-old lady with short, red dyed hair, in long skirt, velvet, sunglasses and metallic gold lace-ups. Her partner was completely bald, in jorts and black knee socks and tennies. If I could effectively capture his expression while spinning his little lady across the dance floor, I'd no doubt win a Pulitzer. Think exaggerated movement...

The Texas Taqueria - They said they came from Dallas, and unfortunately (especially compared to some awesome nachos Corie and I had the night before) my fajitas tasted like they'd been shipped from Dallas. Last week.

The Texas Noodle House - This was the weirdest thing I have ever seen. Noodles are perhaps the most uncharacteristic food of any Texas demographic, and yet, of three Texas food choices, one was Vietnamese noodles? I'm still reeling.

Polish Texan Cooking Demo - Also weird, the chef kept talking about how 'all over San Antonio when you order breakfast tacos you'll hear a type of taco called a Taco Polaco' with Polish sausage. I've been around the block as far as breakfast tacos go, but never have I ever heard the term Taco Polaco. At this point, I started to wonder if they hired actors from NOVA to pose as various types of would-be Texans.

The unbelievably tan beer-gut guy - He was almost undoubtedly from Port Aransas, originally. He was warm, you can't blame him for hanging out half-clothed on the Mall.

There was so much more too. I wish I'd gone through with that writing on the napkin thing.

Who knows where July and I are heading, but I'm along for the ride, as long as I don't have to stop at the Texas Noodle House.

Dear Texas, I miss you.

2008-06-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

Maybe I should apologize for being so brazenly Texan in my last post, but I don't really feel bad yet. This deep Texas pride thing is relatively new for me, so I guess I feel entitled to my turn. Maybe I'll start to feel guilty if I start randomly sending out "You know you're from Texas if..." forwards or blabbering too frequently about Chuy's Special Enchiladas, but I doubt it.

I love Texas.
And I miss it.

Luckily, the Smithsonian is acknowledging Texas' supremacy this week at the Folklife Festival on the Mall. As of yesterday, three exhibits (and by exhibit I mean large constructions and huge compounds of tents) were set up: Bhutan, NASA and Texas. Sorry, Colorado. Looks like a tent of Crocs and wheatgrass wasn't going to do the trick. Sorry, Washington. Coffee is an all-over-the-world thing now. But Texas, on the other hand --

WE GET TEN DAYS OF MALL REAL ESTATE.

The end.

Dear Texas, I love you.

2008-06-09T00:38:00.000-07:00

I don't know if forgotten is the right word.
I hadn't forgotten, exactly.
But I wasn't actively in the process of remembering.

Somewhere along the line, the soy lattes and the month of February and the markets and the hubbub and the pretty parks and the house/job search and the new friends and the justice seekers had distracted me from my first and primary role in life.

I started to remember when I got on the plane, but it was all over when I hit the ground at SA International Airport. Four hours after leaving Dulles, with a quick stop in Midway (Chicago is totally on the way to TX), I was back, and I remembered instantly, and all thought of becoming a permanent DC yuppie fled my mind.

I remembered why I love being a Texan.

a) It is hot and sunny
b) Texas t-storms are the best in the world
c) People are nice
d) Parking is done in lots
e) Europeans think everyone in the country is like you
f) Pretty much everyone in the country wishes they were like you
g) Texas turnarounds shame traffic circles
h) Our flag is so awesome people make it into running shorts
i) Cherry vodka sour - $2.50
j) Austin is in it
k) Central-freaking-Market
l) There is no need for HOV, because the roads are built big enough
m) People have pools
n) SJ and Roberta rule the roads
o) Whit's Asics own Town Lake
p) Jake owns the state, essentially
q) Two-stepping happens
r) People like the NBA
s) Riverside
t) Billboards are Spanish
u) Almost everything is in Spanish
v) We thought of Whole Foods
w) Our Capitol is bigger than DC's
x) You can get tan in two days
y) We invented a genre of food: TexMex
z) God blessed us

I've kept this list short, of course, because I didn't want the hate comments to be to hot/heavy, but there are millions of reasons why I love Texas and why I've loved being back. It's amazing what a number the sense of homecoming will do on your soul. Texas is like a big quilt to snuggle in and keep me safe and remind me who I am and why I am. Being away makes it just that much sweeter.

So get ready, Washington, DC: I'm coming back for more adventuring, but my roots are dug in the caleche soil. Trying to talk me out of this will be a losing fight.

I will say y'all till the day I die.

Hill Hobbits.

2008-05-20T07:10:00.000-07:00

On May 30th, I will be moving to the Hill.
In order to do so, I will also need to become a Hobbit.

