The Culture Wars.

I'm trying again.

2010-12-31T15:43:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I didn't do so well with the other format of the new blog. So back to blogger for me:

http://ordtime.blogspot.com/

I promise.

2010-10-31T21:51:00.000-04:00

To update the following site more often:

http://moderntravels.tumblr.com/

But I think that The Culture Wars and I have to part ways. Let's be honest. I was doing a crap job with this anyway.

Thanks for reading.

Tea Party Weekend.

2010-08-29T19:25:00.000-04:00

I avoided the crowds in the 'safe' areas of DC.

There are so many things about this movement that I find so very very frightening.

The Culture Wars are here in full force, my friends.

That's it.

2010-08-18T21:05:00.001-04:00

I can't take it anymore. There doesn't seem to be a forum for me to ask questions or make comments about the state of the way boys dress in my neighborhood.

I would like to scream to the heavens. WHY? Or at least look up in askance.

Why is it that bird chested, shirtless, youths with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths insist on wearing their trousers well below their rear ends showing their underwear to the world?

I, for one, do not wish to see this.

I don't care if I am considered it old fashioned or unhip or unsympathetic to today's inner city youths, or at least the ones on my street dressed (or not dressed) in the way that they are.

They look like hoodlums. They act like hoodlums. Ergo, they are hoodlums. One of them told me that he would slap me for not holding open a door for him to my building. He doesn't live in the building. Were I a big burly man, that crap would not have come out of his mouth.

To these miscreants I write the following:

Wear a damned shirt. Pull up your damned pants and go to school. I pay for your education. Use it, damn it. Use it and become productive people, or I will kick your ass.

I'm tired of you. I'm just tired.

Where I've gone.

2010-07-27T11:04:00.000-04:00

Dear Friends:

The Culture Wars is on hiatus--obviously--but I have not given up on it. For right now I am working on some travel writing and if you're interested in seeing what trouble I'm getting myself into, please check it out here:

The Aesthetic of Lostness.

I'm so glad to have had to opportunity to write and get to meet so many of you.
I do hope that you're all well.

Best,

MA.

Something that scares me.

2010-04-18T21:56:00.000-04:00

I have no problem with people wanting to own guns. I don't want to own one, but I do not want to stop anyone from owning one.

However, that being said, this open carry demonstration rally being held a few miles south of DC in Northern Virgina tomorrow scares me. I don't believe that all of the people gathering together are angry about so many things. So much more than a right to carry a weapon into a city or on an airplane.

They are angry about the economy, and the fact that they now have to pay for healthcare, and that they have to pay taxes on things that they always had to pay taxes on. They also seem to be profoundly uncomfortable with educated people who have differing views.

I would love it if a conservative with a clear, concise message would explain his or her problem with healthcare or taxes or the constitution for that matter would speak in a language that made sense to me.

The Wire.

2010-03-26T00:17:00.002-04:00

After I finish watching the fifth and final season of The Wire on DVD, I am going to write about it. There are so many things to say.

So many things to say. Not the least that it was, indeed, the best damned show on television.

(I cried a lot during season four. I couldn't handle all of the sadness with the children.)

Best quote of Season Five: After an older newspaper reporter explains to a rookie that people cannot be evacuated, but buildings can be. He says, oh so righteously, "At the Baltimore Sun, God still resides in the details."

Let the Great World Spin on St. Patrick's Day.

2010-03-17T17:52:00.003-04:00

Let me start by writing that I am not Irish, nor will I pretend to be on this day. I've never felt a particular kinship to this day of celebration, wearing green and drinking to excess, and I have only ever looked across the Irish Sea with a faint interest of what happens there.

Sure there may be a bit of Irish blood coursing through my diverse American veins, but it's not strong enough to illicit a calling to that land or people to which an overwhelming number of Americans claim ancestry. (And even if there is some of that blood there, its involvement in my life is awfully complicated.) I don't long to enter Dublin's pubs and I don't feel the pull of the music; for me, there is no kinship to Joyce or Guinness, and the history of violence in Belfast and Northern Ireland neither intrigues nor incites me to choose a side, no matter how much my faintly Irish-Catholic parish encouraged us to tentatively support Sinn Fein. Even then, at thirteen, I remained, in essence, a neutral, professing a greater interest in political struggles more endemic to the United States, or to me personally.

This is not to say that I take issue with the day, the people or the country; for I do not. It is just not a part of who I am.

However, on this day, this absolutely beautiful cloudless St. Patrick's Day, I am lucky to have had the day off from work. As such, I walked to a local coffeehouse and finished reading the last hundred or so pages of Colum McCann's Let the Great World Spin. He is an Irish writer who has written a novel that encompasses so many things and so many people, one would think that he has all of us coursing through his veins, from the spindly legged funambulist who haunts the the opening pages of the novel, to the black prostitute facing her fortieth charge of solicitation in a courtroom to the Park Avenue housewife who loses her only son in the Vietnam War. He seems to understand so many different people--or at least he imagines and writes them without judgment or malice. He doesn't try to dissect or essentialize the psyche of any of his characters, and for that, I find that I have a great respect for both him and his writing.

So, I sat there on the front porch of the row house coffeehouse in Petworth soaking in the sun and reading while trying to imagine the New York that McCann had created, one that was as real and as true as the New York I've seen and about which I've heard. However, during my reading I was a bit distracted at times.

There is a large building project going on across the street from the coffeeshop. A big orange crane is hoisted in the air, and for the first time ever, I saw a crane's legs (or perhaps a blue heron's?) in that metal contraption. I'm not even sure if I am supposed to see that metaphor, but I do. I used my hand to cover my eyes from the sun so that I could get a better look at the construction and the crane itself. Of course, one of the workers thought that I was flirting with him, and he waved, convinced that I could see more than the hardhat and bright yellow vest that pressed against a steel railing.

How funny it is when we think we are the center of the universe.

But I digress.

It is St. Patrick's Day and I am not in a bar, but I have celebrated a writer of its lands, one who writes with a worldview that I find compelling and one who has made Ireland and the Irish a little less foreign to me.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh.

Spring Break?!!

2010-03-14T21:54:00.001-04:00

Work has been quite eventful, and I find myself on Spring Break. I'm quite excited. I have to do work, mind you, but I don't have to go in to do it.

I have these really grandiose plans. If I get half of the list finished, I'll be thrilled.

I can't seem to get into gear with writing, but I will. Soon.

I hope that it's sunny and warm wherever you are.

Realizations or Realisations.

2010-02-27T23:34:00.003-05:00

Preparing for change can almost be as daunting as the actual event.

I've started moving in a direction that could radically alter my life in several ways. Well, it would be radical for me. I'm not sure how everything is going to work out in the end, but I think it will. This is going to involve my working a lot more in the next several months. I have to set out all of my responsibilities at work on paper. Every last thing I do and every last thing I have done in my four and half years on the job must be accounted for and put into an easily digestible form.

Universities aren't really stable places anymore. They haven't been for years.

***

I went to an academic talk on Friday and was both surprised and disappointed by the material being presented. I know many lovely people who are doing cutting edge and thought-provoking work. This work presented was far from cutting edge and even further from compelling. To be completely honest, I was also a little unsure about how I would feel attending the talk as I am truly unsure of my own connection to my former department and a discipline which I have claimed to love.

I won't bore you with the details of the talk, but I will say that I reacted strongly to claims that I found troublesome and misleading, and then I thought, "In the world that I know, maybe fifty people will read this stuff if it ever gets published. So who cares?"

And yet, I still did. I still cared that the work was sloppy and uninteresting.

So I thank the speaker for making me care enough about her work to think it was craptastic, but I still remain extremely skeptical of everything she did.

One thing is for sure. I will always be interested in work about Christopher Marlowe. He remains my 16th century friend (not in a creepy, stalker way--on my end--of course).

***

I think that I've not done as well this year with setting goals and accomplishing them as I hoped to have. Quite frankly, I've never been a goal oriented person. I've been motivated by fear of failure, fear of disappointing other people, and this bizzare need to be nice and accommodating no matter how much it inconveniences or upsets me. I'm through with that. Failing doesn't really hurt that much, people have disappointed me more than I care to admit, and I'm quite through with being accommodating all of the time.

I know that I wouldn't be myself if all of a sudden I just checked out on everything, but it is so tempting. Sometimes I wonder if people would even notice if I just sort of stopped communicating and pulled a Thoreau. If they didn't, then I guess my experiment would be successful, eh?

I have set out a few short term goals for myself. I've never really done that. I've never been a list maker, and I've never tried to push myself towards anything in particular.

I'm thirty three years old. I suppose now is the time for all of this. Lists? Here I come.

A moment of Olympic fun.

2010-02-22T19:39:00.001-05:00

During the summer of 2008, my Olympic boyfriend was the oh so wonderful Jason Lezak. How I loved him! But as you all well know, summer infatuation soon fades and here I find myself nearly two years later with a brand new Olympic boyfriend, one Aksel Lund Svindal.

He's from Norway, he's a downhill skier, and I fancy him quite a bit.

What's not to like about a Viking who hurls himself down snowy mountains at unbelievable speeds? Yes, yes, Americaphiles, Bode Miller is a great skier as well, and he bested Lund Svindal in the Super G combined, but Miller's antics in 2006 in Turino left me a bit unimpressed. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the whole "party-guy maverick gone good" story, and Miller is a very handsome man too, but Aksel Lund Svindal is my 2010 Olympic boyfriend.

I know that you'll end up with some kind of a supermodel with a medical degree who will take care of you, Aksel, and you totally deserve it, but for rest of the Olympics, I'm glad, nay excited, to give you the moniker of my Olympic boyfriend! Congrats on the gold medal and the silver medal.

Du er det best, Aksel!

Reading in the so-called electronic age (Part one).

2010-02-21T17:37:00.001-05:00

This is just a formative post about this topic.

In the end, I hope to have written a couple of entries about the e-book and what I perceive to be its impact on 'reading culture' (something with which I have struggled for years to try to define) because so many people have asked me what I think about e-book readers including the Kindle, and I have asked many people the same questions.

As a type of preparation for my writing (in a sense, this is a type of foray back into a world of academic writing that I cannot seem to break up with for good), I have pulled Sven Birkerts The Gutenberg Elegies from its spot on my bookshelf in the dining room. I will certainly have more to say about Mr. Birkerts' (now sixteen year old) book later this week or this month, but I will say one thing about it for now: I am not as seduced by its monastic litany, the Kyrie Eleison, the prayers asking for the return of the old ways.

I am not a Luddite, nor am I so enamored with technology that I fail to stop to ask questions about its impact upon me and my fellow humans. Since I work in an academic department with people for whom technology and its continued advancements are an integral part of life, I have grown much more appreciative of their intellectual missions and how their accrued knowledge very much contributes to my own growing sensibilities about what it means to read in 2010 as opposed to 1610 or even as far back as 1510.

It is not, I think, a bad thing for us to evolve and change as readers. How we evolve and change as readers, writers and thinkers fully informs us how we used to (and still do in some cases!) read, write and think.

An Early Valentine's Day and Chinese New Year Post.

