On an aversion to energy..

Never buy me anything that requires batteries.

My mother requested a watch for Christmas. As I wrapped her gift I got to thinking that I haven't worn a watch for about a year. It's been horribly inconvenient, really, and it has nothing to do with being too proud to have time dictated on my arm.

I just don't want to replace the battery.

I have 3 watches in my jewelry box. All are in working order, but in need of new batteries. For a couple of years I simply decided I would rather buy a new watch than buy a new battery.

This isn't at all acceptable, is it?

And then there's my cell phone. I've got a good 10 minutes of battery life on it fully charged until it dies again. It's been this way for probably 4 months. It just needs a new battery. A new battery is about $40.

But I'm on the "New Every Two" plan with Verizon and I'm eligible for a new free phone in January. Why would I spend $40 on a battery when I'm so close to a new phone? The better alternative, apparently, is to limit conversations with family and friends to the length of a commercial break. Treating my cell like a landline and being constantly planted 1 foot from the wall so it can charge while I talk has become a regular activity as well.

Seriously. How lazy can a human be?

Babies don't need batteries, do they?

On what I've got going for me..

My Mii may be stretching her virtual polyester pants to their breaking point, but there's one thing I've got going for me.

I don't drink Starbucks every day.

Thanks to the power of Facebook, I've recently learned that a woman who I went to college with/worked for in the admissions office of my alma mater has a daily Starbucks habit that she's trying to break. She laments in her status update that she spends $300/month on venti lattes.

There are few things that lead me to bust out a calculator, but I just had to do the math. If she purchased one venti latte at $4 a cup, every day for a month, that really shouldn't cost her more than $120 or so. Yah, that's right, I just made daily Starbucks look cheap. I can rationalize anything. Just throw it my way.

But $300/month. No hint of exaggeration as she's quoting the losses her retirement account took. So, really, she's going twice a day and jiving on venti lattes.

Good lord.

The thing is, on the rare occasion where I've had a loaded Starbucks card and have gone every day in a week, I'm left to feel nothing but bloaty and, well, a little whorish. You know how too much of a good thing can leave you feeling like a walking embodiment of sin? Yah. You just want to take a shower, loofa off the pumpkin spice latte dusting and rub your eyes so that brown, white and green aren't the only colors your over-caffeinated eyes can see. And stop with the Michael Buble already...

Dunkin Donuts every day, well, that's just a different story.

The good news about Dunkin Donuts is that their really unhealthy drinks, those that make you topple over with delight at 'Bucks, taste like a mix of Sunny D and Yoo Hoo at DD. They're awful. So the worst you can really do is light and sweet coffee. Don't get me wrong, a cup of that every day and your Mii's little red t-shirt is going to rip open like the Hulk. But at least you won't be broke.

And, let's face it, it's the food at Dunkin's that's the real trouble. At Starbucks, the scones taste like a cardboard box o' joe. Try it sometime. I'm sure they'll give you the empty box of coffee for free.

On Mii vs. Me

Well, I've reached a new low as a chick. I'm about to write a blog about the fact that I'm fat. I can already tell this is going to be horrible.

The clothes in my wardrobe that fit me and those that don't are running about 50/50 right now. Trying on wedding dresses was a horrible experience. Oh, and the belly rolls. The belly rolls from hell.

Still, I wasn't entirely convinced I'd gone crossed the chubby line. At my last physical, my weight in was the highest its ever been, but as I squinted to read the BMI chart on the wall and saw that I was merely on the CUSP of overweight, I convinced myself I must still look ok.

But I know I don't look ok. I don't feel ok. But what I don't understand is I'm cooking better and overall eating better than I have in a long time. So what gives? And how do I fix it by July 4?

The thing is, I don't have a ton of discipline. About anything. So dieting and exercise have always come in mighty spurts, followed by mighty falls of the weight watching wagon.

The worst part is I wouldn't even be writing this if my beloved fiance has not managed to secure a Wii Fit on Thursday.

I hopped on for the first time yesterday. It takes you through a body test to create your character, and then came the part where it took my BMI and weight. Sure enough the bar kept going up, and up, and up. Overweight. It landed on overweight. I wanted to cry.

And with no time for pause, my Wii Mii plumped up while a sound typically only heard in clogged pipes chimed along.

Ouch.

So I've been on the Wii Fit for 30 minutes each day since (yes, that's only two days - shut up), and dragged my beloved on a 3 mile walk along a trail I somehow didn't have the energy to explore until today. But can I keep it up?

Has the Mii muffintop finally provided the motivation I need?

On the road again..

It's official. I'm not becoming a truck driver.

Since Thursday, I've accumulated about 35 hours on the road. OK, maybe it's not all that bad when you split it up day by day, but a round trip drive to New York and another to DC in less than a week is nothing to sneeze at.

For the most part, I really look forward to road trips. Even when left to my own devices, and therefore unable to ask my fiance introspective questions gathered from years of pouring over books like If and If2, I tend to enjoy the solitary journey. I like the sense of accomplishment it brings, I like the ability to sing at the top of my lungs without judgement or rehearse scenarios in which I bring Sarah Palin down in a national venue or tell off the boy who asked me out as an April Fool's joke in the 7th grade.

Not that it still bothers me.

I also enjoy the excuse it provides to stop at Dunkin Donuts, Chick-Fil-A and Arby's all in one day.

But this latest road trip had me contemplating two major disturbances:

The first? Roadside memorials. Now, I could take this rant down a very wrong path so, please don't get me wrong. We honor our dead and our loved ones in our own ways. Visiting the site where a death on a highway occurred and building a makeshift grave with a cross made from rotted white picket fence pieces is fine. Of course, it's not how I would want to be remembered if, God forbid, I was to depart this earth in such a manner. I'd hate for such a necessary place to be a constant reminder of death; not to mention the fact that I'd rather folks reflect and grieve surrounded by peace and beauty, rather than amidst a sea of shredded Goodyears and an aroma of exhaust. Still, I can understand the need to mark where the spirit departed.

I just find it so creepy. On a long road trip, how many you pass, some on the left, others on the right. And how much worse it must be to drive by a group of folks putting it together. I dunno. It just gets me thinking and it creeps me out.

Hmm.. how to transition from here. Yikes.

The other disturbing realization I made on today's return home was just how much driving we're all not doing on the road; thus resulting in these informal grave sites on the side of the road. Nosepicking, paper reading, cell phone chatting, tv watching, teaching the dog a new trick; we've seen it all before. But take my genius move.

I was dying for Chick-Fil-A. It was all I could think about. I drove clear out of my way to find one when I reached my point of desperation. I had about 90 minutes left in the drive, and I never once considered eating in the car for 5 minutes while in park in the parking lot of the restaurant. No, I must eat and drive.

And did I pick a driving friendly food? No! It was finally time to try the nuggets and dipping sauce Mary keeps raving about. And I'll wash it down with a shake, thank you very much.

Thus, while cruising down 95 at 72 mph or so, I balanced sauce in my hand as it rested on the wheel, waffle fries on one thigh and nuggets on the other.

It was damned impressive until I reached for my milkshake. And pulled the lid off. And got milkshake everywhere.

2 napkins, the paper bag my food came in and a bottle of water was all I had to clean it up. And did I pull over to do so? Of course not. I had at it while continuing down 95.

Wipe wipe, curse curse, wipe, curse. You know the drill. I eventually cleaned it all up.

And looked up to realize I'd just missed my exit. The exit the nice British GPS lady was telling me to take but I was so distracted I didn't notice.

Yah.

Not my brightest, most shining moment. I spent the remaining 48 minutes of my drive (12 extra minutes than it should have taken) with my tail between my legs. Completely embarrassed. In front of the no one that was there.

I think I've learned my lesson, though. Only Combo #1 from Chick-Fil-A for future road trips. Nuggets are not for amateurs. Though I bet truckers could shell a lobster while driving.

On about all I can muster...

My fiance and I just returned from a weekend of wedding logistics at the site of the event, Colgate University, my cherished alma mater. Despite our 11 hour drives each way and the fact that the football game we were supposed to attend was canceled in a very House, M.D.-like manner, our weekend was just outstanding. We met with our wonderful rep at the college who is holding all sorts of space for us free of change, our catering manager at the reception site who has since referred to herself as my wedding planner and has suddenly taken on the burden of chair and tent orders and finding a proper officiant (pardon me as I do my Kermit the Frog dance..YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!). And did I mention that we essentially have the run of the entire Inn when we're there? Well, we do. We also met with a baker whose cookies and cream cake sample resulted in Cor saying, "I think that's one of the best pieces of cake I've ever had." Done and done.

Of course, we also learned that C-E-L-T-I-C-N-O-T actually spells S-U-C-K-E-R. Once we met our photographer, who is also down to earth and great, I'm pretty sure we were tricked into an engagement session. See, they start by saying they're going to take a few pictures no matter what, session or no, and the next thing you know 90 minutes have passed and I'm walking like Miss J on America's Next Top Model. So much for pinching pennies. We loved every minute of it, and think our photographer is just fantastic.

Another highlight was coffee with my faculty adviser and favorite professor in the world. She really saved me as a student there, and for Cory to meet her is nothing short of a blessing.