The MacBrides sometimes refer to their Arlington three-story as 'the little Hobbit house' -- mostly because it twists and turns and has lots of stairs. In comparison, there is just really nothing Hobbitish about the MacBrides' house, and just a whole lot of Hobbit qualities about our new place on the Hill. A few of them are:

a) Underground entry

We really want you to come over, but recommend that you bring spelunking gear in order to do so safely. I may just leave my head lamp* at the curb for those who venture over to Maryland Ave. after dark.

b) Junior-sized appliances

Before beginning this house-hunt three weeks ago, I thought 'Honey I Shrunk the Kids' was just a really creepy movie from 1989, not a scientific development documentary. It turns out that appliances in the District have all undergone a mysterious shrinking process, especially the dishwashers. We will in fact be able to wash dishes after a get-together or shindig, but will be forced to limit each load to either 3 margarita glasses or 2 dessert plates and one coffee mug.

c) Really-tall people probably won't fit

This will, of course, thwart LK's hopes of 'befriending' the Washington Wizards starting lineup. Perhaps by the time she finishes undergrad and has her taste of international-ness, we'll be in a more accommodating Dupont penthouse. Perhaps.

d) Cute, in an 'aw, what a cute little _____' way

This, of course, is different than cute in a sprawling shabby-chic way, and different than cute in an 'oh my gosh, Heath Ledger' way. We're talking more along the lines of the reaction you get when you see a tiny Heinz ketchup bottle, a baby-sized football jersey or a model White House. Cute.

e) Located in Middle Earth

Stanton Park on one side, a hop/skip/jump from the Mall down the street, and walking distance to the best blueberry buckwheat pancakes ever to be tasted. If Tryst II were to open around the corner, it would be Heaven, but for now, it's at least Middle Earth.

Promise you'll visit us.

*A favorite possession, perhaps a close second to my little Washington, DC book of lists.

Anyone need a ride to Dulles tomorrow?

2008-05-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

My current Thursday schedule is as follows:

4:30 am - Leave for Baltimore
5:30 am - Deposit LC at Satan's favorite airport*, BWI
7:45 am - Pick up Patrick from Old Town, have breakfast (Jack's?)
9:00 am - Deposit Patrick at Jesus' favorite airport**, Reagan National

If you need to go to Dulles, Atlanta, or O'Hare, just let me know.

Also, I feel that now that I've cooled down a bit from Yasmin's disastrous waitressing fiasco, I should temper my comments, for this reason: some of you have not yet had a Tryst soy latte. A friend Gchatted a few moments ago, saying,

"so Tryst seems like the worst place ever"

As we veteran coffee rats (I have shamelessly bought my way into this demographic) know, Tryst is actually not the the worst place ever. It is possibly the best place ever, just with the worst service ever, and the worst font choices ever.

My friend who made the 'worst place ever' comment happens to also share my loathing for mankind's most devastating typographic invention, the font Papyrus, which is used sporadically throughout Tryst's menu. Obviously, all of my blog posts can't be written about this DC hangout (or from its tables, like most of them have been lately), but when this blog needs a real diatribe, I'll scan a page of the menu and point out the millions of schizophrenic typeface choices that simply prove we should let them do what they do (make really awesome coffee and coffee-flavored alcohol drinks) and let me do what I do (drink their coffee and coffee-flavored alcohol drinks while pointing out bad font choices).

It really is great, though. For you College-Stationers, it's like a twenty/thirty-somethings version of Sweet Eugene's (minus any hint of Sweet Eu-Jesus -- no metal-bound NLTs with hip Christian stickers to be found in this joint) for the neo-liberal human-rights artsy-fartsy probably-jobless crowd in Adams Morgan. Come visit, I'll take you.

Now it's 12:49, which means I'm leaving for the airport in 3 hours and 41 minutes. I'll have to tell Yasmin to make me a triple tomorrow.

*Evidence of Satan's affinity for BDubs is obvious: the extreme inaccessibility, the lack of snack-purchasing options (hard pressed even to find a Starbucks), the inevitable 4 hour delay you generally hit whenever you're within a radius of the place.

**There is no doubt in my mind that if Jesus were to fly into the US tomorrow, He would choose Reagan: they have a Vera Bradley luggage boutique, full-out bookstores while-you-wait, and plenty of organic food choices (all things Jesus likely cares deeply about).

"Um, you do know that the tip wasn't included, right?" (Rudely)

2008-05-12T10:56:00.000-07:00

Tryst is lucky that I haven't given up on them, that's all I have to say.

Honestly. Are there not any trendy, tattooed, boutique-dressed vegetarians in Adams Morgan that can do the simple tasks associated with waitressing? They include:

- Listening to orders

- Turning in orders

- Bringing orders to tables

- Charging the correct amount for orders

- Being a little nice

Every day that I sit in my corner spot and drink my soy latte, I become more and more convinced that there are no competent waitresses in this quadrant.

I understand that they're stressed about their thesis on the philosophic implications of 6th-century agrarian societies. I understand their latest piercing is still somewhat fresh, and the stretching involved to fit the plug will be a painful process. I understand that it's raining, so they couldn't ride their vintage Peugeot road bike to work. I understand there are a million places they would rather be than 'serving' an idealist like me with her Macbook and monogrammed Covey accessories.

I understand these things.

What I don't understand is the apparent extreme difficulty involved in running two credit cards for one check. I don't understand why it's so tough to walk six extra steps and ask if I'd like a refill on my ice water once or twice per shift.