2010-02-12T21:58:00.000-05:00

A lot changes in a year.

It's amazing and reassuring that stuff that used to be difficult to ponder truly does get relegated to the annals of the past somehow. Time can be restorative, a quiet analgesic that slowly heals all sorts of discomfort--emotional or otherwise.

I'm glad that Chinese New Year and Valentine's Day are interconnected this year. I am reminded that there is a whole world out there to see and to write about.

I will tell the people I care about what they mean to me, and I won't wait in awkward silence for them to return the sentiment. It is enough that I love them.

And I'm going to think of the great snowstorm of 2010 as reset button. A week to think about what I'd like to do in the next year, where I'd like to go, and with whom I'd like to spend time.

Sure my apartment needs to be tidied and it's time for me to go back to the gym and to stop rolling my eyes at the annoying runners who can't take one or two snow days off from running around on DC's streets, and I could use a better job title, but mostly, I am happy.

So Happy Valentine's day to you, my dear six or seven readers, and Happy Chinese New Year.

The Prisoner of Petworth (in haiku).

2010-02-08T23:24:00.000-05:00

I.

Because of the snow
I sit alone in my flat
wondering what's next.

II.

Four blocks of Petworth
here is where I feel confined
soon, I will leave

III

Metro cannot run
above ground and so we wait
for the snow to clear

IV

Yes. Snowblivion!
We are supposed to get more
the weatherman says.

V.

There is The Wire
It has kept me entertained.
I LOVE Baltimore.

Snowhere to go. Thanks, Snowblivion.

2010-02-06T12:29:00.001-05:00

Lest I continue on with terrible puns and jeux de mots, I will go ahead and say that this snow storm would be much more interesting if I had the right kit to go out into it properly. (That and if I didn't manage to catch some kind of a cold on Thursday.) There's a circle not too far from my apartment and I'd love to see what it and the rest of my neighborhood looks like now. Perhaps I'll go tomorrow when the snow stops falling.

I walked down to the lobby to see what the snow looked like just from the front steps. All of the shoveling that was done has already been covered up.

I know that my friends way up North, out West and in the Midwest think that this snow is a good amount, but nothing to panic about. I know that my friends across the pound would be horrified if this amount of snow were ever to grace (or curse?) their land.

Right now, I'm watching the snow spiral outside of my second floor window, which looks out into an alley--ah, yes, city living-- and it is hypnotizing. I don't really have the focus to watch a movie, but I seem to have no problem staring at what amounts to a visual representation of white noise.

I couldn't really capture the white noise effect well, because I am too lazy to pull out a real camera. The 3 megapixel one will have to do for now, folks.

Love it or hate it, the snow makes you slow down, even if you have to get out there and go to work or save a life or something. Since I have none of those things to do, I'll sit with tea and honey and continue to watch the snow spirals until I come up with something better to do. I will likely rest and think, write and think, read and think and perhaps later, do dishes and think.

Watching the city clean up from this mess will be fun. I don't miss my basement apartment this winter. Not at all.

Back to the Wars.

2010-02-02T20:22:00.002-05:00

I suppose that in order to resurrect the long neglected purpose of my writing, I decided to give the blog a slight makeover. Hopefully the photographs of neoclassical and classical warriors will illicit in me a desire to start addressing that which is socially, politically, intellectually or culturally compelling to me.

I was once told that I don't look for conflict in anything. Lately, and today especially, I seem to be looking for conflict in everything. So don't mess with me!

Right now, I've decided to conquer that which is only slightly annoying.

Mr. H said that all of my posts are 'adorable.'

Occasionally, I admit, my posts can be cute or sweet and maybe, sometimes, they can be adorable. But all of them? I find it difficult to believe that all of my post are adorable. Some of them are witty, some are charming, some are clever and every once in a while they are serious.

Lately I've been feeling on the periphery for a variety of reasons. The adorable periphery.

I don't want to be there anymore.

Twelfth Night.

2010-01-31T01:03:00.008-05:00

They who predict the weather told us that today we would not have to worry about the snow. They said that we would only be slightly annoyed by the accumulation on the street, but that it would amount to nothing more than a small inconvenience.

They were wrong this time.

I didn't care. Today, the snow was beautiful.

I walked to Columbia Heights mid-morning as the flakes were falling from the sky. My thoughts turned briefly to Mr. H. This snow would have halted the day to day activities of his country, and perhaps that is not necessarily a bad thing. I was not allowing my day to come to a halt, for it was a celebratory one. Another friend is having a baby and attending her baby shower was order of the day.

In my travels through the snow, I thought back to my first evening on my holiday. It was then, after a few visits to England, that I finally got to see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform what is not normally a favorite play of mine, Twelfth Night. The RSC did its job splendidly; for now, I am obliged to reread this play and rethink what it is exactly that turned me off to it in the first place.

During the play, Mr. H and other tall men and women folded themselves origami-like into chairs made for smaller, shorter Victorian people. As others fidgeted about in their chairs, a girl and her mother scribbled notes furiously during the performance. The pair were transfixed and observant, seemingly aware of all things occurring on stage. I learned later that they had come in all the way from Scotland to see this comedy so that the girl could prepare for her national high school exams. Mr. H engaged them in conversation and charmed them (particularly the mother) at every turn; he even offered them some of the candy he purchased at intermission.

I envied his ease with strangers.

***

Ice and snow covered the theatre district and I was stupid and chose to wear inappropriate shoes. As a result I moved quite gingerly worried about a fall. I suppose I thought that the area around the theatre district would have had less ice. Lesson learned.

Mr. H. offered an outstretched gloved hand to my mittened one in an attempt hurry me through the ice and snow to make the curtain. Even as we cantered, I noted to myself how kind and comforting it was to move hand in hand with someone through the streets of any city, let alone one that is so ancient and familiar feeling, yet ultimately strange to me.

"Are you holding my hand because you don't want to fall over," he asked with a smirk, "or are you holding it for another reason?"

I knew, but I didn't feel like replying.

Throughout our walks that night, I grasped and let go of his hand at my leisure, and he didn't seem to mind.

Perhaps I wasn't the only one who liked kindness and comfort.

Free Hugs.

2010-01-27T22:13:00.003-05:00

There he was, standing in my old neighborhood in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Columbia Heights.

He had a sign that read, Free Hugs.

I didn't hug him as my arms were full of groceries, but I smiled.

He caught my eye and said, "You have great evening."

As I walked away, I heard a woman approach him and ask, "Honey, are you that lonely?" She then exclaimed, " Let me give you a hug!"

And she did.

Sometimes, even when things seem kooky, weird and strange, they are also kind of magical.

I send all three of you readers a big giant FREE HUG.

One more sinuous turn before Twelfth Night

2010-01-26T22:11:00.003-05:00

(You will forgive me, as I am very much out of my element here. )

I am fascinated, nay, preoccupied with the Supreme Court's recent decision to block bans by the government on corporate spending limits during elections. I am not going to write about whether or not I think that the lifting of this ban will result in the desolation and utter destruction of the American political system. I say nothing because I am not exactly sure what will happen as a result of this decision.

I have had neither the time nor fortitude to read the ruling nor the dissenting opinions for this case. As a matter of consequence, I regret not doing a degree in Political Science and not taking Constitutional Law with Dr. HD or Dr. U because a decent background in the First Amendment would be non-trivial here.

The First Amendment reads as follows:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Naively, I suppose I always thought that the clause limited to 'abridging the freedom of speech' was left to the domus or oikos of the individual. I never really thought about a corporate entity being granted the same (or similar?) rights surrounding speech.

To me, at least, a corporation is a multitude of voices and opinions, with a variety of shareholders who may not always support or accept the mission statement or goals of that corporation. The only similarity that a corporation seems to have to an individual is the Latin root of the word, (corpus, corporis trans body). I suppose that we could think of a corporation as a unified single body--like a body politic, but absent the King or Queen's body, I find it confusing. I suppose some free market economist will think that I am silly for wondering if corporations believe in unified speech.

So when a corporation speaks, can that speech be wholly different from the majority or minority shareholders and the employees of that company? What about spokesmen or spokeswomen hired to speak on behalf of a company in other venues? Once any given speech is made are unwilling participants folded into the body whose head decides to say something? Again, what if the head says something with which the arms and legs are profoundly uncomfortable? And is it always in a corporation's best interest to invoke freedom of speech by making commercials or ads in support of a particular candidate?

I have no intentions of trying to do anything but attempt figure out what it is that I think about this ruling. I don't know if most people even care about this ruling or its ramifications, but it seems to me that if a nonagenarian and longest serving judge in the highest court in this land wrote nearly 100 pages expressing his dissent and dissappointment over the ruling, I ought to take notice and do some thinking about it.

What my blog is about, apparently.

2010-01-26T16:44:00.007-05:00

Thanks to the Blonde and Wordle.net:

Harfordshire and Herzog leading up to the RSC.

2010-01-24T18:47:00.004-05:00

Very much inspired by a former blogger's sharing of a Werner Herzog reading of Curious Georg e, I thought that I might attempt writing about one experience in Hertfordshire in that very voice.

My apologies to Mr. Herzog and his followers for my wretched interpretation--I break into a wee bit of positivity here and there, but, in any case, I thought that this might be fun.

***

It was only after marching her through the cold of his small town and into a pub and asking her to drink a beer that forced their very sorrows to the depths of their spines, that he reminded her:

"We should return back to the flat and get ready. We do have a train to catch if we want to get to the theatre on time."

As they sat there, sitting shoulder to shoulder like phalanxed soldiers, a springer spaniel shuffled up to her, put his nose in her hand for a moment, and then went off to find his owner. She wondered if the dog's life, which was limited to inside the pub, his owner's house and the medieval town in which he lived, was somehow more satisfying than hers.

She put that thought on hold.

Earlier on their walk, she and her inimitable host had encountered a group of boys enjoying every bit of their adolescence with a snowball fight that ended in a bloody nose, but fortunately all was still well. The boys laughed and played, their coats and scarves covering their neatly pressed uniforms. They must have gone to the preparatory school in town. These lads had such wonderful manners.

Most school-aged teenagers, unfriendly and tied to their machines of madness--cell phones or video games--would not have stopped to play in the snow, nor would they have stopped to engage in conversation with a man in a tailored coat and his ill-dressed American woman guest.

Her excuse for her attire was simply this: She changed out of her relatively smart travel clothing into more comfortable exercise wear as she had always planned on taking a nap that afternoon. Her host kept thwarting her attempts to have a lie down and rest. It was all a part of his great scheme to force her into the mother country's time. And eventually, it worked.

She noticed that these friendly young men were different from the ones in America whom she so often wanted to expel to an island off the coast of Bali. These boys were boisterous without being troublesome and their joy was infectious. Indeed they brightened a day already made luminescent by all of the white on the countryside.

And then, she arrived.

Hair wrapped in a scarf and shuffling to keep from falling in the snow, an elderly woman walked up to her, the only woman in a group of happy men, the only foreigner and stranger to the town. The woman asked her what she would do to keep the boys "from playing about and doing dangerous things like allowing a boy (who by the way only weighed 8 or 9 stone) on an icy riverbed (which was only calf deep)."