The best part was watching Cory fall in love with campus and Hamilton just as I did so many years ago. We can't wait for July! Here's a sample of what's to come:

Wedding site:








Reception site:

Building Exterior



Lobby



Reception Room



Outdoor area that reception room opens up to.. also ours!




Everyone was so nice, so approachable. We feel very taken care of and are more excited than ever!

On bad combinations...

Sorry for the uber wedding focus today, but we must discuss favors. The truth is, I hate favors. Wedding favors. I don't mind doing people favors, and I certainly don't mind when they're done for me. But wedding favors. There's nothing more useless. Case in point:

One of my bridesmaids, Kelly, shared the story of her parents' wedding favors, personalized matchbooks, once I shared that's the favor I decided on. The story is, as follows:

My parents got married in May 1979. Uncle Nick went, and he wore his good suit. In April 2001, Uncle Nick once again busted out the good suit.... alas, this time for his sister Anna's funeral. He thought this suit was gray, and would therefore be appropriate. Since he hadn't worn it in a while, he asked my gramma to have it dry cleaned for him. As it turned out, the suit was black... and very, very dusty. And, in the pocket, was the matchbook from my parents' wedding.

Case closed, your honor.

Still, matchbooks are practical. We do have smokers in the family; they'll likely use them the same evening, and everyone has candles, right?

So, matchbooks. They were on sale at The Knot. They'll look something like this:

Now, this is likely not the only trinket we'll give our guests, and with the reality that our wedding date is the Fourth of July, I do want to do one or two things in tune with the theme.

US Flags!

So I started browsing the web for those small, handheld flags we all wave at parades and political rallies while sipping lemonade, listening to baseball games on the radio and humming The Star Spangled Banner. I can find them for a real deal!

So then I began to visualize. A flag at every place setting, with the book of matches above it.

Ummmmm... why do I think that might turn ugly? Perhaps not the best gesture to the Vietnam vets in attendance. Arrival bags, then. We'll put the flags in the guest arrival bags. Phew. Any potential flag burning can then be enjoyed in the comfort of our guests homes and not at our reception.

Crisis averted.

On needing a getaway car...

The good news of the day is I found my wedding dress. Deposit is down. It's done. Overall, I opted for something more budget-friendly and practical than overly elegant and whimsical (whimsy equals HEAVY and sweat inducing), but I really like what I found and think it will be perfect for the day. Huzzah!

The dress was the unexpected consequence of my day trip to Durham. The Durham trip was planned, exclusively, to attend my first, and last, bridal show.

As the days narrowed prior to the event, I had this sinking feeling in my stomach that it was going to be a huge waste of my time. I'm not getting married down here, I have no need for local vendors, I just wanted some ideas. Ideas on things I don't know a thing about: flowers, ceremony and reception "concepts" for lack of a better word, etc. Long story short, it wasn't that. But, as my dread built about attending the event, I scheduled an appointment at David's Bridal and now I have a dress. So there.

I'm thoroughly disappointed with the bridal show experience. I was really looking forward to writing about my day spent as a true bride-to-be fully immersed in the whole thing. After all, one of my favorite students at my last job put together a feminist version of a bridal magazine for her senior thesis and did much of her research by attending these things. I was so impressed with the project and desperately wanted to help. Now, I have no idea how she got through it knowing she is of a similar mindset. I guess I just received the confirmation of reality I knew all along. The commercial wedding world is just not my scene.

Linen companies. Dress companies. Photographers. Videographers. DJs. Makeup artists. Gyms. Weight loss plans. China vendors (plates, not country). Did I mention DJs? With microphones and speakers? It honestly wasn't that big. It was just cheesy. I think it was the "strolling fashion show" that put me over the edge. Brides passing by me as I pretended to care about table settings.

You know those scenes in movies where they show the main character so overcome by his or her surroundings that the backdrop starts to zoom round and round as the figure sweats, rubs their eyes, tries to find some serenity in an all too chaotic environment? Well, it wasn't exactly like that. But it stressed me out just the same and was distracting enough to me to skip the cake samples. There was something about it. The maitre'd at the entryway of the registration desk, the big hair on the ladies at the desk, the sticker they gave me to wear identifying me as "the bride", (if only Kill Bill style) and the ballroom full of vendors circling attendees like sharks. It was good for me, actually, to walk into something like that and be reminded of what students attending a college fair for the first time are thinking. "Please just let me walk around. Please don't talk to me." I did one lap and was out.

I couldn't believe I spent $5 on the experience. At least college fairs are free.

It does occur to me that I'm really trying to set up my wedding so that it involves as few decisions as possible. We picked a location with few options for ceremony and reception sites. The reception site actually includes quite a bit of the things we'd otherwise have to worry about (ie table settings and centerpieces). I'm now formally astounded that there are people who do this type of stuff every day for people far less reasonable than I.

So for those of you who will join me and my groom next July 4, I apologize if our day lacks the keen eye to detail that you may expect. I apologize if I have the slightest bit of back fat creeping over my dress and I apologize if I don't stick to a single color scheme or spend thousands on flowers. I apologize if our outdoor set up is simple and lacking bows or ribbons or doilies or archways or doves. With a forgiving heart, just come, laugh with us, dance with us, eat, drink (wine, beer or soda!) and be merry.

That's all we ask.

On words losing their meaning...

There was a time in my life when I was a huge Lance Armstrong fan. More the Lance of the Kristen Armstrong era than the Sheryl Crow chapter, but most definitely pre-retirement Lance vs. post-retirement Lance. I basically dealt LiveStrong bracelets at my office. I was a yellow band pusher, for certain. Don't judge me. It was a phase.. a college thing.

Well now Lance is back. And so is Brett Favre. I guess the mockery Michael Jordan endured amidst his many retirements wasn't enough to prevent Lance and Brett from avoiding the same. We're simply left to wonder if their experiences with championships will be more like MJ's first post-retirement seasons or his second.

I'm just left to wonder.. why go to the trouble? Is declaring one's retirement from professional sports now akin to Michael Scott "declaring" bankruptcy? ("I DECLARE BANKRUPTCY!")Are we just in it for the party now? Did Favre's screening for football commentary not go as well as Michael Irvin's? Is that even possible?

From the fan perspective, I just hate the notion of either of these men stumbling off into the dust once injury forces a next, more final retirement. They were both at such incredible high points, but peaks, nonetheless in their careers, to leave on a better note doesn't seem possible for either. Of course, I guess the real difference is what's driving the need to comeback. Knowing each of these men no better than I know your great uncle, I still get the sense that Favre feels a bit cheated due to a few bad seasons, addiction, you name it. For Favre, I feel like it really is the love of the game.

I do know a bit more about Armstrong. Well, check that. I know as much about Armstrong as his ghostwriter let me in on. Equipped with my understanding of him, my guess is this return is more about a pissing contest, more about an ego, more about a point to prove. Or maybe it's all about Michael Phelps, and 7 championships no longer makes the grade for larger than life athletes.There's no doubt he has the passion, don't get me wrong, but his re-entry lacks a purity. Or, perhaps, he's been called upon by those who once loathed him to inject life back into the sport after Lance-less doping scandals continue to suffocate its rebound.

Whatever the reason, I hope he doesn't leave another lovely lady covered in Trek marks along the way.

On 300...

This entry represents my 300th blog posting. It's also 300 days until I get married. I ate about 300 biscuits at The Farmers Market today, which has left me feeling like I'm 300 lbs.

Ok, you can only go so far with a theme.

Of course I look at 300 and see 30, which I turned exactly 3 weeks ago today.

I've learned today that I need a minimum of 30 stems to make a bridal bouquet, which means that's exactly what I'll be buying. No more, no less. (20 for the bridesmaids, in case you're curious.) I've spent much of the last few days figuring out the most inexpensive purple flowers that will be available in the summer months. Believe it or not, that is a perilous combination. My plan is to call some unknowing florist in central New York and ask her to work her magic with these buds and these buds alone. Unless, of course, she knows of something cheaper.

Believe it or not, I've actually spent a lot of time thinking about what I want to write in this, my 300th blog. I had no intention of playing with the 300, 30, 3 theme until I logged in at The Knot and saw the number of days until our big day. I'd considered writing about the $80 worth of underwear I bought a couple of weeks ago; about our receptionist who makes a point of telling everyone they look thin in a way that can only make them feel fat; about how I seem to have finally achieved some level of life zen thanks to the man I love, a friendly work environment, an apartment I really like and, of course, my continued laundry bliss; about how strange it is to live somewhere where you don't know a soul; about how I managed to emerge from a work situation on Friday that would have had me livid and inconsolable at my prior job but only saw me slightly irked and laughing about it instead - and how truly happy that made me; about how frustrating it is planning a wedding from a distance and with no friends down the street to offer much needed help and opinions; about how one of my staff members is returning from maternity leave tomorrow, someone who I need to have a great relationship with, and I'm really nervous about it given what others have told me about how she really doesn't want to come back; about how I've had 10 pages left in A Thousand Splendid Suns for months and I can't seem to pick it up to finish it. Loads of material... but is any of it worth my 300th blog?