The thing is, I'm nice. I smile. I say 'please.' I tip well. I order more things when I stay longer than I expected. Throw me a bone here.

I'll stay, Tryst. I'll keep giving you chance after chance. But just know that as far as I'm concerned, you need me for way more than a font consultation. And you need me badly for a font consultation.

As read on the Gold's elliptical --

2008-05-06T07:29:00.000-07:00

"And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately -- and the decision must be made by some force -- of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality -- that was close at hand."

- pg. 159 The Great Gatsby

Let the life-shaping commence!

Oh, we're halfway there --

2008-05-05T07:32:00.001-07:00

If my life has ever been lived on a prayer, it's now.
I'm finding it's not such an awful place to be.

Here are a few stats since 4/21:

- I have drunk somewhere in the neighborhood of 17-26 soy lattes, some (i.e. Tryst) better than others.
- I have shared meals with the badass President of DC's finest human rights organization , the best Southern couple North Carolina ever produced, and my favorite surrogate family in Arlington.
- I understand why people see classical music live: the cellist at the National Gallery performance had hair that was more accessory than anything else.
- I have cleaned a desk with remarkable speed and agility and found a treasure trove hidden in my bottom file drawer (6 pair of shoes, a jar of Laura Scudder's crunchy, Pad Thai, socks, and '50 Ways to Find a Lover').
- I have been a mom for a weekend. Enough said.
- I have said goodbye to my first Michigan-friend, my first Egyptian-princess-friend, my first 90's-grunge-friend, with amazingly few tears shed.
- I have underestimated the Atlantic sun (to the point that I couldn't sit down) and squealed incessantly at the Atlantic beauty.
- I have made it halfway or higher through not one, but two books on my spring reading list ('The Shack,' 'Great Gatsby').
- I know where my tire-changing tools are now; given about 6 hours and a flat driving surface, I might be able to change one myself.
- I have decided that Celine and I are one soul in different bodies ('Surprise, Surprise').
- I am now aware that the Hampton Inn in Morehead City offers 'Spring Romance Pkgs.'
- I know, after chatting with Brianna and Anessa on the steps of the National Gallery, that Miley Cyrus has made my name cool again.
- I have spent 120 hours straight with my friend/roommate, and much to Patrick's surprise, we still haven't run out of things to talk about.
- I have not worn any shoes but my broken-in Rainbows, and have gotten my first neon pedicure of the summer; ah, how my feet are rejoicing.
- I have realized that my worldly possessions fit into three stacking suitcases, a Rubbermaid tub, and two crates, and I like it.
- I have moved 3 miles down a road and started looking for a new life, only to find that I'm already halfway there.

So, let it be known: I'm momentarily jobless and penniless, but if laughter and peace could be measured in nickels and dimes, I'd be a rich lady. They sort of are. So I am.

Also, if I had a penny for every time I see a Chihuahua in a disgusting tutu, I could probably fund my soy latte addiction.

Love ya, DC.

I am a victim of illegal blog-title seizure.

2008-04-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Looks like I'm going to have to start copyrighting quotes as soon as they come out peoples' mouths. There are new kids on the blog -- um, block -- and they're not afraid to snatch up witty comments and market them on the web. The monopoly is a thing of the past, but I guess this is America -- a little friendly competition never hurt anyone.

I recently noted that Heaven will be like eating gelato while wearing sandals. I'm afraid I'm going to have to change my answer.

Heaven will be colorful shorts and Rainbow flip-flops, an iced soy latte while waiting in line at the Market, and learning that (YES!) the Mexicana omelet is the special. Heaven will be big sunglasses and laughing (jealously) at Patrick's summer job as a Civil War Conservationist, and the best limeade on earth. Heaven will mean I'm no longer sighing regretfully at KMK's huge stack of reading material, because I will have read them all too. Heaven will be big dogs and girls in sundresses and cameras and frisbees. Heaven will mean a sense of actually knowing where the frisbee is heading and (possibly, even) being able to catch it. Heaven will be frozen lemonade and toasted shoulders and having to stop and gasping for breath after laughing too hard about nothing. Heaven will be people-watching and 78 degrees and knowing all the perfect settings on my Rebel. Heaven will be not rushing and laughing at the menagerie and knowing the tractor-driver-Earth Day-setup-guy.

These things I know so far. I also anticipate knowing that,

Heaven will be wine in a Nalgene and Casablanca on the Mall. Heaven will be potted daisies and Tuesday morning scones and jogging to the Lincoln. Heaven will be rainy afternoons and crowded metros and well-read commutes and the Newseum. Heaven will be jazz and "Get Low" and live U2.

These are what I mean when I say, "patches of Godlight."

PS: If you walked through the Gallery toward around 11:02 this morning, you probably already overheard the following --

LC: "I want to be the First Lady."

HS: "So this whole Human Rights thing is all a scam?! You're just here to pick out the most promising Hill Staffer you can find, and marry your way to the top?!"

LC: "Yeah. It's kind of like the secular version of those girls who go to Christian colleges so they can marry a pastor..."