At first, the younger woman was worried, not knowing that the riverbed was as shallow as it was, but then silenced that thought for others: why had this grandmotherly figure chosen to fuss at her for the apparent rowdiness of the children? First off, the boys were nothing but lovely, and secondly, what made her think that the only other woman there should have been the voice of reason, the one who brought punitive order to carnavalesque fun? Why didn't she address the adult male there? He was after all wearing a hat that marked him as some sort of responsible figure.

But no. The lecture about the irresponsibility of children and their nonsensical behavior was unleashed on the visitor who would love to see American youths as fun and polite as this lot was.

What she wanted to say was this:

"Madam, you're assuming several things here. One, that I am some sort of an authority figure in this situation. Two, that if I were to have children that I wouldn't want them to be anything like this group of really terrific lads, and three, that I fully agree with whatever disparaging thing you feel the need to express."

What the foreigner actually did was much more polite, non-confrontational and somewhat respectful of her elder by mumbling that she wasn't sure it was so bad and that she ought to get back to the gentleman in the hat.

The boys were not Curious George. They were not agents of chaos--although the woman found them to be exactly that. They were young, expending nervous energy that precedes GCSEs and exams that American students need not worry about--though perhaps it might be good if they had to.

The American rather liked these boys, or young men, or whatever they were. And hoped, that were she lucky to have a son of her own one day, that he would be much more like the ones in the medieval town and nothing like most of the ones in her own neighborhood.

And for a moment, back to the States.

2010-01-21T20:35:00.005-05:00

I seem to have the ability to choose to live in real estate that people need or want to sell.

My apartment building is in the process of being sold, but a few intrepid people in the building (I include myself in the bunch) wanted to turn this building into a condominium or a co-op. I'm not sure what our chances are anymore--given the current real estate market and the fact that many of our neighbors are very elderly.

I am prepared to deal with whatever happens. I would rather not move because I really, really like my apartment. Sure, my kitchen and bathroom could use a redesign with new appliances and fixtures, but the bones of my apartment are, in fact, excellent.

I am a member of the apartment's board and we have contracted attorneys to help us through the process--either of buying the building or dealing with the future buyer of the building. I know that I'll be fine whatever happens.

That seems to have become my mantra for twenty-ten. "I'll be fine whatever happens." And I'll be fine with a smile on my face, damn it.

I hosted a meeting last night in which we invited our attorneys, one of whom might be one of the most attractive men I've ever met in real life. I'm sure that he is considering running for office. With those looks? He should.

(this is my place.)

Because I live in what in polite circles is called an "up and coming neighborhood," I do believe that the lawyers were expecting that our meeting would take place in an apartment that was lacking in style or character. You could see the utter surprise on one of the lawyer's faces when he walked into my great space.

"Oh my!" he said. "You have a GREAT apartment."

Yes. I do.

(blurry iphone photo.)

I have a lot of space to hang paintings; I can move from room to room. I can throw a party for forty of my friends. My neighborhood isn't perfect, but it's not bad either. I have had less trouble here than when I lived in Columbia Heights.

I had food and drinks at the meeting because if we were going to host our lawyers, I figured the least I could do was have decent snacks. I didn't go over the top as I had no desire to impress them, just a need--thank you Southern College--to have something for them. They weren't going to be hungry or thirsty at my house.

The meeting was actually quite enlightening and I also think that it was good for two of the three attorneys to think about paradigms and expectations they had about the sorts of people who live in my neighborhood.

And at the end of the meeting that same lawyer told me that my apartment was beautiful.

I appreciated his compliments, but I thought, imagine what I could do if I owned this place?

Labour or Conservative: A Break from the Action.

2010-01-21T00:19:00.003-05:00

"Oh, so that's David Cameron? He's lovely. Much handsomer than your current Prime Minister."

For a moment, I was reduced to an interested party who cared only about good looks and a better speech. The BBC was televising Mr. Cameron's latest remarks on the state of education in Britain and I must say, I was quite engaged. He addressed the iniquities that some poorer British children have suffered in the face of poor education and poorer educational institutions. He then numbered the difficulties plaguing the primary and secondary educational systems in the UK. I must admit that the problems he listed are endemic to the US school system as well. He then made a terrific rhetorical turn, softened his demeanor a bit, and emphasized both the government's and family's role in educating the young of that country.

He talked about his own role as a parent, and admitted that he has been more fortunate than most citizens in his abilities to provide for his children, but encouraged his audience to believe that that with reducing the suffocating and ineffectual help from the state, families of Britain could certainly produce brilliant, capable children who will go on to have productive lives within the country.

And I was beginning to be sold.

(Another of my photos from Bath. Edited 1960s style.)

I knew that Mr. Cameron is a Member of Parliament (MP) and the Leader of the Conservative Party and The Leader of the Opposition. I could see that he was handsome, articulate and seemed to have a genuine interest in the welfare of the people in his country.

I know that I liked Tony Blair--but most of that liking was the result of my watching of The Queen, my cursory comparisons of him to George Bush, and my love of his partnership with his wife. But then I thought about some of the programs he initiated that I might not necessarily support now that I would have years ago.

At that very moment, I realized that perhaps, at times, I am more conservative than I am willing to admit to myself.

But then, dear readers, I breathed a little easier and remembered that there are fundamental differences between British and American Conservatives, and it was perfectly acceptable that I was slightly infatuated with the terrifically educated, wonderfully articulate David Cameron. I was drawn into Modern British political theater. Before my visit this year, if it happened after 1660 in Britain, I wasn't terribly interested.

Mostly decent man that he is, Mr. H revels in all things political. He spent a lot of time asking me questions about President Obama, what I really thought about him, why I voted for him, what Americans see in him...ad nauseum. I answered him to the best of my ability without really engaging in a full argument. I was on holiday after all. At times, I think that Mr. H enjoys casting me as the Other--his complete opposite in all things so that he has a foil against which to espouse his agenda. Even though he may call me a Socialist or Lefty or some other name in an attempt to inspire rage in me, I'd think (and hope) that Mr. H has a healthy respect for my political outlook--however naive he claims to find it to be. (At least I'm not doe-eyed and in my early twenties telling him how damned clever he is all that time. I have that, I suppose, right?)

Every moment that it was appropriate, Mr. H found it important, nay, necessary, emphatically to inform me about the state of Britain today. He listed what he found to be utter failings, he seethed about the Labour Party, and he explained to me how much better the world would be if it simply embraced truly Libertarian values.

And I must say, I am terribly grateful for his lectures and blustery rants. These occasions gave me opportunity to begin seriously to consider and reconsider my own political philosophy. I know this much after hearing Mr. Cameron's speech: I would like for every person who wishes to have a fantastic education enjoy that opportunity, and I think that it would be interesting to see what would happen in the American education system if public schools were given the autonomy that private schools have. As for my own political leanings, I think that I am an Independent for now because I can't ascribe to any party line. And I'm not sure that will change. I do not and will never regret my voting for the current President of the US. (Mr. H, I do hope you read this part especially.)

Escaping from the world of American politics was rather refreshing, but I clung to my own citizenry when asked my political affiliation after several minutes of talking with Mr. H's adorable and politically saavy 98-year-old grandmother.

"Are you Labour or Conservative?" she asked directly.

"Well, madam, I am an American. I don't have to choose."

"I suppose that's a good answer."

It was also at that moment that I realized that however much I love Britain and could certainly live there for a long time, I could never become one of the Queen's subjects and renounce my US citizenship. Because being a citizen of this country is a ticket to awesome.

But that, my dear readers, is an observation for another post.

On the way to Bath.

2010-01-20T00:00:00.008-05:00

"I do hope that you brought something with you to read on the train to Bath," Mr. H went on, "I don't want to spend the whole time talking. I prefer to read on train journeys."

I assured him that I did, indeed, have something to read. I always have a couple of books with me whenever I go away. It's a habit. Most of the time I don't even read those books as I end up buying others in random bookstores. He needn't have worried. For this train ride I also brought a diary along. It is electric blue and lists the date and gives the writer several lines to express something. It's actually more of a appointment diary, but I use it not only to record meetings and other outings, but also to make observations of things that are both consequential and terribly insignificant.

Mr. H saw the diary at some point and asked about it. I could tell he restrained himself from asking more pointed questions about its contents; so he was of course left to wonder how big of a part he played in the notes I was taking. He watched me write as we sat in a pub waiting for the train to Bath be called.

I wrote a brief entry about how I had trouble keeping up with Mr. H in our walk through London to get anywhere. Museums. Train stations. A play. He was his own Ares and Hermes rolled into one. And I was often left in the dust.

That day, on the way to Bath, he had a singular path in mind and marched me through the cold and wind and snow to get us to Paddington frightfully early. He would walk quickly forward complaining that I couldn't properly keep up and that our relative walking speed had nothing to do with our height difference and everything to do with me, and my relative fitness. This comment was first uttered while I was racing along in heels (albeit small ones) on my first night in town. I restrained my urge to kill him a few times and I even told him I hated him once after I climbed one hundred ninety three steps in those same heels. I was sure to point out that I was not always sure of where I was going, and didn't feel as comfortable jaywalking in that city. My instinct is still to look the wrong way on London streets, and I recognize that instinct as a somewhat dangerous reflex.

Although he would bound ahead from time to time, he was easy to spot, and so I eventually felt no inclination to fight to keep up with him especially if his lead or he had become annoying to me. I knew that I was neither a needy teenager, a puppy, nor was I one of his mates. And with that, I happily resumed a fairly normal pace.

He continually pointed out that he'd do his best to slow down, but it wasn't in his nature to walk so slowly--which in my defense, really wasn't that slow. And yet, he would turn around to make sure that I wasn't lost or missing, "because I worry about you," he insisted.

But again, at Paddington, when the train was called, he darted off again, leaving me to chase him through the station and through the train to our seats.

Once I sat down, I was marvelously happy to be against the window.

"Do you want tea or fruit or a sandwich?" he asked before we got settled.

Mr. H got up extra early that morning to make his famous bacon sandwiches and a thermos full of tea. Watching him make preparations for our outing was quite endearing. He assured me that we'd be hungry on our the way and explained that travel always made him hungry. "It is simply Pavlovian," he insisted. He attributed this to journeys he'd made as a child with his family, and to his mother's efforts to make the travel as easy as possible.

It was small moments like these that reminded me how much I had yet to learn about Mr. H.

"No thank you. I'm not that hungry. We just ate."

"I know, but are you sure? Do you need anything else? Would you like my copy of The Economist?"

"No, really. I'm fine."

In his effort to make me feel comfortable, Mr. H attempted to engage me in conversation for a good part of the train ride. At first I didn't have the heart to tell him, that for me, train rides are as close to a spiritual journey as I take in any given year. I may read or write, but mostly, I enjoy watching the countryside blow past me while I listen to music. I had a set list all picked out. And because I was there during England's big snow, there was so much to see. A land covered in white and ice.

"You know that you're a very handsome man," I offered, "but you're even handsomer when you're quiet."