Instead, I give you this, a walk through the paintball game of my mind, the reason this whole blog was started in the first place. I've got too much going on up here, and it's usually the small stuff that grasps my focus.

Please congratulate me on my 300th blog,which I inadvertently turned into an Andy Rooney bit on 60 Minutes... which I just happen to be watching.

Next week: The contents of my sock drawer.

On being so very angry...

"Well, it didn't have a lot of substance, but what a great speech!"

On Friday I found myself full of laughter considering McCain's selection for VP. This was a joke, right? Was it Christmas already?

Tonight, I find myself angry and on the verge of tears, wondering how did we get here and how many steps back did we just take?

This may make me unpopular, but with all due respect to my friends with children, I could care less that Sarah Palin is a mother. I could care less about her family or her "first entry into public service" via the PTA. I'm not charmed by her accent or her adorable "toughness". Prove to me that you can lead. Prove to me that you're relevant. I'll look forward to getting to know you shortly after that.

Tonight I saw the first female VP nominee in Republican Party history (way to catch up, GOP) have her introduction to her party cut short because Rudy Giuliani was empowered to run off at the mouth long enough to cancel Palin' s introductory video. Way to get behind your candidate, boys. Way to show your faith in girl power. What I saw tonight was the first woman to take to the mic in a long time who had little substance to offer. I heard her speak in generalities and tabloid headlines and low blows. All I want to know is why you deserve to be there.

As a native Mainer, I take no offense to the notion that someone who had been mayor of my hometown (the state capital, by the way, but a town, really, nonetheless) might not be qualified for the second highest seat in the land. I take no offense to the suggestion that the issues of my state aren't as relevant to those of the rest of the country, so perhaps that governor would be ill fitted for the position. And I say that knowing that the issues of my home state are a lot more relevant to those of the rest of the country than Alaska.

I was very delayed in pledging my loyalty to Obama. I adored the Clintons in general, and admired Hillary, despite the fact that I wouldn't necessarily want to work on her staff. But, eventually, I made my decision. Nevertheless, as I watched Hillary suspend her campaign, I began to cry. Although I was disappointed with the tailspin of her later campaign days, I was still so proud of her, proud to be a woman, and saddened that the country had to be faced with THIS choice for the Democratic nomination. Any other year...

And now this.

Of course, another reason to miss the Clintons is the way in which they protected Chelsea and insisted her privacy be respected. Already, I see Gov. Palin's children as frankly exploited for political purposes. Here is my military son. Here is my pregnant teenage daughter accepting responsibility. Here is my Downs Syndrome baby. That, perhaps, is the saddest thing at all. I'd prefer she insist they're too young to be the subject of the level of scrutiny and conversation and simply take it off of the table.

I'm just offended. Offended by the blurred reality we're being force fed of her experience, her qualifications and her toughness. I'm most intrigued to see how she responds in a debate, not surrounded by a delegation of followers, taken to task on her inaccurate, generalized, tabloid statements. Of course, Joe Biden isn't the smoothest operator either. At the very least, it will be entertaining.

I just don't understand how anyone can be comfortable with this candidate just one skip from the presidency.

On happiness is...

Friday may have been the greatest day of my North Carolina life so far. I'm left to conclude that happiness is:

Your own washer and dryer
Digital cable installed
Free lunch at work
Absurd VP picks by the presidential candidate you don't want to win
Great pizza
Good beer
All on a Friday night... leading up to a long weekend.

I'm still feeling a bit shameful about my unshakable joy over our washer and dryer. It's really this factor alone that is responsible for my glee. Who am I trying to fool? I'm just trying to convince myself that it doesn't make me some overly eager newlywed neighbor from The Donna Reed Show.

Doing laundry is the jail sentence of apartment living. The dread of the whole thing always made me put it off, which in turn only made the experience worse. Lugging a 50 lb laundry basket down flights of stairs, pairs of underwear falling out of the basket as I'd attempt to balance the detergent on top of it, all the while praying there are machines left for the taking. Of course, if I was really motivated, I'd go down before lifting the laundry basket of death to see if machines were available. And then the hope that the machines work. Of course, there was the general concern that someone might be having sex in the stairwell again as I made my laundry pilgrimage. I'm hoping this obstacle was unique to my laundry experience and not one to which you can relate.

When I was living in Arlington, however, the laundry room was directly across from my apartment and still it couldn't get done in a timely manner. That's right, no stairs and I could push the basket instead of lift it, but it still didn't get done. Maybe it was my overall resentment of having to pay to do a chore. I don't know.

And then there was the tension of your wash cycle is done, but all of the dryers are full. You realize the dry cycle is done for those last two machines in the row, but the launderer has yet to pick them up. What ... do... you ... do?

I have done so much laundry in the past few days that I think I'm likely in contention for a world record. It's been fabulous. I'm giddy about it. And I haven't stopped thinking about it since we found this place in June and learned there were washer/dryer hookups.

Should I be taking medication?

I think I may just finally be embracing adulthood. I also paid off our new furniture yesterday. It's the biggest one time payment I've ever made for anything, and I couldn't have been happier to see so much money escape my bank account. It's as if I patted every single dollar on the back as it boarded the Routing Number Express.

Honestly? I think what it really is I'm finally starting to pull it together. I don't mean for material things to define that for me; if anything, I've finally gotten away from that philosophy. I'm learning to be patient, I've reigned myself in a bit, and I've never felt better.

Time to wash that one pair of socks in the laundry basket!

On the final countdown...

I don't have much time to write. It's a few minutes before 7 and if I have any hope of getting Starbucks before I spend my day at campus move in for freshmen, I must jet. I'm cursing myself for forgetting to set my coffee maker last night. Gee, I wonder why I did. Oh yeah, because it's a Saturday and I shouldn't be working. Right.

It's also the day before I turn 30. Thus I've named this blog the final countdown. Not because I really feel like this is the end, but it's a chapter I haven't been too anxious to close. But for what reason?

Let's face it. There's nothing all that great about the 20s, other than the metabolism you have through the first quarter of it. And really, all that truly sucks about the 30s is the metabolism you have going into it, made worse only by the metabolism you have coming out of it.

I guess I'm just grasping with the fact that I'm not really young anymore. There are only so many more times I'll be confused for a student, and only so many times that I'll hear "Don't worry about it, you're still young!" when I talk about goals for the future that I've yet to attain. And really, I don't have all my ducks in a row in all respects of my life, particularly the financial one, and being in my 20s was a great excuse for that. I always look to 30 with an eye toward, "By then, I'll have myself in better shape." Zoinks!

I think what I'm really going to miss is just the excuse of it. So far I've been kind of a wunder kid on the job. That won't be so remarkable now. I guess it's really the removal of a factor that's made me a big fish in a small pond that weighs a bit heavy on my mind.

And I don't care so much about looking young. In fact, people who look young instantly lose a little bit of credibility upon first glance. What I care about is looking healthy, and I think that will be the theme for my 30s. Being and looking healthy. I haven't been so good to myself in that regard as of late.

But I figured it was worth writing, before I jet off to campus, just to put down in words that there is something poetic about today and what I'm doing. As I countdown to thirty, I'll be moving in about 400 18 year old women entering college for the first time. Hopefully that bond of common transition, of closing one chapter to open another, might spark some aura of bonding that erases my newness at school and gives me some credibility and connection for the girls and their families. It's what I'm really hoping for.

And, let's face it. It's credibility I can really only have by being a grown up.

On mine... mine.. mine.. mine..

Greetings from Raleigh! This is my third trip to my new home in the last month, but the first since I've been offered and accepted a job and, thus, the first since the pieces finally seem to be falling into place for our next chapter. And thank god for that. I still can't believe it all worked out, but I guess deep down I knew it would, but only because it always has. The cynic in me just keeps waiting for the luck to run out.

I'm here for a one day gig for my new job. I'm attending a very casual senior staff retreat at my new boss' home. If I understand things correctly, I'm there to do a fair share of listening, so I'm actually feeling strangely comfortable with it. Despite how nervous I am to take over this gig, I think I'm going to be ok for my "first day". Then back to Virginia tomorrow night, with lots of caffeine within arm's reach for the drive.

The trip took the expected 4 and a half hours and my GPS delivered me safely to the hotel. I knew I didn't have time to swing by the leasing office at the new place before they closed, but promised myself I'd at least do a drive by. But there were other matters to attend to first.

Mamma Mia, baby.

I can't remember the last time I went to a movie by myself. I'm honestly not sure if I ever have. But it was a great excuse to explore "my" new movie theater in "my" new neighborhood. Not to mention the fact that finding someone to see this movie with me would be extremely challenging. That's the trouble with having "cool" and "popular" friends.

So I went. And I'm happy to report I'm quite pleased with our cinema. Particularly b/c I was charged the matinee price for a 5:05 pm Sunday showing. And the matinee price was $6.75. YAY CHEAPER COST OF LIVING! Small soda and small popcorn still set me back $8.75, but what can you do?