And yet, somehow it's me who's always judged for my t-shirted sorority ways in college. At least my college choice and lifestyle choices have not been made based the potential ladders to climb towards marital power.

A mystery solved, and A SMALL TENT.

2008-04-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

First, the mystery of the cubicle-gifters is solved:

It was Lerae and Ana. They are so nice.

And now,

I have always wanted a small tent.

I am not sure when this wanting began, but it has gone on for the past few years. Only a choice few people, who (sorry!) got dragged through the small-tent aisle at Target every time we happened onto that side of the store knew. One time, I seem to have mentioned that, "It would be, like the best gift ever if someone got me a small tent."

Ryan seems to have remembered.

Really, this has been a great week. Despite a few breakdowns about, "How am I going to make money?!" [wailing] "What if I just have to go work at an insurance agency?!" and my credit card being rejected a Baked and Wired this afternoon (Red Velvet cupcake #3 this week), life has been lovely.

When Meriweather and I were cruising home on 395 last night, I flipped on the radio and rolled her windows down and sang (loudly) to the tune of "Great Day to Be Alive." The sun was still shining when I closed my eyes (although I passed on both getting a new tattoo and growing a Fu Manchu).

Today was also a great day to be alive for several reasons:

a) Starting The Great Gatsby for the first time ever on the metro.
b) Seeing my perfect future family on the Mall.
c) A chihuahua wearing jeans and a sweater.
d) Celebrating the anniversary of the end of Prohibition at Dubliner's w/the Budweiser Clydesdales.
e) Utilikilt guys at the bar in Dubliner's.
f) The "Perfect Man List."
g) Metroing to the Waterfront for Cherry Blossom Festival fireworks.
h) Seeing Parrish Hardy in the throng of 6 million at the Cherry Blossom Festival fireworks.
i) Pirates
j) Two little girls in pink coats singing "God Bless America" (interspersing original lyrics on occasion) while wearing balloon hats at the fireworks show.

Some of these are self explanatory. Some warrant further comment:

a) "I was rather literary in college -- one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the 'Yale News' -- and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the 'well rounded man.'" - pgs. 8-9

b) Dad is wearing old Redwings, a Polo and fleece vest when he turns to two golden haired cherubs probably named Jack and Mary Cara and shows them to "put out their wings" (Southern brawl, obviously) and "fly after Daddy!" as they went 'flying' across the Mall. Precious.

c/d/e) Only in Washington.

f) The collaborative (and potentially ongoing) masterpiece of six savvy ladies -- his traits will give Achilles/Brad a run for his money.

g/i/j) We and about 6 million others enjoyed the mostly normal show and the fantastic finale. We (LC and I) are still trying to figure out what the association is between the Cherry Blossoms themselves and the large city-wide events that are taking over Washington. Like LC says, "It's like, we have cherry blossoms -- let's teach origami! We have cherry blossoms -- let's have fireworks! We have cherry blossoms -- let's have pirates at the fireworks!"

h) The last time Parrish and I 'ran into' each other was in an orphan summer camp outside of St. Petersburg. I should have expected to run into her at Waterfront station.

To top it off, I got home and remembered that I own a small tent.
Again, the sun's shining as I close my eyes.

Um, the giver really does know my weakness.

2008-04-02T06:10:00.000-07:00

This might be the best week of my life. Maybe I should call Young Life camp and get my money back?

I believed it, for like 2 seconds.

2008-04-01T14:37:00.000-07:00

The people at Google must love their lives.

Where else is it corporate tradition to pull the biggest (arguably) April Fool's prank on earth and pull the legs, so to speak, of millions of cock-eyed Gmailers. I'll admit: I'm not always the quickest person alive, but I like to think of myself as generally aware, in most cases fairly skeptical and even um, cynical, at times.

But last year, they got me.

Somehow, I fell for that whole "paper backup for all of your Gmail folders" thing. This morning when I was logging in at my desk and the back-dating feature flashed onto the welcome screen, I did have to read through it once, check what day it was and read through the intro again before yelling triumphantly, "Oh Google. Them and their April Foolery..."

I'm not that great at pranking, but if I were, I'd want to be Googlish. They are just so cool.

A note in explanation (as promised) of the previous post entitled, "How did everyone find out that I LOVE SURPRISES?!!"

If there's one thing I really do love, it's surprises. This, generally is something that only a few people know about me. But somehow, my newly acquainted work friends, my 'family' in Arlington and Ryan got the memo. (Although Ryan obviously falls into the "few people" category.)

In terms of surprises this week has been easily the best of '08, perhaps of the millennium. They fall into three categories:

a) Packages that are long-awaited and of a mysterious nature
b) Unmarked gifts left in my cubicle
c) Cupcakes

Now, unpacking this list:

a) It started at Jim's, sometime around 12/19, when it would be a natural time to be receiving a birthday present. Ryan had just lost the bid on eBay, so there was the dilemma of whether he should just tell me what it had been and laugh or wait to win another one and ship it off to DC. Obviously, loving surprises, I picked Option B. Then there was the issue of whether to send it to work or home or whatever, all the while interest/curiosity building.