I knew of no other way to get him to let himself and me enjoy the contemplation that accompanies the rails.

"Am I talking too much?"

"Yes."

And then after a brief conversation about his shirt and sweater and its relative attractiveness there was finally a contented quiet.

We reached Bath, after nearly missing the stop because the train ride was so enjoyable. There was more ice and snow and cold than anything I've ever experienced in England. At the entrance of the train station Mr. H announced, "Should we get separated, let us meet here at half past six before the train departs."

"What makes you think we'll get separated? Are you worried that I'll get annoyed and run away?"

"I am talking too much."

"There's no need to worry about that now. This should be fun."

photo: (streets of bath. taken by me, but mostly thanks to a wonderfully edited holga-ish photo. Brava to Jenni's suggestion that I look at picknik.com)

My day as a 1950s housewife.

2010-01-19T00:12:00.004-05:00

The day occurred because of a stupid mistake on my part.

I took off my coat because the train was far too warm, and somehow, between London and Hertfordshire I lost my wallet. Thank goodness it happened on the last part of my holiday or I would have been terribly inconvenienced. I had to cancel a bank card and I will need to replace my license and metro card, but otherwise, things are fine.

So, on that morning, the morning where I eschewed 2010 (which I have been instructed to "please, please call it twenty-ten") and I fully embraced 1953, I sent Mr. Hertfordshire off to work quite early as he must always reach the office before the market's bell tolls.

That morning, I woke up to see that he had made porridge and gorgeous coffee in an Italian contraption that looks like this:

Bleary-eyed and silent, I watched him get himself ready for work. I am not a morning person, but he seemed to be. Cheerful and a little chatty, he packed up his belongings into a smart briefcase, straightened his sweater (he calls it a jumper) and a bid me good morning. He told me to relax and not do anything. (I can only do that in my own apartment.)

At that very moment, I knew that the next couple of hours would be nothing but me and some extra holiday sleep. I wandered back to bed, tucked myself in under the duvet covers and fell back asleep.

And then I woke up for the second time ready to face the day.

I made the bed, did some tidying, put away laundry, watched a little bit of television, ironed some shirts, ate a quick lunch, and before I knew it, it was 4:00pm, and I needed to start dinner.

My job was to roast a chicken using an oven that was completely foreign to me. And after some whining to Mr. H about how to use his oven, I was able to get things started. Mr. H was hard at work, and I figured that he wanted to have tea on the table not too long after he arrived home from a strenuous day of whatever it is he does exactly.

The rest of the meal was fairly easy, and when Mr. H appeared in the flat, I was well on my way to having finished dinner. He walked over and greeted me warmly.

Thank goodness, I only needed to send him out for a few things to make the dinner complete. The gentleman didn't want to go to the store himself as he didn't want to have to remember what to get. But the chicken was in the oven, and so he was sent off to Sainsbury's with a list.

Before leaving for the store, he informed me about the day, and some client or another, and I put the water on for tea. I suppose I should have had a martini waiting for him as he walked through the door, but we can't all be perfect.

He came back quite promptly, gave me the last of my ingredients and I was able to finish dinner.

I continued to make preparations, and he sat down and completed a bit of writing and correspondence, and checked to make sure that our additional guests at dinner were able make it to the table on time. His younger flatmate and flatmate's girlfriend sat down at the dinner table--quite fresh faced and beautifully young and experiencing their burgeoning adulthood. Strangely contented, I felt my age and I enjoyed every moment of that feeling.

I did remark that I was feeling a little bit tired to which Mr. H replied, "Well, of course you are, you haven't done...anything...all...Notice how I stopped myself! Notice that."

I let it slide and then cleaned up the table and did the dishes.

Mr. H implored me to stop my continued cleaning, but his objections weren't heartfelt. He, of course, liked not having to do the washing up or cooking. He was relaxed and sitting on the sofa.

"Come over here and sit next to me and keep me company," he motioned by patting the empty seat next to him.

"I will in a moment, darling." I, of course, pronounced the word as daahling.

"I must admit," he said as he looked over to me from his comfortable seat, "I think that I might quite like having a traditional 1950s marriage."

Of course he would. Who wouldn't want a spouse not doing anything (i.e. doing everything) all day for him?

"Oh, and you ironed my shirts? Brilliant."

"You'll miss me when they've all been worn, you know."

A Friday before the museum.

2010-01-17T20:29:00.008-05:00

I will not tell stories of my travels in order. For some people, linear narrative helps convey memory in a particular way that is suitable and helpful for them. There is a comfort to organizing events: x preceded y before causing z. I find that my thoughts and observations are often too muddled to make these linear progressions appropriately. When I was a child, it was always pointed out to me that this was one of my greatest faults. Now, I find it--this reluctance to adhere to a classical, dramatic timeline--to be one of my foremost strengths.

I know that there are times when telling stories from beginning to end in a very straightforward way is the best, and only, way to do things.

This time is not one of them.

For right now, I'd rather tell the stories as I remember them, and as I choose to remember them.

***

In the St. Pancras railway station in London is the Thomas Pink store. Even though this store--famous for selling men's* velveteen pure cotton dress shirts with crisp collars -- is tucked within glass doors melding it with the red brick of the original building, the juxtaposition isn't nearly as bothersome architecturally as it might seem upon description.

Mr. Pink was having a sale on his shirts, and my traveling companion, a tall strapping sort of gentleman, motioned that we stop in to take a look. He (to whom I shall henceforth call Mr. Hertfordshire or Mr. H for short) then announced that he wanted to find a suitable dress shirt for himself, and so he promptly entered the store and began marveling at the sale prices. I walked in behind him and watched as an impeccably dressed salesman from Italy rushed to his service.

I quietly admired the organizational pattern of the shop. Shirts, sweaters, boxer shorts, and ties, were all meticulously organized in every color and nearly every tasteful, distinctive, pattern imaginable.
I can't even recall what the women's section contained, but then again, I haven't enjoyed shopping in eight years. In any case, this brick-walled and glass store seemed dedicated to men, and in particular, it was dedicated to men such as Mr. H--ruddy-faced, patrician types, who wear these sorts of clothes as though the tailor himself dreamed it for each and every one of them.

Another salesman looked up to see who had entered the store and after greeting us both, it was quite obvious that he too had begun to make visual approximations of Mr. H's shirt size. The examination was without emotion and desire. It was silent, nearly clinical. This second salesman then moved to organize ties--and I was left to wonder whether or not his measurements were spot on.

The Italian salesman appeared to be quite in love with Mr. H's youth and apparently outdoorsy nature and overall health. His attentions did not seem motivated by the amount in commission that Mr. H might provide, however. There was a genuine appreciation of his form. At some point or other, Mr. H had mentioned that the world "wasn't built for men of [his] stature, madam. I have to fold up to sit in seats; nothing is the right size." However, by the ardent looks of this salesman, I really could not help but beg to differ.

Feeling utterly useless, and the victim of desynchronosis, I chose to wander off, leaving the store to get some coffee thereby allowing the salesman ample time to devote to his Petrarchan conceit of Mr. H's form and face.

I returned to the shop with a cloyingly sweet mocha to watch the end of the drama unfold. As I entered the door, the salesman was complimenting Mr. H so very earnestly. The salesman noticed my reentry.

"Are you with him?" the salesman demanded, but then disallowed me from answering by blurting out, "Of course you are."

Before trying to explain that no one could really ever be with Mr. H, the salesman turned back to tell Mr. H once again how healthy and well formed he happens to be. Mr. H bantered with the salesman while the purchases were rung up, and then reached over, rather unceremoniously I might add, and took my coffee and drank some of it. (I noticed earlier and later that Mr. H is very comfortable with extemporaneous sharing--unless ice cream is involved. For the record, there are times when I don't want to share and for some reason, Mr. H seemed to bypass any and all objections I would otherwise have expressed. )

As the very colonial Mr. H commandeered my coffee, I noticed that he filled the aisle of the shop as we were standing there. At more than eleven inches taller than I am, Mr. H certainly also seemed to fill the door as the salesman offered to hold his purchases while we spent the day gamboling throughout the museum.

"You're dressed so well in that jacket, Mr. H, for the museum is quite chilly. Enjoy your day!" Mr. H's face lit up as he thanked the salesman for all of his help.

To my chagrin, I had to admit, if only to myself, that one couldn't help but notice Mr. H.

So, yes. Perhaps the salesman was on to something.

*I am aware that it sells women's clothing as well.

Set to handwrite for a week.

2010-01-06T03:17:00.001-05:00

I am going on a holiday until next week and I've opted not to take a laptop.

This will be the first time that I've not traveled with a computer in years. I am going to see if handwriting makes me more aware of the process of writing, or if it makes me lazier. Who knows? I could end up being my own Dorothy Wordsworth for my very own William Wordsworth--only I'm not going to be in Lake Country, I won't write any pastoral poetry and I'll probably be a bit funnier.

I'm hoping that the sights and sounds will awaken something in me.

Or at least I'll get good photographs.

Happy New Year!

New Year's Resolution.

2009-12-30T00:06:00.001-05:00

In the past, I have eschewed making New Year's resolutions just as Jenni has done. Too often I promise myself the impossible, or at least highly impobable: I will do a triathlon, I will learn how to speak Mandarin and Farsi, I will build a dining room table with the help of my father.

I think that there is something to the start of a new decade that is provoking this need in me to make some declaration about what I will or won't do.

I do not lament the passing of the last couple of years, nor will I miss them.

But I will say that I've grown up quite a bit. And of course, I have some more growing up to do. Thank goodness.

This year, I choose to make a couple of resolutions, and I will share a few of them on this space. I can't promise that I will be successful, but I will certainly try my damnedest to enact some of these resolutions:

1. I will try to learn to let go of that which I can't change. So often, I find myself wanting things in a certain way (don't we all), and not being able to stop wanting them even when it's not possible anymore. I've got to remember that mutability is the stuff of life. And you can't always get what you want.

2. I have been called "giving to a fault." The only way I can interpret that is that I have this habit of pushing to make sure that I keep certain friendships and relationships going to the detriment of others, and perhaps even to the detriment of myself. If things are meant to work out, they will, and if they don't, I'm not going to push to make sure that they do. And I will learn to not take things so personally. Even if they are personal.

3. I am going to see more of the world. Or at least travel more.

4. I am going to figure out what I want to do with my life. Or at least try to figure it out.

5. I am going to write a book length project. Probably a novel. I have an idea. It may or may not work, but I am going to give it a shot. Perhaps I'll get to meet Cormac McCarthy yet.

Perhaps these resolutions will fail, but I think that they are a far sight better than swearing that I will be the fittest person in DC, become a CIA agent or host my own cooking show.

Back to the Culture Wars.

2009-12-28T22:20:00.001-05:00

After a long chat with one of my favorite British bloggers, Jackart, I have to acknowledge that he is quite correct that I've not been writing in the same way that I used to write. Sometimes one needs to walk away from an activity--like writing--in order to get some perspective on a variety of things, I suppose.

And I have noticed something extremely important about myself in the last couple of weeks. I have opinions on things and no one else seems to want to talk about the same things I do.

