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?