Coming back to the issue of April Fool's, I got home today to a perturbed-looking Chris who, with an annoyed voice said, "Your package came, and Hanna, I think it's alive. I just didn't have time to deal with it -- my in-laws just got in, but it's on the back porch. It's yours to deal with." I kept repeating, "I AM GOING TO KILL HIM," in my mind.

Then, she smiled.

I believed her for longer than I believed Google, she should get a job with them.

b) This is a mystery yet unsolved. It involves rubber duckies and it involves potted ferns. They arrive at various times throughout the day. This is a creative and appreciated individual.

c) This week, cupcakes deserve a category of their own. My first cupcake story was, like, the epitomy of love-to-be-surprised-ness. It involved a few key elements: background knowledge of something I greatly enjoy (i.e. cupcakes), timing (i.e. the doldrums of late afternoon in intern row), and of course, shock.

KMK introduced a few of us to Baked and Wired a few weeks ago, but I kept not going because it's in Georgetown and I drive and Georgetown generally puts me over the edge of inability-to-find-parking upsettedness. When I finally had gone, there were no Red Velvets left. The key to the Red Velvet, is of course, that it is a vehicle for the cream cheese icing (which I once wrote an entire blog posting about, in the olden days). So, to cut a long story short, there was a phone call, that led to a curious trip to the lunchroom fridge, which led to a cupcake-sized box, which led to a Red Velvet and a Chocolate Doom.

Heavenly.

When I got home and expressed to Chris my unbounded delight, she smiled and said, "Well, looks like you're getting cupcakes from two people today," and produced a bag from Heidelberg's.

Was it national Make-Hanna-Happy week and no one told me?!

How did everyone find out that I LOVE SURPRISES?

2008-04-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

More will follow, but for now, anyone living outside the DC metro area, be j...

http://www.bakedandwired.com/

Additionally, if anyone knows anything about these mysterious objects or how they appeared on my desk, please contact me.

(Extension 9984)

The dilemma (II)

2008-03-17T23:54:00.000-07:00

It's not that I'm complaining. My cubicle is prime real estate on Intern Alley -- front and center, lots of face time, lots of looking up when people pass, lots of nice chatty remarks with my friendly colleagues. Talking cubicles, it's lovely.

The point is, I'm there a lot now.

I'll get better at jotting the quick noteworthy happenings of the day, but for now: a monstrously long rambling on some events that simply cannot go unnoticed.

When I got to the office this morning, LC was noticeably lacking the color of the day. Really? According to J.Crew's spring collection (which, Erin, is on my bookmarks toolbar), green is on it's way out as the color of the year (welcome to 2008, yellow and orange...); the least we could do is give it one last hurrah.

But no. In a huff, (and pretty defensively, really) she wailed,

"But it's NOT St. Patrick's Day! The Pope changed it!"

I'm the self-named queen of you-had-to-be-there, but it was a great moment. I for one, was wearing green due to my recent appreciation for this (in my world, at least) long underappreciated holiday.

There are a few reasons why St. Pat's is a delight:

1. Guinness in Church/Blessing of the Shamrocks

At some point in each of your lives, I would strongly encourage you to attend a St. Patrick's Day mass. If you have any itch of imagination or adventure left in your post-grad soul, the concept itself should be enough to get you in the pew 36 minutes early (like it did for us). If for some reason you should be hesitant to attend, let me throw your skepticism to the wind for you.

First off, you will be in a Catholic church, which, with a stroke of shamrock-luck (like ours) will be strikingly beautiful, out of the ordinary and a taste of the sacred that we just don't get much anymore.

Next, you will be surrounded by a group of Irish fashionistas extraordinaire. This year saw a rise in the light-green turtleneck/hunter-green blazer combo for men, with puffy-sleeved emerald tops the rage for the ladies. Also worthy of comment were the toboggan/sweater combos popular in the 85+ crowd, with Irish quips crocheted into the fabric. Obviously all of this was tempered with a fair share of glimmering shamrock pins, ties, hats and tights.

When we came to the part in the ceremony when the 1st graders marched down the aisle with small potted shamrocks and presented them to be blessed, I knew that no stone had been left uncovered. The blessing was in Latin, too, which means people have been blessing shamrocks for a long time. So yeah. The shamrocks got blessed.

Phase 2 of the evening involved a DC fireman in a kilt-uniform (who knew?) bagpiping and directing us down to the parish hall, with huge green celtic crosses lining the hallways. Laura squealed like 9 times when we got within good hearing distance of the unbelievable Irish band (complete with a 12 year old accordian player). We were holding ourselves back from just breaking into a God-awful Riverdancing rendition, because there's something just alive about that music.

It got better when we got to the food table. Salmon. New potatoes. Cheese trays. Seriously? In a church fellowship hall?

It got better again when we were corralled toward a makeshift bar where parishoners were loading up Dixie cups with Guinness.