In fact, people don't seem to want to talk (full stop). There's too much going on with other people. It's very good stuff, but they are busy.

And, gosh darn it, I want to talk--or at least write about whatever it is that I am thinking.

So the culture wars that are interesting me include:

1. The E-book revolution. Is it one?

2. Is it true that one becomes inherently more conservative as one matures?

3. What provokes the youngest child of wealthy family to join up with extremists and want to blow himself up along with a plane full of other people?

4. Is it possible to have a fruitful discussion about race, particularly in an age when more and more children are being brought into the world with such varied cultural backgrounds? Is this even worth discussion?

5. Should we even care about class anymore?

Perhaps in the next week I'll actually write something interesting. It seems that the synapses are firing again.

This won't be Fictional Rockstar, Jackart. Nothing will repeat that fun. :)

Why the break can't come soon enough.

2009-12-14T22:09:00.000-05:00

I haven't done a very good job of filtering my thoughts lately. I find myself saying whatever is in my head at the moment. I feel like I need a Walden week or something?

Holiday shopping.

2009-12-13T23:21:00.001-05:00

I believe that I have managed to get nearly everything I need for Christmas. I'm not really in the mood this year for it, but at least I've gotten the gift acquisition out of the way.

Ho, ho, ho.

Under the wire.

2009-12-12T22:33:00.002-05:00

There's more to say, but I don't have it in me now.

P.S. I'm not being dramatic. I just wanted to get something, anything(!) written today. Ha.

Yay!

2009-12-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

This is the last day of Fall Semester.

It was a hard one.

I'm also quite glad that this year and this decade is coming to a close.

Woo?

Talent.

2009-12-10T00:47:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's evolution, or God, or chance or what, that gives people an immense amount of talent.
When I see people with an amazing talent--particularly in the performing arts--I often find myself in tears.

What is it about a singer or a dancer that can bring me to tears?

Is it the pathos, the movement, the sound coming from a human boday, an instrument being played?

I don't know.

But I love it, and I wonder what it's like when you just figure out that you have that talent.

An observation.

2009-12-09T19:57:00.000-05:00

I keep thinking that I'll have this revelatory thing to write, but alas, I don't at the moment.

I will soon. I hope.

Commenters of the Washington Post.

2009-12-08T18:31:00.001-05:00

More often than not commenters on the Washington Post are vitriolic, hateful, racist (of all kinds, people), homophobic, sexist, ageist, illiterate and mean spirited--at best.

For the sensible commenters, I have no idea why you even bother, but I applaud you.

not so grown up.

2009-12-07T13:20:00.000-05:00

Recently, I have felt like I missed the boat on being a grown up and the various and sundry experiences that go along with it.

That is all for today.

What I've learned in the last twelve hours.

2009-12-06T08:00:00.003-05:00

1. Although it is super fun, being a professional pastry chef is nowhere in my future.

2. Walking (with a purpose) in the cold and snow isn't a bad thing.

3. I could use a better organized kitchen.

snow.

2009-12-05T08:40:00.000-05:00

They say we are supposed to be somewhat innundated with snow today. The sky is pearl gray; it is fairly cold.

It doesn't matter if it snows.

It might be time to get a better coat.

Untitled.

2009-12-04T00:31:00.001-05:00

It is astounding, at least to me, that the tenor of conversation between two people can change radically, but the overwhelming, unacknowledged feeling that surrounds and saturates that same conversation can remain nearly palpable.

This is nothing but a thought.

The use of pronouns.

2009-12-03T07:00:00.003-05:00

Sometimes people use the subject pronoun we in a way that is dangerously inclusive.

There are also the times that people use the object pronoun us in a way that is far worse.

Tomorrow I have to attend a meeting in which we will be told what is best for us. Whenever this happens personally or professionally, I am never at ease. I become filled with vitriol.

I don't think of myself as a control freak or someone who must always be an autonomous being acting outside of the limits of community. I don't shun relationships. These communities and relationships make us who we are, and more likely who we aren't.

But lately, I just wonder if someone could invent another pronoun--one that clearly implies that there is a subjective you within the declarations of a we (and by subjective, I mean the you who are subject to the whims and the desires of the we or even the us).

"We are looking forward to the wonderful changes that will undoubtedly affect us"

Translations

"We (and you had better be in complete and totally submissive agreement)....us(well, mostly you because the rest of us were the active not passive or subjective you in the We)."

Obviously, I need a linguist and quite possibly a therapist.

Aesthetics.

2009-12-02T00:03:00.002-05:00

I have a healthy respect for good design. In my own life, I tend to lean towards clean lines and occasional whimsy, but I see the absolute beauty in designs that completely veer from my own.

I might not necessarily employ decoupage or bright, exciting prints* in any of my endeavors, but I like to see what other people do with furniture and space and materials:

This version of decoupage is an absolute winner.

photo from http://www.ohdeedoh.com (Children's design blog)

I have this ultimate idea of how I want my aesthetic life to unfold. It's hard to articulate this idea (or these ideas) fully at the moment, but I know what I want when I see it. Lately, these ideas have been manifesting themselves in gifts and other surprising places.

(At a baby shower, my friend picked up the bag and said, "This has MA written all over it." Well, MA and the fun gift bag she found at Target. Ha.)

I imagine that in another life, I was an interior architect, or clothes designer or something. Do I necessarily dress the part? No. My apartment doesn't even really look the part. I think I'm more akin to those people who shy away from certain aspects of design because of cost prohibitiveness or a fear that certain things just don't work on me. I can certainly see how they work on others. For sure.

So for now, I'm still taking it all in at the moment, and I imagine that in a couple of years, maybe when I finally own a condo or a house, I'll let part of my aesthetic come to life. For the other part, I suppose I'll have to give up sugar and spend much more time at the gym.

*I'm looking at you, Jenni. And I LOVE it.

Moving away from the stated purpose of the blog.

2009-12-01T13:05:00.001-05:00

I have moved away from the stated purpose of this blog. The few of you remaining readers who still choose to read the rantings and ravings of an eccentric, of course see this.

Yes, I am Captain Obvious today.

I am not going to change the look of the blog, I am not going to change the title, but I am changing focus a bit.

I am challenging myself to write every day for the rest of 2009--even if it is only a few words. I think I might actually be able to make it.

Possibly. Maybe. Perhaps.

I am trying to write my way into a larger project and I don't know any other way to do this.

So here goes nothing. Or something.

Does anyone remember?

2009-11-30T22:00:00.003-05:00

Recently I saw a friend I haven't seen in ten years.

It's amazing when you can say something like that. Ten years can really go by. A significant ten years. But I digress.

We talked about our college experiences. We went to the same school, but didn't really do anything together, and yet, we ended up as friends anyway. (I like when that stuff happens.)

But meeting with her got me thinking. About writing about college.

I'm not saying that my experience was that unique. But I will admit that where I ended up going to school was incredibly unique. So much so that I think that a few of the college's graduates could write books about our experiences and we wouldn't even really compete with each other in the marketplace.

I have an idea for a book about that, and an idea for a book that would have been good for me to sell out for and shill on Oprah's book club.

Damn you, Oprah for leaving television before I can get a draft of this feel good novel done.

Damn you.

Very Early Resolutions.

2009-11-29T17:35:00.004-05:00

I don't want this post to read in a way that is overly saccharine, considering I haven't written very much in the last six months or so. But over the last several weeks, I have been thinking a lot about what I am doing, and what I'm not.

I have had frustratingly little motivation to do much--I can't blame the time change forever.

I think that I've been making a pretty good effort to reconnect with some people I haven't seen or talked to in a while (that could be months or years)--this is slowly but surely, of course.

I caught myself using that scary but ubiquitous saying "Life is too short to..." and it's very true, isn't it? I think that I'm going to spend the next year not freaking out over everything as I have in the last couple of years. Time to have fun. Or at least see the good in the stuff that isn't so much fun.

I've found that I'd like for things to work out in a certain way, but if they don't, I'm sure they will be just as fascinating.

Here's to the nebulous claim that I will do some things that will turn out to be just fine in the next month and the next year.

2009 was way better than 2008 in many respects, so I'm hoping that things keep moving in an upward trend.

And yes, even I can see what a frustratingly vague post this one is. But this is my blog, and life is too short to worry about how this post may or may not read.

Waffles, bacon and going home.

2009-11-18T00:27:00.004-05:00

"I am absurdly excited," he wrote.

As I saw the words appear to me instantly (thanks to gmail chat), I couldn't help but laugh.

He wasn't excited about the prospect of my getting on to a plane to go and visit him and a country that I love (almost as much as here ) in six weeks or so. After all, I am a simple American woman who doesn't speak proper English with the correct public school or Oxbridge accent. I can barely remember the last time I've been into Sainbury's and I don't make tea properly. I've never been to a fox hunt (nor do I plan to go) and I don't know the rules of rugby or cricket.

So my visit, while entertaining, does not make him ABSURDLY happy.

So, ladies and gentleman, what is pushing him over the moon?

A waffle maker.

Several weeks ago, I asked him about what he'd like me to bring on my visit to England, and he told me that waffles and New England clam chowder were the most notable foods to come out of the United States.

I must admit, I was a little baffled with that answer. But we have to humor those who have never eaten totally awesome American cuisine.

So I went and found him a waffle maker. I figured that since I cannot bring waffles with me on a plane, I should try to give the gift that keeps on giving.

Give a man a waffle and he eats for a day. Give a man a waffle maker and he eats them every day, throws a party, and makes waffles for his friends, neighbors, associates and anyone who wants a waffle for that matter.

And yet, he refuses to understand that bacon can go with waffles.

"It's barbaric! It's awful!" he said to me after kindly taking the call during his waffle party later that evening.

(He makes those words sound so pretty).

It would be one thing if he were not a consumer of meat. That I could understand. But eschewing American-Style bacon without even trying it? That doesn't work. Not on my watch.

He said that he'll make the waffles and enjoy the maple syrup, but he won't eat them with bacon. That's un-American! (Well, I know he isn't American, but you get my point!)

Mark my words, readers. He'll eat his words with tasty American breakfast goodness.

When my feet hit terra firma on the Queen's land, I will go and search for 'streaky bacon' (which is what the British call our beautiful American-Style bacon), and I will eat it with my waffles and be happy.

And I won't forget the coffee either!

Struggle to write.

2009-11-10T23:35:00.003-05:00

I miss the days when writing for the blog, or the older version of this blog was pretty much a necessity to me. The purging was good for me. I got to a point where I was unfiltered (or as unfiltered as I am capable of being on any given day).

Now, I struggle to put anything on here because I don't know what I want to write about and what I don't want to write about. I don't want this to turn into some kind of a confessional.

It's not meant to be.

I have been accused of sitting on the sidelines lately and I can't say that the assessment is wrong. I have witnessed quite a bit lately, and I've not been very good about pushing myself to be included in things, and as a result, I haven't.

And now, I suppose I have little to write about that is clever or funny or anything.

I think that I want to go out and do things and meet people, but I don't seem to be doing that. I blame my inability to say no to work, and other requests of my time that aren't too beneficial to me.