The movie was... fine. It was fun and silly and had the expected great music. (And by great, I mean, great for singing into a hairbrush in your dorm room.) I'm still not sure how I felt about Meryl Streep in the starring role. My guess is that the casting director approached her as a rookie joke, and then didn't know what to do when she said yes. In many ways she was brilliant and in others downright awkward. And be forewarned that Pierce Brosnan's singing is kind of jarring and has you squirming in your seat. Thank God he's not James Bond anymore, because he would have officially killed any cool factor left in the character. Just a friendly tip as to when you're safe to use the restroom should you decide to check it out. Either way, I'll be buying an ABBA CD before the trip home tomorrow. And no, I'm not a bandwaggoner, mine was just swiped a few years back by a colleague. A male colleague. A male straight colleague.

After visiting "my" new movie theater, I made my way to the new digs. I had every intention of taking pictures, but got a bit shy when I noticed some guys doing work around the building. Maybe they're installing sex in the stairwell alarms. Oh, wait, sorry, that's just my current building, and no alarm system just yet. So I did my drive by, and am as excited as ever to move in.

Pondering dinner, I made my way to "my" new grocery store. There is a Harris Teeter in walking distance from our new apartment, via a lovely trail, so I stopped in for a salad and, yes, more sushi. Have I mentioned how psyched I am to still be able to shop at Harris Teeter? When I envisioned a move to the South, I feared I might actually have to shop in a Piggly Wiggly. It's things like this that make a girl from Maine very uncomfortable. Guess that's one of the few southern stereotypes that gets to be shattered. Anyway, next to the HT rests the drive thru Starbucks whose wonders I will likely only be able to resist for a few short weeks. The only other drive thru Starbucks I ever saw was outside of Seattle and I thought it was there simply to mock me. But they exist. They truly exist.

This is my first real move to a place that is entirely unfamiliar since I studied abroad in London my junior year of college. I was so nervous when I arrived that I couldn't make my key work. The cabbie had to get out and help me unlock the door. I'll never forget that moment. So my other moves have been much more familiar. DC I knew from interning, Boston I knew from many prior visits, and Northern Virginia, well, again, it was third DC stint. It's odd to think "this will be my new commute, this will be my new Target.." and that, eventually, it, too, will become routine and maybe even a bit boring. But I must confess that I look forward to that moment. There's just so much change on the rise. I've never been fearful of change, but so much at once, with the stakes so much higher, can be pretty stressful. At least I'll know where to get the Iced Mocha to dull the pain.

And at least I can hand the man of my dreams the keys when my hands are too shaky to open the door.

On a yuppie day in the life...

Yesterday I noticed that my GPS car charger wasn't working. The plan for this morning, before I head to Annapolis for my friend's baby shower, was to stop at Best Buy to see if I could get a replacement.

On the way to Best Buy, I realized I could charge my GPS with my cell phone car charger after all. I figured I'd see if they had what I needed at Best Buy anyway, if only because commerce is fun.

I didn't find what I needed, but I stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a delish iced coffee for the ride home. See, I say delish because I watch Rachael Ray on the Food Network and am hip to the lingo.

On my way home I was enjoying the Saturday NPR line up - Car Talk and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. I was in stitches between Click and Clack and Carl Kasell. What a cut up!

I also realized this would be a nice opportunity to get a fix for my recent sushi craving. After all, those familiar with the Research Triangle area of NC keep warning me to get my fill of ethnic food while I still can. So I swung by Whole Foods to pick up an indulgent lunch of salmon roll and a slice of tiramisu. Yummo!

Of course, my yuppie tendencies are only a facade, as my actual reality included turning onto my road to find a hooker standing there on her cell phone. Not sure if it was the beginning of her shift or the end of it, but I'm pretty sure this is the second lady of the night I've seen in the last month.

Not sure if this is for the better or for the worse, but our new home in Cary appears to be in a true center of yuppie life, and therefore hookers need not apply. While this may be just temporary fall out from an unexpected opportunity to have lunch at Congressional Country Club this week, I clearly cannot be left to my own devices. Cory, please come back from Michigan and save me from myself.

On the dangers of pedicures, oil changes, lawyers and fish

Today is a day off for me. I'm not very good at taking vacation days without a real purpose, but with the upcoming move and my quick jump between old and new jobs, I'm a bit fearful of a major burnout. Plus, I told myself I'd be productive, get out of procrastinator mode and take care of business.

I started by doing my toenails.

I've never been very good at the girlier of life's tasks. Nailpainting is one of them. I'd put cash money on my friend's 6 year old daughter doing a better job on my nails than I could. Toenails are a little easier, but they pose their own challenges. Still, the lesson I took when I visited my mom back in June seemed to help. Forcing myself to sit still for an hour after and using polish that wasn't 5 years old seems to have helped as well.

This is relevant to my story, I swear.

My tasks for the day included dropping off clothing donations, getting an oil change, going to the bank, picking up my Rx, and buying a gift for my college roommate's baby shower. More on my disbelief that the girl who couldn't figure out how to open a fancy block of cheese with me one Saturday night in '00 is having a baby in just bit.

I've owned a car for just over a year now and for the first few months I was most diligent about its care. I've really started to slack, though, as I've learned that care = money and a bright red target seems to appear on my head every time I walk into Midas or Jiffy Lube. It's the Sucker Signal.

But the oil change could be put off no longer, and as I nervously made my way to Hasbro like "customer view" computer screen, I could see things were adding up. I said yes to two add-ons, and no to one, opting for what Mazda recommended and what seemed to actually address a problem. In general I avoid the charges when they say, "We recommend you change this every 10,000 miles." I have two guiding forces in my life. One of them is a craving for cheese. The other is Mazda. Buddha Jiffy Lube has no street cred with me. So, $217 later, my hope is the Blue Bandit is prepped for multiple trips to Raleigh in the coming weeks.

I took a seat in their newly tricked out waiting room and wondered if these "recommendations" were actually an attempt to fund the flat screen LCD I was watching and the new subscriptions to Highlights and US Weekly. I sat in peace until a burly gentleman walked in with what appeared to be a week's worth of paperwork and a few notepads. Apparently he was going to be productive as hell in the 20 minutes it takes to get a Signature Service Oil Change.

He walked in and out of the waiting room making phone calls. On one trip in he looked at me as if I'd been waiting to talk to him, "Sorry about that," he said, "I have a lot of work calls to make and I don't want to disturb you with them." "No, no, that's fine,"I replied.

He took a seat next to me. "You have very pretty feet."

Oh no.

There are a lot of ways to approach a woman, guys, but foot comments scream one thing: ALERT! ALERT! FETISH APPROACHING! FETISH APPROACHING! STEP AWAY FROM THE CREEPY MAN!

At first I was caught off guard, as I do not have pretty feet. Now, I'm not just being a Debbie Downer, as I have some lovely attributes, I just know for a fact that my feet aren't one of them. Still, as I looked at them again, I really did do a pretty good job.

"I noticed them because I was in a salon the other day visiting the owner who wanted some franchise advice. I'm a lawyer, by the way."

It's moments like this that being engaged rules. I suddenly had to run my fingers through my hair with my left hand and, oops, there's my ring!

Soon enough he mentioned his wife and I relaxed. Ok, he's not after me, he's just after an ear to listen to him sound impressive. That's fine.

He proceeded to tell me about this salon owner and the "fish treatment" he's been using on his clients and it's all the rage. Two friends, each from different coasts on the US, sent me an article on this same guy earlier in the week. Basically, part of the pedicure they offer includes having tiny little fish nibble the dead skin off of your feet. I know, I could gag. Still, people are trying it and loving it. And we wonder why our country lags behind in achievement.

He left to take another call and my car was ready. As I got in and put on my seatbelt, Mr. Lawyer Man approached me. "You should really check that place I was telling you about out! You'll love it." "Ok, thanks for the tip!" "Oh, and if you ever need a lawyer," he handed me a pen, "my contact information is all there."

Makes me wonder if he ever even needed the oil change.

On not sleeping...

There were a thousand reasons why I wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight. They range from the legitimate to the pathetic:

Legitimate: Last night's marathon monuments by moonlight tour got us home around 1:15, leaving me with inadequate sleep for returning to work, resulting in my taking a two hour nap when I got home this evening.

Pathetic: Home alone. All noises mean boogeyman is lurking in my cereal cabinet ready to pounce.

Legitimate: Learned around 9 pm that I will be the sole representation for my office at a last minute meeting tomorrow. Our decisions and policies surrounding three individuals, no check that, our enforcement of policies created by people other than ourselves in an effort to bring an atmosphere of even the slightest academic integrity have a delegation flying in from Japan to raise a fit. No joke.

Pathetic: I'm almost thirty and have yet to make the connection between no sleep and caffeine consumption after 9 pm.

Legitimate: There are a few thousand things running through my mind at any given time. New job, new major responsibilities, big move, upcoming financial situation, oh, and something about a wedding. I'm also overdue for an oil change and need to buy a baby shower present.. stat.

Pathetic: The other things running through my mind that you don't get to know about.

The good news is I haven't been completely negligent with my time this evening. I packed three boxes and a suitcase and set aside some treasures for friends. I called my dad. I did some work.