When we thought it couldn't get better, the dancers came. Their curls were a force to be reckoned with, their costumes were self-designed and they attacked that linoleum floor with their (both hard and soft shoe) jigs. At that moment, I vowed to give my first daughter to a childhood filled with Irish dance. Or maybe I'll just YouTube them every once in awhile. The point is, it was pretty fabulous.

2. That's it, really.

I just don't know how I never noticed Leprechaun Day before.

Aside from reveling in greenness today, my day was made by four separate, but wonderful events (chronologically):

- I uploaded Jack Johnson's new album to my Nano. He never disappoints, but this I really love. Especially "Hope."

- A co-worker iPhoned a picture of a blooming tree at sunrise, and swung by my cubicle to give hope that spring might actually be coming. I then realized that the last time I saw spring was in '04, here in DC. I like spring.

- Melissa and Dave brought a crew to HQ for a tour, great conversation and a great lunch. I love knowing them.

- On my way back in from lunch, a lady was walking towards the gym at the base of our tower. She was not your typical lunchtime-worker-outer-in-an-office-building. She fell more into the late '70s tennis club crowd.

She was proud of her bow-tied sash headband.
She was proud of her sleeveless Lacoste tunic.
She was proud of her white biker shorts and her even-whiter tennies.
And I was proud of her for all of it.

The thought of her has made me smile at least 7 times since that moment.

Ice Dozer Ergonomic Ice Scraper.

2008-02-22T07:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Jesus, send us summertime.

The dilemma.

2008-02-19T19:40:00.000-08:00

In typical me fashion, I have waited too long to update this online basket of mostly-laughter (that is mostly at myself) and quips (mostly ones that only I "get"), and now I have a dilemma.

The dilemma is with the title.

This might not seem dilemma-esque to some, but I like titles. So it is one.

The first potential title, "Brandon hates funny girls." applies to February 6-10.

The second, "Hold on, let my grab my iPhone." applies to February 15-18.

Undoubtedly, both are of the "you had to be there" realm, but I've already typed like three paragraphs, so sorry folks, tonight my flat attempts are what you get.

Rather than do two separate posts on the same day, which is clearly lame, I'll combine two separate posts into one, and then post it on the same day (less lame, if you care).

So, first:

Brandon hates funny girls.

If you know him, you might think otherwise. But don't be fooled. Over the five days he and Ryan were in town, I kept throwing out random stories about random girls that all ended with, "she's hilarious -- Brandon, you would love her." Finally, he confronted me about this. Confronted is a mild term, really it was just yelling. "WHY do you keep assuming I like funny girls?! I HATE funny girls! Sometimes I leave a date just yelling in my head, TOO FUNNY!!" This shut me up, kind of. I was still a little sore from the comments on my lost-ness while driving in DC ("Have you ever heard of a GPS?!"), so the blow to my matchmaking skills was a low one. For the record, Brandon, my matchmaking finesse has ended up in one very happy marriage where both parties are, believe it or not, funny.

The being lost thing is notable, as far as the weekend went. It didn't begin well. I left work early and offered to pick the guys up from Reagan and drop them off at the hotel. I printed from Google Maps. I printed from the hotel's website. But I was in a flurry, and I forgot them on my desk.

I loaded the guys into Meriweather knowing pretty well that I was likely pretty lost, but I also decided to just attempt it. Not a good plan. It led to an hour driving around with a stressed-about-homework-due-Ryan, a supremely-laid-back-Brandon, an encouragingly-action-oriented-Spencer and a nice-yet-logical-Derek. It all worked out when we pulled into a mini-space museum that both a) let us print directions and, b) let Ryan use their wireless to turn in his homework. Love ya, DC.

I did set a bad precedent for myself, however, and any time I got behind a wheel for the next four days, we all knew it was a gamble. Even with the guys driving, when Corie (an Arlington native) and I couldn't even get ourselves out of the neighborhood, you'd think I would seek help. I laugh when I think about my recent sent texts after that weekend; they mostly involved, "Lost. Be there soon." or "Unbelievably frustrated. Lost." I haven't been lost since.

In short, it really was a great weekend. I pegged Ryan's future job, librarian-of-all-librarians, when we visited the library-of-all-libraries downtown. It was great. I turned a corner and found him looking winsomely at the gilt-engraved names of all the Librarians of Congress to go before him. He'll be on that list, make no mistake.

Side note: When we left the L of C, three eyelet-sheet-toga clad, laurel-wreathed homeschool kids (had to be) marched down the sidewalk toward the Supreme Court. If you homeschool, please factor in the counseling needed in the future if projects like this are important to you.

It's great to be known, and I think that was the best feeling I walked away with from the several days of lost-ness and late nights and tourism. Yes, it can be a double-edged sword, because when someone knows you, they know you, and this carries some terrifying trust questions. But then, when someone knows you, they know you, and this carries a breathe-easy sense of relief.

It was great having Ryan in town. He knows me.

And now,

"Hold on, let me grab my iPhone."

I have a problem with procrastination. I always just think if I close my eyes long enough, someone else will make my plans.