There are some readers whom I miss and I feel their absence when I tap the metaphorical mic of this blog asking "Is this thing
on? Is it?"

I think it's this particular time of year that makes me indecisive and a little mopey. The last two months of the year force reflection, and introspection and I don't have it in me this year.

I understand why people go on vacations at this time--to get out of their own heads.

I'd like to get out of mine. Any ideas how I can do that would be most appreciated.

Fever!

2009-10-30T20:28:00.004-04:00

On Wednesday of this week, I had a fever for the first time in twenty years.

After leaving work after a *very* disagreeable lunch, I came home and I sat on the sofa with my neon green thermometer. Cross-eyed, I watched as my temperature reading crept up from 97.9 to 99.8 100.2. I was uncomfortable. I was warm. Then I was cold. My muscles hurt and was tired.

Did I have the swine? I wasn't sure.

What I did know was that I needed to take analgesics to alleviate my symptoms and to help me sleep.

I took the requisite drugs and went to bed at 7pm.

At 9:15pm, I woke up to the sound of banging in the hallway. It sounded as though a battering ram was hitting the walls. I was disoriented and annoyed.

I let the noise continue for ten or fifteen minutes hoping that the noise would just stop. I asked it to stop. Out loud, even.

And then, I forced myself out of my bed and opened the door.

There she was.

My neighbor--the one with the drinking problem whose apartment emits fumes that smell like high octane rubbing alcohol.

She was hammering nails into her door.

For no reason.

In a haze of NyQuil and discomfort, I asked, "What exactly are you doing?"

The response?

"Don't YOU ask ME what I'M doing. I'VE lived here for TWELVE YEARS. I can do WHATEVER I want. And there's SOMETHING ELSE I WANT TO TELL YOU."

My response to that?

"I don't care. I might have the flu. You don't want this."

And I shut the door.

I'm getting better at responding to her unpredictable behavior. And yes, I believe she was drunk. Again.

Robot Replacement.

2009-10-22T21:02:00.003-04:00

After standing in the longest, slowest post office line in history (and yes, I am going to use my love of hyperbole to the fullest), I came up with an idea that certain humans in certain jobs should be replaced by robots.

I am not going to exempt myself. There are days when I think that a robot would do an excellent job in my stead.

Voices.

2009-10-20T22:29:00.004-04:00

There's this voice I haven't heard in a while. I miss it like one misses and old album from years ago.

There's the anticipation, and the crackling of the vinyl. And then, the music starts. Only right now, there is no music, there is no sound. There's just a fuzzy memory of what I think the song and the voice sound like. It's disorienting when you begin to forget something that felt like second skin. It's the strangest process, isn't it?

I've sort of settled back into a routine and I'm trying to figure out what's next. Again. I feel like I've become expert at thinking about what should come next. I'm starting to get better at making that next actually happen.

I've been flirting with the idea of leaving DC, but then something compelling happens that encourages me to stay.

So for now, instead of packing up my bags and heading west, or north or south or even east, I am adding some travel to my repertoire. I saw Boston and Seattle this summer, and in January, I am heading to what I consider my second home, England.

When I first started writing a blog four years (!) ago, I gave a paper at Cambridge University and visited many colleges, my favorites being Corpus Christi and Caius (pronounced 'keys' strangely enough). I took photographs and visited friends and said goodbye to a dear friend for the last time.

So much has changed and so much is still the same.

This optimism isn't going anywhere, but it is a lot quieter than I'm used to. At some point, I'll have to write more pointedly about forgetting, but for now, I'll just leave it alone.

A new schedule.

2009-10-19T20:30:00.002-04:00

About three weeks ago, I started waking up early to go to the gym. I am, by no means, an early riser or a morning person. However, there's a beauty to waking up and putting on gym clothes and stumbling (sometimes dashing) out of the door at 6:15am to get to the gym.

I feel good about my effort, but totally humbled by the people who are leaving the gym by the time I get there. They are rockstars. I feel like a slightly lesser rockstar, but a rockstar nonetheless.

Being up and working out this early has been an adjustment.

At first, I wanted to eat everything in sight all day after I worked out.

Now things have calmed down considerably.

I am starting to enjoy watching the sun rise as I reach the halfway point of my early morning. And I think that in some way this new morning ritual is a way for me to encourage myself to do things that I wasn't before.

I know that I am writing about the minutia of my life, but at least I am writing, right?

To Jenni and Cube: A long time coming.

2009-10-17T00:18:00.002-04:00

I haven’t sat alone in a train station in several months. It’s different at 3:00pm on a Friday, then say, 2:00pm on a Sunday. The travelers here are commuters, going from Washington to Baltimore, from work to home, or in my case, from my home to my hometown.

In twenty-seven minutes I get on the MARC train to visit a friend and her new baby.

Toting new organic baby clothes and a strange internal optimism I haven’t had in weeks, I can’t wait to see this little girl at the beginning of her lifetime in one of my favorite places on the East Coast.

Right now, Washington DC could pass for Seattle or London. The skies are white gray and the rain is misting. You don’t quite need an umbrella, but it doesn’t hurt to have one, I suppose. The rain shifts from mist to shower, and at Union Station, the Burberry raincoats are out in full force. The temperature has dropped considerably and I have found that the effect is actually palpable in the people around me.

My students have grown weary and my colleagues tired and emotional. I don’t exclude myself at all. I have had trouble writing because of twelve hour work days and an office that is not nearly as efficient as it should be. I usually do not complain to supervisors when I find that others aren’t pulling their weight in my line of work, but this time I actually had to question a colleague’s work ethic in a letter to a director. My concerns are now on record. If it were up to me, this particular person in my office would no longer have a position within our department. There are too many people looking for work in this economy for someone to be so consistently lazy, complacent and intellectually boorish.

I have learned some things about myself in the last several weeks. I know that I appreciate those who are efficient and quick learners, and I have little ability to tolerate small talk and whining. A friend of mine gave me a sign for my door that says “I Hate People” and I am beginning to think that that might very well be the case.

I do know this. I miss writing this blog, and my reasons for stopping my writing have grown increasing less reasonable. I had no intentions to make this post so serious, but here we are. The levity will come. I really do have this indescribable optimism. There are sure to be some red-letter days ahead.

I think that this post is a result of the weather and a frustrating week.

Lest you think this post is all gloom and doom, with no promise of optimism, let me assure you that it isn’t. To me, the world is still a very fascinating place in which to live. People still surprise me. I’ve not grown cynical. If I had, I’d be disappointed far less, right?

This post turned into something more than I thought it would. It’s amazing what a rainy day, a train stations and then the lull of the train can do for me.

I'm so glad that you're both writing more and more again. It's nice to see parts of the old community returning to the fold. And it's good to see that some of you never stopped writing.

Bug out.

2009-09-06T20:37:00.002-04:00

I went to a VW bug festival today. I think that my dad was right. My all girls' school should have taught us auto repair.

In other news, I think that I should stop forcing myself to write in this thing.

Thanks for reading. I'll try writing here again sometime.

Moving on.

2009-08-30T20:20:00.001-04:00

It's pretty wonderful when one can do it.

Reminders.

2009-08-28T01:38:00.002-04:00

I've been reminded a lot of my writing life lately. The personal kind, the blogging kind, the comfortable kind. My writing life is so much more vivid than my actual life. When I write, I actually take time to notice things and people. I take time to notice myself.

I have been told that blogging is dead.

Well, I'm glad. Because now I can write.

Hurry up, please. It's time.

2009-06-09T00:42:00.002-04:00

It goes something like that.

I like the quiet after midnight. I have these second winds now that I am working out late, and I think that I'm going to use them to write about things that wouldn't make sense in the context of this blog. But I'll also write here as well.

This space has always allowed me to indulge in my inner chatterbox. I think that I've not had an opportunity to really let this loquacious creature out in quite a while. I don't get to speak often with one friend who just allowed me to talk to my heart's content (all the while rolling his eyes at my sheer ridiculousness). I miss that.

I've been very careful with my words lately. Who knows why?

Lately, I've been thinking more and more about Shakespeare, and less and less about my work. This is a good thing.

***
I've also joined the gym in my old neighborhood (as poor Petworth has no gym yet) and it has provided me with a lot of entertainment. Some people love to look at themselves in the mirror. If I worked that hard on perfecting my body, I suppose I would do that as well. However, I don't think that your rear end will look ten times better after a half hour on the elliptical. But I could be wrong!

I'm going to try a spinning class and get back to you on that.

I love this gym because it's full of all kinds of people. It's like a Benneton Ad. I'm sure I'll have more to say, but it's going to take a while for me to get my bearings again.

Downloading and centering.

2009-05-24T23:06:00.003-04:00

So, I had this need to download some Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, The Emotions and Earth Wind and Fire. And I did. Sometimes I forget how much fun certain songs can be. They help you feng shui your life (if you can, in fact, do that).

A friend told me that I talked too much about work and it is starting to become who I am not what I do. Another friend told me that my time is up in this current job and I have to figure out what's next. They are both correct.

I went to a wedding with a terrific date and watched one of my favorite people get married to the perfect woman for him. I read a poem (not written by me!) for them. I was so very honored to do so.

I visited to the Building Museum for the second time in two weeks. It centers me. That place is a temple of calm. If you don't believe me (you six people who read this), visit it, and see.

Perhaps...

2009-05-18T00:58:00.003-04:00

if I start writing a little bit, even if it's only a bit of minutia, I'll begin to write something. It doesn't matter if you read anymore.

It seems that I'm not thinking or writing very well.

All I seem to do is work or worry about work that isn't done or can't be done immediately.

There's this letter that I need to write. A party to throw. Another letter to write.

Things to do.

I'm just afraid I'll have one of those days where I shut down and do nothing. And now I'm one of those people who has to ask a work colleague if things have been accomplished, if she's on top of things--because I'm afraid that she is not.

And if you are still reading, which I suspect you are not, please don't expect anything but the ravings of an eccentric for a more than a little while. Admittedly, I'm a little lost right now.

I'm trying to figure out what makes me interesting or me again. One of those two things will suffice for now.

My bruise: haiku! (And yes, I'm waiting for the rain to stop)

2009-05-07T18:06:00.005-04:00

it is black and blue
yucky green and purple
and yes, it still hurts.

Yes, William Harris!
I really want to blame you
but it was your job.

Hopefully, the bruise
will be gone before the day
I read the poem.

How southern colleges teach you to catch a baseball...

2009-05-03T20:19:00.007-04:00

I've tried to take pictures of the bruise, but it's just not possible. I don't want to elicit pity out of you, and I'm not sure I want a picture of my bruised up thigh all over the internets, so let me just tell you what happened.

On Friday night, after what can only be described as a frustrating week at work, I was rewarded by a baseball game with Ms. Jordan Baker, my friend Retro, and his significant other. We were there to see the Nationals play (get their asses (arses for the British readers)) kicked by the St. Louis Cardinals.

We were sitting in home-run territory.

I enjoyed my pretzel and coke and chit-chatted and watched the game.

We got to the top of the 8th inning and then Harris did it. He hit a two run homer for the Nationals. I heard the crack of the bat, and I was convinced that the outfielder for the Cards would catch the ball handily.