At times I honestly do feel a bit tortured. Pardon the dramatic phrasing, but it's a rare moment when my mind feels settled. Perhaps it's just this moment in time, but I've had enough tough nights to wonder how I can better get a grasp on it. Because the truth of the matter is I'm tired.. a lot. So what gives?

One thing is for sure. If watching Carson Daly can't put me to sleep tonight, nothing can.

On top of the morning to my fist in your face...

I tend to think I know myself very well. Particularly my flaws. I wear them on my sleeve so to make it easier on everybody, but I also try to make up for them in spades.

So, yes, I'll help you move, but if you could first tell me why I'm better than this person sitting on this bench I'd really appreciate it. You're the best.

I've always considered myself a morning person. Perhaps it's because the "non-morning people" in my life, for the most part, have been the extreme end of the spectrum. So, the fact that I am capable of interaction from when I first get up to when I'm out of the shower, that I really only need one hit of the snooze alarm before I get up, that I can rarely sleep late, all of this informs me that I am, in fact, a morning person. Right?

No. You're wrong. You're not the best anymore. Unless you pay me a compliment right now. Ok, you're back to good.

There are two people with whom I work who are morning people to the other extreme. One comes bounding into my office like a Disney character each day, with what she deems to be a witty and clever greeting, often in a baby voice.

Let's be clear. The baby voice has a time and place and, quite frankly, when I do it, it's hysterical. Why? Because I don't do it in the office and I only do it for the two people in my life who it leaves in stitches.

But the energy. Good God. I am not ready for that right now. She's an early arriver to work like I am, and as I type this I dread hearing the movement up the steps, the creak our heavy hallway door makes, the unlocking of her door, the dropping of her stuff, the steps down the hallway.. oh no.. please.. just go to the fax machine.. don't come to me.. oh crap. "Oh... heeeeeeey..." Please dear god tell me the expression on my face isn't what I know it is.

The other, my boss, makes morning rounds. She really doesn't get into her actual office until about 45 minutes after she has arrived. But she just walks in, every morning, "Heeeeey. How's it goin'? What's new in your world?" and sits down. Just staring at me. My answers to her are usually very short, and only if she has the resilience to withstand my wall of coldness do I eventually succumb and warm to her. That, of course, means that we've had to sit together for a good 10 minutes. She's like a Jedi.

I don't know why I can't handle these interactions. I don't know why I have this shield of bitterness from the hour of 8-9:30. Perhaps it's because by arriving early every day, I try to carve out some "me time". And, yes, sometimes I write the occasional blog, but for the most part I'm trying to get in the zone for the day ahead. To do lists, return voice mails to people I don't actually want to talk to who aren't in yet, that sort of thing. 8-9 is the professional passive aggressive hour, after all! Honestly, I like being one step ahead of everyone before they arrive. My hope is that it gives the false impression that I know what I'm doing. It's all about perception, after all.

Since I've got this huge job change coming up, I've been thinking about ways to reinvent myself for my new staff. One thing is for sure, however. Each of them will get a pleasant morning greeting, but I pledge to not invade their space without purpose until they've had their own time. And they will never, ever hear my baby voice.

On what's fair..

My assistant has a tendency to send stream of consciousness emails. I just received another. She also has a horrible tendency to never use the subject line. More on that another time.

"I put aside a box for you, as you requested. It has your name on it," she wrote. "Also, before you leave, I'd love to get your advice on how to get coworkers to listen and take me seriously.."

Let's be clear on one thing. I'm writing this blog because one of my direct reports has stood me up for our weekly one on one meeting. Again. What's that about me teaching someone how to be taken seriously?

Anyway, it has me thinking about fair treatment. My assistant is on the receiving end of some pretty brutal office treatment. What makes it worse is she tends to be pretty passive aggressive about it too. She'll wait for the bad treatment to come around instead of alerting me to a situation beforehand, so she can complain to people later on. Here's a great example: The division hosts a thank you lunch. The email goes out to everyone inviting them. She'll say to someone on staff: "Let's see if they remember to get someone to cover the desk so that I can attend. They never think of me so I bet they'll forget, and I'll just sit here while everyone is at the party." True story. What she SHOULD do is say to me, her supervisor, "I'd like to go to the lunch but I know the desk needs to be covered. Can you help?". You know. That kind of thing.

So I've done the best I can to make her feel more included, to make life feel more fair for her. But then I run into things like this:

US Weekly headline:

Angelina Speaking, Laughing During Labor

Now, how am I supposed to take this? Is this a direct retort to the "silent labor" Katie Holmes allegedly endured in her devotion to Scientology or, should I interpret the more popular translation:

You will never beat Angelina Jolie at anything. Not looks. Not allure. Not baby delivery. Not hopscotch. Not sudoku. Not Connect Four. Not bargain shopping.

Honestly. How necessary is this? Am I to believe Ang was overwhelmed with laughter reflecting on the latest New Yorker cartoon while pushing out twins? I suppose her birthing robe was Dolce and Gabbana and People arrived for their 100 Most Beautiful People shoot while she was in labor, as the dewy glow gave her an added level of hotness. Ain't no sweat like baby sweat.

Life really isn't fair sometimes. And I bet People magazine won't even call me for a quote for that article either.

On reality...

I read this article yesterday and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

http://tv.msn.com/tv/reality-tv-school/?icid=ENTERTAINMENT1&GT1=ENTERTAINMENT1

To be clear, I'm not at all surprised that classes have sprung up to help people be more "real" for casting in reality television. After all, once the second season of The Real World on MTV rolled around, I started to smell something fishy. Still, I will confess it wasn't until we were introduced to Puck on The Real World San Francisco that I had my reality tv moment of clarity. At that point, the immaculate conception of celebreality was complete.

So, yes, you can take these classes to learn how to be a more compelling and confident version of yourself, and therefore suitable for reality television. Even though, let's face it, none of us here in the real world are that confident or compelling. Much of my time is spent talking my dearest friends out of their moments of bottom feeding self-perception, not to mention my own, and, when I'm not doing that, I'm sitting on my couch spending quality time with the Internet. Talk about good television.

But it's led me to think a lot more about "what IS reality"? No worries, we're not about to talk a walk down a yellow brick road of existentialism or anything. In all seriousness, we came home from dinner last night to see the last hour of Predator on television. Arnold Schwarzenegger, draped in mud, hunting a half alien/half robot with dreadlocks and a face like a venus fly trap. I then went to bed. I woke up, made breakfast and coffee, and turned on ABC News: This Week with George Stephanopoulos to see the Governator being interviewed. And no, he doesn't make sense, and I don't just mean his accent, but that didn't stop the population of the most powerful state in the union from electing him their legislative Conan, I mean, leader. But this is reality. Not my reality, but still my reality. A reality much more fitting for reality television, but not for The Washington Post.

But, again, real reality is not compelling or worthy of our prime time attention. When Ted Koppel brings a puppy to his appearance on The Daily Show and threatens that the puppy will have to "go to a farm" if people don't turn in for his four night series on China (please refrain from dog cuisine jokes), you know he's only half kidding. He doesn't have a chance in the world at ratings when The Bachelorette is on! Suck it Koppel, I need to know who DeAnna will choose! (As a disclaimer, I DID have to look up her name.)

Yes, I'm taking this all way too seriously but, in a way, I find myself concerned as to the impact this all has on young people. They are ever more convinced, based on the conversations I've had with my many teacher friends and the colleges essays I read every year, that celebrity is just around the corner. And if this is reality.. making your person into a caricature of itself in the hope of increased acceptance and popularity, are we not going down a slippery slope? I can't help but think of how much easier it is for adults, who did not grow up with this permeating beast, to make the distinction. Will kids do the same as they grow up? Will it just take them longer?

Then again, I just finished watching Meet the Press where the Obama and McCain campaigns were represented by two female advisers/co-chairs. Despite one being a bit quick to terminate the arguments and the other being a bit too over-intentional with politically designed phrasing (our economic plan was written at a kitchen table, not a corporate boardroom table), it was a solid exchange. It was Brokaw's insistence on pointing out, at the end of the segment, that it was a moment in Meet the Press history as two women surrogates represented the competing presidential campaigns for the first time, that rubbed me the wrong way. First of all, these type of things are no longer remarkable. Perhaps the most important statement in Hillary Clinton's suspension of campaign speech was that, after this year, it will no longer be remarkable for a woman to be a contender for the highest office in the land. Nothing could be more true. And because of that, quite frankly, I can't be impressed by two women representing the two candidates for president on Meet the Press. And that's a good thing. Of course, I would have been a lot less irritated if Brokaw didn't keep referring to them as surrogates for their candidates throughout the interview. Isn't there another term? Would he have used that term if the representatives were male?

Ok, ok. I'll let it go.

Still, seeing successful knowledgeable women go head to head in a national format is not a significant moment for me, nor should it be for anyone in my generation. And I'm grateful for that. So I can't help but think that MTP's forced "LOOK AT THIS" moment is yet another way to shift our perception of reality. What Brokaw pointed out as a "well lookey here" situation just doesn't, and shouldn't, have the sort of credibility he was hoping for. Sure, it's a historical moment for their show, but it is remarkable outside of their own statistics keeping? Not at all.