Turns out that's not the way it works. Luckily for me, that's not the way Jenn works either.

But that was my game plan for the NY trip that Jenn and I had been planning for either a month or a year, depending on perspective. I paid for the procrastination in the form of a hefty Amtrak ticket out of Union Station on Friday night, but it got me to New York as quick as I could have come. More importantly, it got me to New York in time to go to Mirai's birthday party.

Mirai is one. Words won't do her dimples justice, so I'll scan my party favor (a picture with a message, "I thank you for coming to my party...Affectionately, Mirai") whenever I see a scanner close by and cite this post. She's the daughter of one of Jenn's co-worker's, Thomas, and she likes to push chairs around. According to her mom, Mirai has had spicier food at one than we gringos have had in our whole lives. If the delicious Indian buffet was an indication (they said it was toned down for the white people), I think she's right. Lunch was fabulous, as was getting to meet/know Jenn's co-workers at Deutsche Bank.

Before Saturday night, I had never been congratulated by an usher. And I wouldn't have been if Jenn had followed my idea to "cut our losses and go eat dinner" rather than wait five minutes in the Wicked lottery line.

We WON.

And we were congratulated from the minute we walked in the door. When we slid into the front row, it made sense. When we slid into the perfectly centered seats on the front row, it really made sense. We just wished we'd had our iPhones to make everyone jealous.

Wish is a key word here. Jenn and I had been playing it impromptu for awhile before Tracey named and claimed the game while browsing the Met on Sunday afternoon. It's simple: whenever someone needs some instant bit of cool or useful or extemporaneous information, you say, "Hold on, let me grab my iPhone," and then reach for your scratched-up Samsung that came off the assembly line sometime in 2002, and mutter, "Oh. Wait."

Like I said, Jenn is a planner, and she really is planning to wait for her iPhone. She actually has a date picked out. It's not till December, mind you, so she's still got 9.5 months of salivating over other people's iToys, but she'll convince you she's right. In the end she'll be buying the new iPhone on the interest from last year's Christmas money (which I probably spent on valet at the mall on Dec. 26th). It takes all of us to keep this world interesting.

The moral of this story has two parts: a) always bet on the lottery, you'll probably win, and b) if you have an iPhone, let the rest of us hold it every once in awhile, at least till we have our own in 9.5 months.

Williamania.

2008-02-12T19:47:00.001-08:00

Crescent King 2006
Runner-up

Zechariah (singing to John)

2008-02-06T06:06:00.000-08:00

"And you, my child, will be called a
prophet of the Most High;
for you will go on before the Lord to
prepare the way for Him,
to give His people the knowledge of salvation
through the forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
by which the rising sun will
come to us from heaven
to shine on those living in darkness
and in the shadow of death
to guide our feet into the
path of peace."

Luke 1.76-79

Thank you, Seattle, for addicting us all.

2008-02-05T10:01:00.001-08:00

Lunch today:

- Venti skim latte, plus three Sugar in the Raw packets

- Dannon strawberry yogurt

- Chocolate chip cookie

Maybe not the luncheon of champions, but I left my wallet on the 14th floor and all I had in my (frighteningly small) red purse was one of about four Starbucks cards I'm currently running up a tab on. Saved the day, as usual. Although my cookie was probably whipped together in China in 1999, it'll be a tasty treat.

Yes, I'm their target audience.

And yes. They've got me. Hook, line and sinker.

"Oh Abe, he's so honest." - Patrick Connor

2008-02-02T22:31:00.000-08:00

Abe is honest. I know, because I spent some quality time with him today, along with 6.3 million tourists, a cute beagle puppy, and a jolly DC-rent-a-cop (we had a lovely banter about DC weather, part of my "Be nicer in general to all people in '08" campaign). I was with Abe, the tourists, the puppy, and the rent-a-cop this afternoon for several reasons:

a) It was the first sunny day in six (at least); the Mall had this magnetic pull
b) Parking was easy, it involved no U-turns or cash exchange or too-difficult paralleling
c) The wall out front was the perfect place with an hour of long-distance with SJ
d) I needed to unlax
e) I knew there would be less power suited people around; still some, just less
f) The Lincoln is like my ultimate grassy knoll - just sit in the proximity and I'm sure to be thinking deeply, pondering my purpose in life and people-watching like nobody's business

Now, responding to each reason:

a) Mischelle Dean warned me that this would be the biggest adjustment. I beg to differ. The freaking pantyhose are undoubtedly the biggest adjustment. The weather is notably rough, though - when you're inside for all of the daylight hours anyway and then you realize that the only glow around is tungsten-related and the skylights are even grey, wowzers. When I woke up and saw some rays through my blinds, I realized how much I've missed it.

b) This is contrary to virtually all other parking experiences anywhere in and around the DC metro area. Our three hours in a Georgetown garage this afternoon led to an $18 ticket, to which one of my car guests exclaimed, "Man, these garage people are banking. I want to quit work and open a garage!" Oh dear. Parallel parking Meriweather is no cake, either. I have ended up on a curb more than once, and have countless times just gone home rather than deal with the issue.