He didn't.

He didn't catch it because that hit was a home run.

The ball went sailing over the green fence and landed squarely (roundly?) on my thigh.

I didn't really see the ball coming because I was leaning into Retro screaming. Apparently, I was so well trained by southern schooling, I didn't even spill my drink. It's second nature to me now.

It took me about ten seconds to realize that the ball was next to me as I was yelling expletives mostly due to the surprise and sting of the ball. Thank goodness for the cheers as no one needed to hear my swearing.

Fortunately, everyone (really just one man) around me felt so bad that I got hit by the ball, that I was able to keep it.

Yes, I was on the jumbotron and even on the local cable news for everyone to see. I was (and still am) a little mortified. Fortunately, I was wearing a super cool red jacket and a white Nationals hat, so I looked every part the baseball fan. Megarita even said that I looked chic. Her words, not mine.

My purple, blue and slightly green bruise still hurts--and I'm glad that I don't wear shorts because I would have to explain my injury every time I saw someone, or people would surely think that I had enemies as cruel as Nancy Kerrigan's.

I now have a major league baseball.

I'm going to view this as super lucky, like when a bird poops on you, only there's a bruise and it hurts. :)

I called my parents and my grandma (baseball fans) and told them of my good fortune. My mother, of course, was worried about the bruising and my dad and grandma want me to bring the baseball next time I see them.

Oh, I will. But I'm not giving it to anyone. I took this one for the team. My team. Ha.

After Midnight.

2009-04-27T00:28:00.002-04:00

Every once in a while, I'll have an idea.

However, it is half-formed, not well thought out, and in the end, uninteresting to me. But I know that I have ideas. They are there; somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

I have a story to tell. Perhaps more than one. I'm just not sure how to do it.

And then, over the last couple of weeks, two people have suggested that I just shut up and give it try. Try writing fiction. Something that's substantial. Something that is substantive.

One friend wants me to take a class. And I will probably do it, but I am nervous. I am worried that the words won't come, the story won't come. Nothing will come.

Another one, tired of my whining about what I want to do with the rest of my life asked, "Why don't you try writing a book?" (Don't worry, it will certainly not be a compilation of this blog. Good lord. In that case it would have to be called something like Six-month old Chicken Soup for Persistently Hopeless ).

I've expressed frustration with my job. I've whined about not being challenged, and yet, I haven't made a move to change anything. I'm all talk.

I don't want to be that anymore.

Life is too fucking short.

There are too many people cut down while they are doing what they love, being who they love and being with whom they love.

I want to approach life with the verve of a little boy who was a trick-or treater of a guy I used to know:

So this little boy shows up to his door dressed in a khaki pants and a dress shirt with a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows. He's wearing a hat--I'm guessing a fedora. And he says, "Trick or Treat."

The guy asked "And what are you?"

The little boy said in an exasperated voice, "I am a WRITER."

I'm sure I've told this story million times, and the reason I do? I love it when people just know what they want and what they are--even if it is a costume.

Shakespeare's Birthday!

2009-04-23T08:53:00.002-04:00

It's that time of year again.

A better head her glorious body fits
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness:
What should I don this robe, and trouble you?
Be chosen with proclamations to-day,
To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,
And set abroad new business for you all?
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,
And led my country's strength successfully,
And buried one and twenty valiant sons,
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms,
In right and service of their noble country
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a sceptre to control the world:
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.

Name the play. No googling.

Happy Day. Enjoy this peice of a play or read a whole one yourself.
Don't forget Shakespeare as he wouldn't forget you were he alive.
I'm sure he was polite.

A little Advice?

2009-04-21T09:45:00.002-04:00

No matter what it is lately, I've had trouble getting back on track after a derailment or two.

What is it that makes one bounce back?

Distractions? A Vacation? Figuring out what you want next?

Hopefully, cleaning my office today will help me with some of that, and I'll have something to write that isn't so rhetorical in the next future.

Hope the alternating days of rain and sun aren't too psychically damaging.

Happy Spring Holidays.

2009-04-10T09:22:00.002-04:00

Instead of listing all of the holidays, I'll do a blanket greeting.

Catch you soon and thanks for reading.

Another draft.

2009-04-09T07:19:00.003-04:00

Petworth.

I.

Turning his head skyward, he breathed in
the smoke and residue of the cannabis
saturated air

Slowing, he turned to me in askance
inviting me to suggest my approval

which I dare not.

Enervated, I looked groundward
pushing the smoke from my lungs
willing the smell of soft drugs
to dissapate from this place.

II.

A British newspaper called here
the last great deal in the capital city
ignoring the evictions and perpetually
late buses, and the children

they who run the streets like unfettered
rats--a pestilence to those who mind their
actions and exclamations of swear words
which come to them as a second nature

And yet, all is not lost here.

This is no Sodom or Gomorrah.
Just a forgotten place
No need to run with Lot and pray to not look back

When the girl at the aging Safeway
can still declare love for a man who is not
"Bad, as some men here can be"
I remember that for all its imperfections
here is home and not a bad place to be.

Three more.

2009-04-07T01:02:00.000-04:00

Red Devil Vacuum
how I love your cleaning ways
my place now looks great.

Yes, my bracket wins
but somehow I do not feel
like a champion.

The cherry blossoms.
I hoped to see them with you.
This will not happen.

A draft.

2009-04-01T23:11:00.003-04:00

[Poetry month has me thinking. You should think too. Write a poem. It'll do you good.]

Untitled.

A salmon-pink paper
The Financial Times, rests
on a newly padded metro seat,
the unmistakable slope of the Guggenheim Museum
adorns its front cover.

You, the reader, curl your shoulders forward
protectionist in your black wool coat,
(the uniform of men in this place)
you miss the curvilinear slopes
turning quickly past Gehry and
that which only could be described
as his sole masterpiece.

Building and shape is meaningless to me now
on this Italian train, this conveyor of my daily pilgrimage
through the underworld of a city and a state.

But I am hardly Dante.

And the train, it pushes through the tunnels
of this capitol city
the pressure of that motion exerts itself on us
as you stare forward
or they talk and muse and
ignore recorded announcements,
that voice preceded by the double tone
“Stand back,” she says smoothly,
“Doors closing.”

An Old Standby: Haiku Tuesday!

2009-03-31T07:00:00.000-04:00

Forgive me, for I am out of practice.

1.

So, I cannot hear
sound is clogged in my right ear
time to see someone.

2.

Before I was silenced
by acute laryngitis
I did not sound good.

3.

What is going on?
A sign for me to slow down?
Yes! Of course it is.

4.

Me. This is all me.
Argh. How much more can you take?
Vacation time, please!

5.

Blah. blah, blah, blah blah.
This is what I sound like now.
Yes, this will change soon.

Your haiku are appreciated, as always.

Memphis, you broke my heart: A Story of Basketball.

2009-03-29T21:54:00.004-04:00

I watched as my bracket fell apart. As Memphis had stomped all over Maryland, so Missouri (Mizzou) stomped on Memphis.

I sat at a bar next to a friend (a guy friend--and yes, this is pertinent to the story) and watched the drama unfold.

Tigers were playing against Tigers and so, yes, a team of Tigers would inevitably win. Unfortunately, the winners were the other Tigers.

In the other match up, Villanova made Duke look not so well, and I had already predicted Nova's win. I wasn't as interested in that game.

The man next to my friend said, "So she's a Duke fan? All women are fans of Duke. She wants them to win the whole thing right?"

"Oh, no," he demurred, "she's most interested in the Memphis game. She wants them to win this thing."

"Don't worry about that, baby" said the stranger. "They're not going to win. You can concentrate on this game over here now."

"Why?" I asked. "Why should we care about the inevitable? Villanova will win that game."

And then Memphis got within seven.

I ignored the stranger and cheered at the flat screen television.

In the end, there was no comeback, no miracle, and no win for Memphis, but let me tell you something. I am tired of being condescended to about my choices for the NCAA tournament. I don't have anything against people who pick teams based on colors or mascots or a feeling or love (or hatred) for a certain city or state. With this tournament, there are times when anything goes, and in the end the bracket choices are all about fun.

However, I try to pay attention to college basketball and make (what I'd like to think are) informed choices. And just because I am a woman, that man shouldn't have assumed I love Duke and am just sitting at a bar watching basketball because some man wanted me there.

It's Britney, Bitch: Yes, this is what one does before a concert.

2009-03-25T17:08:00.008-04:00

Act 1 Scene 1:

There I was, surrounded by skinny jeans, pink stiletto heels, flat ironed hair, short jackets, Louis Vuitton sunglasses (or excellent copies) and sparkles as far as the eye could see.

I was standing on the metro platform in workout gear.

I did not fit in.

"It's Britney, Bitch!"

Those were the first words called out--it was a siren song to all of the young women standing on the platform waiting for the green line train to Gallery Place. They were on their own personal pilgrimage to see her, their true American Idol, she who never had to win a national televised competition (other than Star Search) to make it happen. Fame, fortune, fabulousness (not to mention pregnancy, divorce and destruction--but I digress).

The collective "WOOOOO" was only shortened only by the horn of the MARC train.

"Every time they turn the lights down/
Just wanna go that extra mile for you/
Public display of affection/
Feels like no one else in the room (but you)"

Their singing, or what might be construed as singing, rose above the volume of my ipod.

Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against Britney Spears.

I can't, however, handle the giddy anticipation of girls with no singing talent as they howl their excitement down a platform. They were, in fact, quite beautiful girls to behold. But after they opened their mouths to sing? Not so much. In fact, a moaning, screeching cat just hit by a truck had more musicality.

But I held back my growing curmudgeonly ways, and forced a smile, albeit a small one, of course.

"We can get down like there's no one around
We keep on rocking, we keep on rockin'
Cameras are flashing while we're dirty dancing
They keep watching, keep watchin'

Feels like the the crowd was saying...

Gimme Gimme more
Gimme more
Gimme gimme more"

And yes, there was a crowd of young and old men who wanted more more more. More squealing and dancing and ass-shaking antics from 18-25 year old girls. And I don't blame them. It was certainly a show.

While I never wanted to be one of the flashy sparkling howler monkeys, I would love to be one of the quietly confident creatures who struts down the street without a care. But the heels would cause me to fall. I cannot stomp it out as they say.

I messaged the Blonde about my surroundings and of course, she had a bird's eye-view of everything. She noted the people walking, and I thought, "many of those girls want to be you, Blondie. But there's only one of you."

I should have asked her if her driver had dropped her off to meet her lesser imitator(s).

Their collective excitement powered the metro to Petworth, where I gladly jumped off.

I, I confess, did not want any more.

I had had enough.

I asked Hammer to help me, and he came to the rescue.

2009-03-17T13:25:00.003-04:00

THE QUESTIONS (are in bold and are provided by the stalwart Hammer.)

1. In one of your newer posts, you said that you had recently written a really good letter to someone. Who wrote the best letter you ever received, and what made it exceptional?