It requires quite a bit of energy to keep fighting the warped definitions of reality that are thrown our way every single day. Here's hoping that I can find the strength to keep fighting. Hmmm.. what would the Governator do? Ah yes, steroids.

On aging..

No, this isn't another blog about me turning 30 this year. Although, did I mention I'm turning 30 this year? No? Oh, well, I am and, well, it blows.

Anyway...

I was talking to my boss the other day about the holiday weekend. She took the opportunity to take her mother to see Hancock. Her mom is probably 80, but when it comes to Will Smith, she's 17 all over again.

My boss was telling me how she would glance at her mother a few times during the movie, and be genuinely delighted to see her so tickled by the film. It also made her realize just how much her mother has aged.

Her mother is in a nursing home now. My boss moved her down to the area after she suffered a stroke a few years back. She does ok, but often requires a wheelchair, and my boss' life outside of the office is deeply consumed with her care.

"Where is the scary 30 year old with all that fire in her belly?" she lamented.

It is such a strange thing to notice your parents age. It really does just hit you at times. With my dad, in particular, it's strange to suddenly come across photographs and remember he used to have a full head of thick black hair, now thinning a bit and completely silver. His face hangs in a way it didn't used to. It really does hurt my heart to think about.

My most recent thoughts on aging, however, were not inspired by my boss' reflection on her mother. Oh no, they were inspired by a random friend request on Facebook.

You could have asked me to name 100 people before I thought this person would come across my screen with a "friend request". We dated for about a month my junior year of high school. He was a senior, preppy, smart and drove a Jeep. I was a junior, a cheerleader and for whatever reason had a few fans in the senior class. I never understood it. I just ran with it.

So, like I said, it lasted a month. Maybe. And he ended it just in time for me not to have a date to the Chizzle Wizzle Ball which, looking back at it, may be why I was dating him in the first place. Maybe. As seemed to be my curse with the few boys I dated in the senior class that year, I was "too much of a catch" when all they really wanted to do was "enjoy their senior year". AKA, I didn't put out.

I'm hardly bothered by it. Particularly with this one. We'll call him Dan. Cuz that's his name. Dan may have broken up with me in a premature manner, but I rubbed his back while he puked up Chinese food on our first date. Yeah. I own him. Still, it was never going to work. I wasn't going to loose my virginity to a Republican.

Anyway, back to this friend request. I accepted it and proceeded to his profile page. He's married, out in Colorado and has an adorable wife. Looks really happy, is a lawyer, just as everyone at school would have predicted. But he also, well, looks old. Not OLD but old-ish. Ok, you know who he looks like? Judge Reinhold. He looks like Judge Reinhold. How could I have possibly dated Judge Reinhold? He's supposed to be my dad, just like he was Fred Savage's dad in Vice Versa. But, no, now he's a guy I used to date.

How did THAT happen?

On a general kick to the stomach

My workday started out most peacefully, and held its promise through a farewell lunch for a colleague. I ate a salad for lunch and passed on fajitas. I've never felt so strong.

Until I returned to the office to be confronted by the mother from hell.

She was waiting for me, alongside her silent but strong (perhaps) husband, and I'm not certain how long she'd sat watching the door awaiting my return. There was validity to the gripe she had, but it was her approach and confrontation that left me fighting every instinct in my body that simply did not want to help her. It's days like this that representing something larger than yourself becomes really difficult. It would have felt so much better to just pull her hair. Hard.

Her daughter's housing? Messed up. Her course registration prior to that? The information never arrived. All because of an alleged error my office made. Could she be right? Absolutely. Could she be lying through her teeth? Just as likely. Is it interesting that these scenarios were just being brought to my attention? Two weeks after room assignments and four weeks after course registration? Most definitely.

I tried to listen. I tried to reason. I confess I got defensive from time to time, but was able to recover every time as well. And I took the blame for it all and asked that she focus her energy on me and not my colleagues. I was committed to earning her trust again and we were going to make it right. Eventually, I calmed her down. As for me? That took a little longer.

I have little to no tolerance for dealing with ridiculous people. And I can be ridiculous and emotional from time to time, but rarely without some sort of basis for my frustration and never with rejection of well intentioned people who hope to help somehow.

I guess it started with her refusal to accept the upcoming complete resolution to the problem at hand. She simply refused to wait for it. She and her husband are too busy and don't have the luxury of time. And I guess it's was when she made a point of saying her daughter, as a full paying student, deserved better treatment than the scholarship winner who was sitting next to her in waiting area of our office. "It's how the world works," she said, "We're PAYING for this. She (pointing to the girl in the waiting area) is not. We deserve better treatment. " I once again took responsibility for the error, but rejected her insistence that we treat scholarship winners differently from full pays. "I won't do that," I said. She smirked at my statement.

"And just how DO you put an only child in this situation?" At that point, I was pleased to share that as an only child myself, the status does not beg collegiate dysfunction. And I proudly stared at her in silence when she confessed she really wasn't there for her daughter. She was there for her. As the situation we've put her in is one she doesn't have time for and neither does her husband. Again, I just stared. How interesting to come in professing a crusade for your child, only to confess that really, all along, it's always been about just you.


When I called my colleague to relay the information, it was simply the second of two major hits he'd take that day. Another came from a father, who approached him after a presentation.

"How dare you set my son up to fail," the father said to my colleague.

"Sir?"

"How dare you match my son with two black kids. You're setting him up to fail."

Once my colleague got over the initial shock of the statement, he told the father he was operating on a gross and inaccurate assumption. He also shared that our process does not factor in race.

"Well, you should have been able to tell they were black from their names," the father replied.

Upon describing the alternative situation, what if a black student was paired with two white roommates, would he have the same fear, the father replied, "It's what they have to deal with. All their lives. It's what they're used to."

For the past couple of years, intolerance has become a bigger and bigger issue as students prepare to matriculate in the fall. Last summer I had two angry phone calls from parents whose sons were matched with gay male roommates. I simply don't know where its coming from and it breaks my heart.

Shouldn't this be the generation that bleeds tolerance, respect and diversity? How are we regressing? Or is it that people simply no longer feel censored to express such opinions?

And the entitlement. It gets worse all the time. Granted, our education is an expensive one, but it's also not a stay at The Four Seasons. And it's hard to argue community needs in the "Look at Me" Generation. One that thrives on Facebook and a collection of self-portraits taken with a digital camera.

40 minutes total - 9 hours ago - and I can't stop thinking about it.

Am I getting too old for this?

On goodbye yellow brick road...

I just filled two boxes with books I intend to leave behind. Finding a new apartment and wrapping your head around yet another move will do that to you.

My guy and I ventured to Raleigh on Friday with two missions: 1) Fill out his paperwork for grad school and 2) Find a place to live. Mission(s) Accomplished! And no, this is not coming you you live from a carrier and no, I don't have a banner in the backdrop. And, no, I don't quite have a job just yet, but we had to get my guy set up either way. Now I'm simply left to stare at my cell phone while hitting refresh on my email waiting, waiting, waiting to hear from my super important interview from last week. (pause). Sorry, had to hit refresh again.

We actually found our new place on Friday night. We intended to spend all day Saturday looking around, but once we arrived at our 5th stop of the first evening and realized it was everything we could possibly want, we dropped off our application Saturday morning. We were pretty much giddy walking out of the place, so it really was a no brainer. The rest of Saturday was spent bumming around downtown and campus and getting home a couple of hours earlier than expected. Not so bad at all.

We're downgrading to a one bedroom, but that probably makes a great deal of sense as we transition to a one income family, for the most part. Plus, though many of our friends and family claim they can't wait to visit, we can't quite imagine we'll be hosting any more folks than we saw when we lived in DC - a city with a lot more to do than Raleigh and with three major airports and Amtrak serving the area. We know you really think you're going to visit and we really appreciate it. But, we're also realists. The air mattress will do for the few, the proud, and the brave who venture our way.

We couldn't be more excited about the apartment. My guy's commute, and my potential commute, are a breeze at about 10 minutes maximum. Our balcony faces a lovely wooded area with a pond in the complex, a complex that is brand new and within spitting distance of every store or restaurant you can possibly think of. We're within walking distance of a Harris Teeter, and the development has a lovely gym, ample parking, and no enclosed staircases, resulting in a smaller chance of stairwell sex. It's been a problem with our neighbors as of late. And my fingers are crossed but, from the looks of the place, I'm guessing there won't be a need for a "crack clause", as I like to call it, in the lease. Our current lease does have a whole section devoted to a scout's honor to not sell, distribute or do drugs on the property. A final good sign? The state trooper car that's constantly parked out front belongs to a resident. The lights aren't typically flashing, unlike our current situation. ACES! Nevertheless, I did insist on an upper level unit, in an homage to my street smarts.

My guy and I made a promise to each other to do the mother of all purges of our collective crap, ahem, possessions long before we agreed to get a one bedroom, but now it's simply necessary. As the friends who helped us with our last move can attest, we have WAY too much stuff. And, really, they only helped with my portion of the move. But living on your own for the last 9 years (not counting college) can result in some major gathering. It's what we women do, after all. Still, it was painful to move last time and painful to watch our helpers. I'm committed to getting it under control.