*Another non-parking, but notable driving experience involved aiming headlong down a one-way, going, um, the wrong way. Terrifying but true thing is that I didn't even notice for at least a block. I heard someone comment that "roads were an afterthought" in this city. When driving in general is an afterthought already, it become a bad combo.

c) I started out there because it was the least-populated spot, and it did not appear that the jolly rent-a-cop would be kicking me out for being so chatty on my phone. As the sun set, I ended up moving down the wall till I was in perfect position to be stared at by a group of about 20 suited high school boys. One wore teal pants and a bow tie and I almost befriended him too (I don't want to go overboard and jinx my niceness initiative altogether

d) Georgetown was busy, work was long, it was a great escape.

e) The power suits usually stay in the office on the weekends, or, if out, are wearing the following: extremely outdoorsy gear to prove that they're green and they have a life, too-tight pants, or if they are a former congressman, an odd shade of plain turtleneck with a flag lapel pin. This is true. Luckily, one guy (a tourist I hope, for his sake) came out dressed in his finest long, straight leather jacket.

f) It's just true.

More on the in's/out's of life in the Power Suit capital of the universe to be posted pronto.

Whoop/Gig 'em/Farmers Fight

2007-12-13T23:46:00.000-08:00

It's 1:49 on my second-to-last night in College Station.

My once Anthropologie-inspired sorority girl pad is now in shambles so it's a battle of the two wills inside:
- Cleaning equals sanity
- Cleaning equals the end of life as I know it

So instead, I'm sitting here on the love seat with the twisted up slipcover and thinking and sniffling and remembering and writing and realizing that I may be making it into the top 50 most dramatic people alive at this very moment.

It's weird, people.

I'm not going to cliche myself to death and reminisce over all of my favorite moments of college, but here are a few highlights (stream of consciousness style):

The day I met William Sea: I thought, "how bizarre." And I still do. But I have gained some terrifying mannerisms, a lot of my favorite memories, and a warm place in my heart for the "fare-thee-well"/awkward speed walking exit strategy.

The day Kristen and I bought "50 Ways to Find a Lover" at Sweets: I never leave home without a conversation piece, and book/movie store browsing has a purpose now. Thank you, Sharyn Wolf for giving such proven strategies.

The day I found Molly, Liz and Kate marching down Fairview: All dressed in pink, up to their ears in Chardonnay, and loving every minute of it.

The day Ryan revealed his first facet: "Have you ever looked up at the ceiling in Evans? It's unbelievable. There must hundreds of thousands of those fluorescent lights!" This rabbit hole is one I'm still exploring.

The day George came into our lives: It was the beginning of a new era. The era of hair and hurrying, and "what I really need is a damn shock collar," and (seriously) woman's best friend.

The day SJ opened up the world of Geo-caching: We dominated the muggles. Who knew?!

The day Facebook added "News Feed": Mark Zuckerburg must have known that A&M needed a good uproar. I wish I could've been a fly on the wall when he wrote that letter of consolation and explanation to all users. I mean, really?!

The day Whit and I first went to TCBY: It was all over after that.

The day SJ and I had a fight about George's farting problem: There were legitimate tears involved, and the best quote of the night was, "I'm sorry. I cannot control my dog's gastrointestinal issues, so I'm just going to study and we can talk about this when I come back."

The day Char decided to be my accountability partner in keeping track of receipts: Somehow this is so humorous now.

The day of Abbott Director Revelation: William, Kristin and I drove to Terrazzo's together and William and I both made comments that we would need someone more organized and less visionary than ourselves to be a partner. Whoop. This led to William moaning face down on my hard wood floor about where to put the icing in the bowls for the Christmas party.

The day that J. Michael and H. Elizabeth were established: We are an enormous joke.

The day that Kirk came in town and hit on Anna: Mad then, funny now.

The day that Roomie and I rushed to Speedy Stop at 4 am: Andy Luten swore that gas prices were going up like $3 the next day, and we were not going to get stuck.

The day we were driving down George Bush and we passed a Jeep: Whit yelled, "Guys, look! That woman is HUGE!"

The day Leslie and I finished being tortured by Super-Annoying-Guy and BFG: I have never been so happy to see summer.

The day a fuzzy white sleep mask was found among Ryan's belongings: I'd hit a jackpot of facets, and I knew it.

The day that I realized that boy shorts from Old Navy look disgusting on girls: Thank you Lord for this revelation. I only spent about four months in delusion.

The day SJ and I stole the sign: And then kept it and were lame and then became lamer and lamer until our lameless pinnacled and we just returned it.

The day Chels (and all of us) learned that F&@% can be inscribed on a cookie cake: It was tense, the wedding was about to die a sad and sudden death, and the Asian cookie artist just said, "Oooh...oooh no! You come right back!"

The day Mr. Eby said, "You got a B, as in BOY": I am not a verifiable math retard!

The day that Dallas Wayne bought Sarah Jane a taquito: This was unbelievable.

The lids are closing fast, so this is far from comprehensive, but still.
Love ya, A&M.