But it makes me so sad to let go of books. They're the notches on the bedpost of my intellect! I adore looking over my bookshelves and taking in this impressive sample of what I've read. I also just love how books look; simple, sophisticated and a decorative insight into the mind of the owner. Nevertheless, they serve no real purpose and I will never pick them up again. Well, except to move apartments. And I can find new homes for them where they will be loved and cared for and perhaps passed on from there to another exciting destination.

So what's getting cut?

My Bill Bryson collection - ouch. This hurts. A lot.
Bridget Jones 1 and 2, The Nanny Diaries and any other chick lit that is required reading for lady singletons in their twenties. Good riddance. A long time coming... really.
Various undergraduate and graduate required reading. Ok, not all of it. But I'm down to two from undergrad and about five from grad.
Anything written by Maria Shriver meant to inspire me.
And on and on and on..

So what stays?
Whatever is left that I haven't read.
Ripley Bogle - my favorite book from my London Study Abroad experience. The trip that taught me how to be a scholar and opened up my eyes to a whole new world.
Troilus and Criseyde and The Canterbury Tales - they made me fall in love with the English major.
Grad school classics - Higher Education Law and the Black-White Test Score gap. You can borrow them if you promise to give them back.
The Position - a good read, nothing memorable, but the first book my guy ever gave me.
A Prayer for Owen Meany stays too. My favorite John Irving book. I introduced Irving's writing to my guy with this one and I'm pretty sure he loved me a little more for the experience of it.
The Red Tent - responsible for taking me out of a reading rut and making me appreciate religion again.
Art History books - yes they're heavy, but they're also my brother.
The Little Prince - for religious purposes.

Neither list is exhaustive. And I'm sure some of the cuts will make their way back to the shelf before all is said and done. Purge number 2 of my clothes and shoes will come next, followed by my excessive coffee mug collection. Note: I completed purge number one months ago on the shoes and clothes, and yet the bags STILL remain in my apartment. Methinks that's not the best sign for really letting go.

On protection...

I think I have ADD.

Lately, I find I can't concentrate on one task for much longer than a few minutes. I feel like Mozilla Firefox is, in part, to blame. This multiple tab business invites major multi-tasking, and is all too enabling with my rapid-fire thought process. Currently, I have my two e-mail account tabs open, facebook, mycokerewards.com, a bridesmaid dress site, my blog stats and my blog itself. My wedding spreadsheet is also on the ready, and I just added new pictures to a flash drive for our digital photo frame. Here's a sampling of the brain sparklers from earlier today:

I should check for more jobs in Raleigh.

Maybe I should rethink the wedding colors. Should they match the reception room instead?

I need to outline my presentation for next week's interview.

Where will we live in Raleigh?

Did I ever book that meeting space?

Please note that any rapid fire thought occurring at work that is actually related to my current job didn't enter in until number 5. I will be found out any day now, I'm just sure of it.

Now that my bridal party is lined up, I've invited a lot of wardrobe questions. As such, a visit to dessy.com includes an invitation to read more about A Brides Guide to Bridesmaids. I was told by a former colleague today she'd be more than happy to send along her "How to Make Your Bridesmaids Happy" tips, as she is a recent disgruntled b-maid courtesy of her bridezilla now sister-in-law.

I have no interest in pissing off my bridesmaids, and I've been on the organizing end of enough events to have an understanding of the fact that NOTHING actually goes off without a hitch. Rolling with the punches is essential. It's my hope to bring that and a healthy dose of open mindedness to all things related to this event, but to my bridal party in particular.

Upon perusal of the Brides Guide to Bridesmaids, I clicked on A Brief History and learned the following:

The history of the bridesmaid varies across cultures, religions and time periods. In early Roman times, bridesmaids formed a kind of bridal infantry as they accompanied the bride to the groom's village. This "protective shield" of similarly outfitted bridesmaids was supposed to intervene if any wayward thugs or vengeful suitors tried to hurt the bride or steal her dowry.

This changes everything.

I am suddenly way too excited by the options for wardrobe. A bridal infantry? My wedding is going to kick ass. Swords covered in flowers, shields with delicate etchings and suits of armor. Then I don't need to hear anyone bitch about an unflattering style or color. Huzzah!

Or perhaps we should go Kill Bill style. Yellow jump suits, ninja garb or school girl uniforms with morning stars.

Like I said, the options are endless.

Gotta go. I need to get these girls signed up for martial arts classes.

On traditions...

I just spent three days back home in Maine. It was honestly the perfect amount of time. I stopped just short of boredom and was able to hit the brakes to a screeching halt before complete irritation with my mother set in. That's probably not entirely true to form, however, as just 1 day and overnight was devoted to her. Oh well, I'll take it either way.

With every trip home I'm typically dismayed by the increasing lack of connection I feel to the place. This is always disconcerting to me, as I credit Maine for shaping who I am and wonder what deeper meaning such disconnection may actually mean. Nevertheless, I was much more focused on how relaxed I felt during this trip. Deeply and utterly chill. Perhaps because I got an excellent bite in my job search, perhaps because the upcoming changes in my life, while major, seem to be all for the good and taking most favorable turns. Perhaps it was because the number of life changes going on gave everyone plenty of topic for conversation and the emptiness of awkward silences made fewer appearances, leaving me less pressured to fill them.

I was also struck by the family traditions that were able to seep through despite such a short window of time. Most of our traditions revolve around food, though little of it is prepared ourselves:

* The two dinners with dad were spent at Bugaboo Creek and Ricetta's. It's been many years since we stepped foot in a restaurant together that didn't involve a talking mechanical moose or pizza.
* Mom made popovers the morning after our lobster dinner. Even though I bought the lobsters for her belated birthday dinner, I made her cook them (aka, plunge them into hot boiling water to their hellish demise). I am a despicable daughter.
* Family dinner at my uncle's. This time, traditional sarcasm was served alongside a delicious cookout.

Other traditions? SPORTS! Red Sox, Celtics, US Open Golf. Constantly. And when I fell asleep during the Celtics game, my father continued the tradition of posting the final score on the bathroom door so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up.

I laughed out loud. That's a personal favorite.

Oh, and there were plenty of tears, as is tradition. Really, it's not as bad as it sounds. My dad and I just get into these reflective conversations and one of us always manages to lose our cool. If anyone ever wonders why I'm such an emotional bugger, they can blame my dad. Simultaneously one of the toughest guys I know and the weepiest bloke in the world when it comes to me and inspirational sports stories. My father broke down talking about both Jon Lester's no hitter and his regret that his parents never got to see everything I achieved . Seriously, I never had a shot a emotional normalcy. And don't get me started on the waterworks endured due to Tim Russert's passing. An Irish Catholic whose son just graduated BC? He was basically family.

Accents. One of my most endearing (or most annoying, depending on who you are) attributes is how I pick up whatever accent I'm around. This should be particularly funny once I make my move down Raleigh way, but I always fall a little bit in love with the slightest Maine accent I take on when I'm home. Never in front of my mother, of course, who forbade me to have one, but around my dad and his side of the family, convenience store clerks, you name it.

Finally, whenever I'm back home, I'm always reminded of just where I got my kindness from. My apologies if that sounds egotistical, but the fact that I'm apologizing for it shows you I'm not all that bad. From the TSA employees to the restaurant host to my family. People just go out of their way to make you feel welcome there, and perhaps that is the most important general lesson I've ever taken from the place and one I never hope to lose. I'm often saddened by the general lack of kindness I feel from people, and not just strangers, but those to whom I'm be introduced by a friend or colleague. People just don't go out of their way for what isn't directly relevant to them. And I guess there's nothing wrong with that. But there's something about a general kindness of strangers that always puts a spring in my step. And if I'm introduced to you by a friend or colleague, I'm going to go out of my way to get to know you a little. Sure, maybe this will be the first and last time that I will ever see you, but that doesn't make the impression I leave with you any less important. After all, maybe our paths will cross again. Still, even if they don't, I owe it to the person introducing us to give you my best. That alone is enough for me.

And even if you're just seating me at a restaurant, I know we have the power to set the tone for each other's next few hours. Quite frankly, I want no part in being the catalyst to your crappy shift.

Good food, kindness, emotion, sports and accents. Maybe my next trip home won't take so long to happen next time.

So... what's new?

As I write this blog, I have a tail tucked between my legs as punishment for my negligence to cyberspace rants and realizations. Of course, the closest tail I could find was on one of the feral cats that lives outside of my apartment building. I wish he'd stop hissing and trying to get away. Some animals just don't understand the importance of sincere gestures.

So it's been a while. The thing is, I have a lot going on in my world right now. But it's okay. It's a family tradition, really. Why engage in one or even two major life changes when you can indulge in three at the same time?

My job search (and the relocation it requires) continues, with some progress. A phone interview last week, another for a different job this week, and a face to face for last week's phone interview about to be scheduled. I also continue to be mishandled by a university not to be named who may or may not be interested based on a variety of factors, such as : 1) how much money I'm willing to not make 2) how much of a title downgrade I can swallow and 3) the stages of the moon. Still, there does appear to be a light at the end of the job tunnel, and my fingers are triple crossed for this week's phone interview. Wish me luck.

Oh, and I got engaged.

My guy popped the question the Friday before Memorial Day. Before you curse me for waiting so long to tell you, dear blog, understand that there is a frenzy that follows such an announcement. For example, I may actually come close to my monthly allotment of cell phone minutes for May and June! And for as much fun as people make of me for being a) so "on the ball" with planning or b) so freakishly obsessed with planning, it's amazing how much people expect you to have figured out within the 24 hours post-proposal. Really, I'm just trying to determine a budget with what I've done so far, but it's incredible how far down Alice's wedding planning hole that can inadvertently take you.

The few days following my engagement were probably the happiest days of my life. I hate how anti-feminist that sounds, but it's true; there really was magic in the air. And there continues to be, don't get me wrong. I fall more in love with him every day, and perhaps that is how we know it's the real thing. His one major fault, as far as I can determine, is his whacked perspective regarding the size of my fingers. While friends would describe them as thin and delicate, his choice of ring size assumes sausage fingers. As such, I have been without my lovely ring for almost a week as it endures band liposuction. I could try to convince you of the fact that I don't desperately miss it, but I'm a horrible liar.

With every passing day, I am reminded of what a remarkable human being my guy is. Oh, pardon me, my fiance is! He is the type of person you always want around: smart, hilarious, humble and kind. He is the type of person who can't help but make you a better person, professional or friend. He's someone whose person, heart and standards I never want to let down. He's someone who believes in the benefit of the doubt. He quietly makes sure I don't let my Irish temper get the best of me with Jedi mind trick mastery. He has a smile that commands mine in return. I don't understand what I ever did to convince this gem of a man to sign on for the long run, but I will strive to replicate it again and again and again.

We're both children of divorced parents who never remarried. The bizarre logistics of that reality in wedding planning, by the way, are well worth their own blog entry, but that is for another time. As he got down on his knee and offered me the ring, once I accepted and wiped away my first round of tears, I placed my hands on his shoulders and promised him, "I will always give you my best." He promised me the same. We don't enter this next stage lightly. We enter it with the understanding there are both joys and sorrows, highs and lows that are to come. Nevertheless, there is no one whose hand I would rather hold or whose side I would rather stand by.

Thank you for keeping me silly, my sweet. I love you back.

On general manners...

There's nothing more awkward than the 5K/10K/"insert random race distance here" charity solicitation. I've run a few of these in my past and have eagerly set up my personal webpage via Kintera or whatever fundraising software du jour is used.

You enter all of your personal information and are asked to set up a fundraising goal. Most sites even encourage you to aim for a very high reaching goal. After all, what fun is a reachable goal? Of course, we need to remember that this is all for a good cause and no one is going to execute you for not making it, but for someone like me, for whom the race distance is already a laughable goal, I need to keep it real in some respects.

So you set up the site and then comes the dreaded next step, "Notify your friends, family, co-workers, neighbors, trash men, toll ticket takers of your goal and ask them to donate!"

Oof.

When I reach this page of the site, I take it most seriously. I basically think about, "Who will forgive me for sending this to them?"

Again, it's all in the name of a good cause, and that's not lost on me. But more and more people are doing these types of activities for personal reasons and charity's sake. Not too long ago some friends and I discussed how many of these we've started to receive on a regular basis.

Still, I wish other people would take the solicitations as seriously as I do. For example, I'm certain not to include any ex-boyfriends or people to whom I've not spoken in years on my solicitation list.

Friday, I received two solicitations for two races from the same ex. Egad. And I'm not on bad terms with this person. I'm just on no terms with this person. If they send me a message, I typically don't respond. Not because I'm trying to be a jerk, but just because there's really no point to it.

Definitely the type of person I'd request money from.

So, please, if we're friends, co-workers, have sat in DC traffic together, by all means, feel free to send me your charity race solicitation. If, however, one of us has ever uttered the words, "It's not you, it's me" to the other, perhaps you should delete my e-mail address from your "send me money!" campaign. After all, you are a lovely person but I also know how lazy you are and my guess is you're not going to find a cure for AIDS.

Also, it's just common courtesy.

On a scale of 1 to 10...

I couldn't have been more excited for this weekend. Had just enough downtime and just enough fun in the sun planned for these glorious two days.

That is, until I woke up at 3 am on Saturday with fierce pain in my stomach and a 12 hour date with my toilet bowl.

Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?

Yes, ok, so I just killed any sexiness factor that may have existed between you and me. I'm truly bummed about that. Still, I think it paints the appropriate portrait of my weekend. The joy of the weekend is that I've managed to keep everything, including my water only diet of yesterday, down since about 3 yesterday afternoon. YIPPIE! Currently, I simply coexist with horrible stomach pain, back pain and a headache. My attitude? "Heck, I've already had my appendix out, it can't be that bad!" I'm opting to ride it out.

Since I've been locked down on the couch with loads of time to think between my 20 minute catnaps, I've been left to wonder just how bad I am at being sick.

There's really only one person who can tell you that. Cory has stayed loyally by my side all weekend, proving he's nothing short of "the man". He left only to do some grocery shopping, which he later confessed he felt guilty about doing. FYI, I love this guy.

Anyway, he's constantly refilled my glass of ice water, asked me at regular intervals if I need anything and seems very much ok with the notion that he may have to do a load of laundry tonight. (Laundry = my job; trash and recycling = his job)

As someone who is horrible at asking for things, I'm resigned to the fact that I must be a total pain in the ass as "sick roommate/girlfriend". I'm really just trying to stay out of the way, but it's hard to do that when sickness essentially requires you will dominate the television, for example.

I'm so curious as to what kind of sick person I am. It's important to me that I be a model sick person. Why? Because we've all lived with at least one person who does not do sick well and, well, it's incredibly annoying.* Whether it's a parent, roommate, partner, spouse or child, some people just don't handle being down for the count in any sort of reasonable manner. The world must stop for the ailing, in the opinion of the ill-equipped sickie. Thus, am I a whiner? A complainer? A moaner? A sigher? A general pain in the neck? I really don't know.

There's just nothing more humbling than being sick. I'm guessing I'm dealing with some sort of food poisoning, given how everything came on and how it's all pretty unknown to me. Either way, I'd like to thank the USA Network for yesterday's House marathon. Sometimes the cable gods really are on your side.

* It's an attitude like this that makes me question any future parenting skills.

On yesses, noes and maybe soes

Had an interesting day with the job search today.

I started my day by applying to a bunch of positions not in my current field. I call these stretches. In classic fashion, I'm incredibly overqualified for one (Legal Recruiting Assistant) and not at all qualified for another (Corporate Sales for the Carolina Hurricanes). I did manage to find some reasonable ones in between.

I've been in all day meetings since Monday. During the two breaks I get a day, I dart to my office to check my voice mail and e-mail for any glimmers of hope. It's gotten to be borderline pathetic. Still, I'm just playing the odds. I have SO many resumes out there. Something's gotta give. Right?

Well first came the bad news. I received a 'regrets' e-mail from the position I referenced a few blogs ago. This was the job I applied for which, two hours later, earned me a phone call that said something along the lines of, "Are you crazy?". It's the equivalent of a job I did from 2001-2004, pre-graduate degree and pre-paralyzing titles (curse you "Director!"). I'm pretty sure I laughed out loud when I got the "thanks but no thanks" email about this position, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't pissed off for a good 90 seconds about it too. I OWN THAT POSITION, DAMNIT!

15 minutes into my 2 hour commute home today (normally 40-60 minutes) I received a phone call from a North Carolina area code! I was so excited! I didn't dare answer, however, as I literally have applied to so many jobs, I was fearful I might not remember the position, the company, the whatevers that would prevent me from sounding like a complete moron over the phone.

I listened to the voice mail and determined what it was. The position is not ideal, but interesting and a bit of a funky take on what I do now. I called the woman back about 45 minutes into my 2 hour commute.

Did I mention I had a 2 hour commute tonight?

Anyway, the call was primarily a feeling out call by a third party search company. What was interesting about it was it was made clear in the first few minutes that there is an essential component of expertise that I'm missing for the position, but what was also clear was that I've apparently sold myself as so strong in other areas they might be willing to consider me just the same. So, it was far from a slam dunk but, at the same time, was profoundly refreshing.

I've spent a lot of time on cover letters "spinning" my experience so it's not limiting to this one fraction of the world. As weeks pass and I hear nothing, I've started to feel like the open-mindedness is not there and I'm the only one who can see how a skill set can translate from one industry to another. People focus on job titles and departments instead. I'm guilty of it too. Just as I'm guilty of laughing at the overqualified resume that comes across my desk.

I'm likely to get a call back later in the week with an update on this first nibble. It's unlikely to bring much of anything, as they've already done a first round of interviews and the search firm is awaiting feedback. Who they've interviewed, the woman told me, are a bunch of people very skilled in the thing I'm not, but unskilled in the other area in which I bring some street cred. Either way, I'm grateful. Like I said, all I needed was a nibble. The whoring out of my credentials will continue another day.

And I'll definitely keep you posted on the Hurricanes. I've always wanted to be a pro athlete.