Well, I am going to say that I have received three very excellent letters over the course of my life, and I don't care to call one of them the best. One of them I received at the beginning of college, from my first honest-to-goodness boyfriend. It was the first letter I received in my mailbox that year. He wrote a very heartfelt missive--he wrote about how he'd miss me during our first semester away from each other. I had never felt so special. That relationship did not work out, of course, but I loved that letter very much. I still have it somewhere.

The second letter was technically an email from a newer friend of mine. He is a geographer by trade and has a gift for describing land, people, and experiences. If he weren't doing geography full time, I would suggest that he write travel narratives full time.

The third letter was technically a birthday card. It had perhaps twenty five words. But it was enough. More than enough.

2. If CERN's Large Hadron Collider were modified to blast sub-atomic elements from the remains of Isaac Hayes and James Brown directly into each other, would funk be created, destroyed, or conserved? And if France were destroyed as a side effect of this experiment, would France deserve it? (For bonus points, use MS Paint to create a crude drawing that dramatically illustrates part of your answer.)

I think that there would be a precarious and beautiful detente with funk's careful conservation. I don't believe that France would deserve it's inevitable destruction because when I was 20, I spent time in Paris and there were many, many posters celebrating a concert of Mr. Brown's. I rather like France, but at least funk would survive.

An MS Paint depiction: (Click to enlarge):

3. Of all the long dead writers you've studied, who would have made some of the best bloggers and why? Who would have struggled mightily with the blog format?

That's a really great question. Without a doubt, Ben Jonson would be the best blogger ever. He would constantly update and let you know what he was doing, who he was doing it with, and why he was so awesome. In fact, he would probably be one of those ubiquitous, non stop bloggers. Jonson was a bit of an attention whore in life, so in bloggerland? He would have been even more so.

I think that Shakespeare would have been a pretty good blogger, and he should have had a nice solid following. But I think that he would have been a blogger with many fans waiting for his next post, much like, you Hammer, or Grad School Reject.

I think that Christopher Marlowe would have been a terrible blogger. He was too busy doing things he could never have written about. You know, spying, traveling, being stabbed in the eye. I don't want to be stabbed in the eye, but I'd love to be a terrible blogger like Christopher Marlowe would have been. It would certainly mean that I've got some exciting top secret things going on. Perhaps one day, I will.

4. Your writing suggests that you grab hold of things/people/ideas tightly and can be reluctant to let them go. Has this kung-fu grip been a blessing, a curse, or a mixed bag?

More than anything, I think that it is a curse. I've always wanted to adopt a more Zen Buddhist approach to things. I'm just miserable at letting things go into the wind. I think that it's because I have a mixture between a Type A and Type B personality. I want to let go of these burdens, and yet, I don't. I need to take lessons from Reya in being more accepting of things about myself. Perhaps I'll get there with time.

5. Literally speaking, if the strength of your aforementioned kung-fu grip were increased to Superman-like levels due to accidental exposure to large amounts of extra-terrestrial radiation, please explain how you would use this crushtastic ability to fight crime in DC. Also, which blogger(s) would you choose as your crime-fighting sidekick(s) and why?

Well, I certainly think that would use these new found powers to squeeze out the drug traffickers who are certainly selling to children in the neighborhoods around here. I would also use my skills to stop things that aren't necessarily crimes that will get you jail time. For instance, it really gets on my nerves when groups of obnoxious teenagers (or ever young adults) try to intimidate other people. No one should be bothered going about daily business. Being able to help people with little things like that could certainly help with overall community happiness. I like when people are just able to go about their own business.

As for a partner, I would have to choose someone who I know has a terrific sense of community and who would believe in what he or she was doing. And so, I would have to choose Reya. I think that she has a gift for noticing things that someone with a super kung fu grip could change.

Thank you so much Hammer, for asking me these questions. I really appreciate it. You've got me thinking about writing and being more creative again.

For India.

2009-03-03T21:17:00.005-05:00

You always turned slightly to your right and smiled as you walked quickly, assuredly, down the hallway. You were sure to shout out a greeting to me as you headed up to the second floor of our building to your job. I never knew you in that capacity--the capacity of work; I didn't really know you at all in fact, but I could count on glancing up to say hello to you the beginning of the day (or goodbye at the close of the day)--pretty much like clockwork. There's a beautiful rhythm and symmetry to the day when you encounter the same people over and over again, and this is even when you don't know them that well.

No one told us you had been ill. No one told us you weren't getting better. No one told us that you lived alone and probably needed someone to help care for you. I heard that insurance pushed the hospital to release you far too early to the care of yourself and no one else. And no one knew that. You told no one.

I, who said goodbye to you over a month ago, did not realize that it would be our last exchange.

You were in your forties. You were young. You were supposed to get better. This? This was supposed to be curable. (I only heard this in retrospect. After we got the news.)

I thought that you had finally gotten a well deserved vacation.

You had one of those jobs, one not unlike mine, one that people don't think about when you say, "I work at a university." You did not have a glamorous job, but you still looked glamorous doing it. Stylish hats, coats and shoes. Smart glasses. But you were much more than that. I might not have known you well, but of this I am sure.

You share a name with a place that I hope you were able to visit before you left this earth, or that you were able to see something peaceful and spectacular.

You. For the symmetry that you brought to my day, for the effortless grace you demonstrated by simply walking down the hall. You will be missed.

File these two under creepy or annoying

2009-02-23T23:09:00.008-05:00

1. After a really great Saturday brunch with a gorgeous married woman I know, I came home and relaxed, organized some of my apartment (for some reason, this place makes me want to be a more organized person) and caught up with my favorite television show host, and other TV boyfriend (besides the delicious Mr. Wentworth Miller) Mr. Mike Rowe:

(Mr. Rowe is so splendid, isn't he?) Anyway, halfway through one of my TiVoed episodes of Dirty Jobs, someone banged on my apartment door. It sounded like he or she was using some kind of a mallet. At first I thought the building was being evacuated by the police. But did I go to the door and fling it open?

HELL NO.

I'm not an idiot. I live in Petworth! I went to the peephole to see who was so kindly banging on my door, and I couldn't see anything. It was blacked out--something was covering it. I was far from pleased.

So what did I do? I went back to the couch and ignored the person and thought about calling the police. But then I thought more and more about it. It was probably my alcoholic neighbor. And I'm sure the cops have been called on her enough in her lifetime.

Fortunately, I was not bothered again that evening.

2. As many of you know, I ride the green line home from work. After a decent workout at the gym today, my legs felt kind of like rubber bands. I didn't feel like climbing the escalator stairs. I was exhausted. Well, standing still as the stairs carried me up to the street wasn't going to happen this evening. Unfortunately for me, I had to deal with some man who was wearing a hat and scarf pulled around his face like a ninja (yes, it's cold, but not that cold). Ninja man decided that he was going to stand right behind me on the stairs--he didn't even give the courtesy stair space in between him and me. On top of that? We were the only two people on the escalator going up. So I stepped up one step, to create the courtesy step space to teach him the ways of DC metroing, and lo and behold, creepy mcninja man stepped right up behind me again. And the piece de la resistance? He was breathing weirdly, like he had asthma or was making a creepy phone call.

So what do I do? Mutter, "Oh fuck all," summon all of the power in my rubber bandy legs, and spring into action and leg it up the stairs. Thank goodness I just bought new running shoes. They came in handy.

He couldn't keep up. What a creep! My swift running up the escalator stairs must mean that I must be getting into better shape--or that my adrenaline was really moving through my bloodstream. Or both.

And that guy was really lucky I wasn't in the type of mood where I would have Karate kicked him in the face sending him down the escalator. I wouldn't have done that because this city is full of crazy people, and they get crazier when we have cold snaps.

After that ordeal I went home and ate a piece of pre-mardi gras cake. And now my stomach is not pleased. Lesson learned.

This is one of those times.

2009-02-19T14:42:00.014-05:00

I normally don't like to give undue attention to people who hardly deserve it, but I read a post by one of the most misogynistic writers I have ever encountered (and this, my friends, includes the Beat writers and Ayn Rand (maybe she wasn't misogynistic, but I can't stand her books)). This writer is certainly entitled to his opinion about women, but what makes me wildly uncomfortable is the amount of support that he seems to garner.

Here's an example of this material (I put the material in bold lest you think it actually belongs to me):

While I don't expect women — solipsistic creatures of child-like, morally underdeveloped minds — to ever lead the righteous in advocating for fairness and justice of the sort meted out by the Spanish courts, I do expect them to step in line and follow the strong men who will fight for these basic rights and for real justice, not Oprahfied, Lifetime channel justice. This will happen when men grow balls and stop kow-towing in fear to the lesbian bulldyke mafia who runs the womens studies cuntdustrial complex, because women by nature are followers, and where the pack goes, so go they. Women self-govern by a simple (simplistic) motto: "It's all in the numbers." Once a tipping popularity point is reached, women will abandon their old principles for the new principles with a speed that will prove the shallowness and expediency with which they hold their beliefs.

The generalizations that are made here are really disturbing. I have no problem that this writer encourages men to reexamine masculinity and figure out how they can get the most out their relationships with women and with each other. So many things in romance and love can end up being a ridiculous game. If dividing the male population into Alphas and Betas is necessary for him, fine.

(But I will add this. If one is an Alpha Male, does one need a blog? Shouldn't one be too busy with world domination, money or women to worry about giving advice to other men? When I think Alpha Male, I don't think 'man with advice blog.' I think of men with blogs about cars, math, science, economics, cooking, teaching, being a doctor, whatever. I think of Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs. Smart. Hot. Too busy to tell other men how to define themselves.) In any case, the sheer hatred that oozes from each post is mind blowing.

The writer of this blog was pointed out to me in a bar one evening a year or so ago. He seemed like an innocuous enough fellow. He was certainly attractive enough, and seemed like a man about town. So I was quite surprised when his identity was revealed to me.

I don't know if what he writes is more of a persona driven enterprise or if he is looking to be the next host of a reality show that encourages men to adhere to the "1/2 your age +5 (or is it 7) rule for dating women," or that "beauty=worth (unless you sleep around too much)" but with the above statements, the above language? These words do nothing but persuade me to believe that this blog is absolutely a manifesto of anger, malevolence, and hate. It makes me worry about the future of this city, this country and this planet.

But when it came to statements like this one: Women are "solipsistic creatures of child-like, morally underdeveloped minds," I was flabbergasted. Really? Every single woman he has ever encountered has a pack mentality?

I certainly hope that is not what the majority of men (and even the women who are fans of his blog) think about us. This writer continually rails against getting married and writes about fucking one hot girl after another. More power to him. I hope that he stays single and doesn't have children. I hope that he never has a daughter so that he never tries to instill a sense of subservience or weakness or worthlessness in her.

I'm disappointed that people find his writing edifying or interesting or worthwhile. It's sad that there are men who can't depend on their own natural charm and intelligence (and good looks if they are lucky enough to have them) to meet and date women (if they are interested in that endeavor).

It's even sadder that this writer has such a limited understanding about people in general. I try not to make a totalizing statement about any group of people. It's damning. It's ineffective. It's unproductive.

I'm sure that the writer would have something mean-spirited to say about me. I certainly don't fit into any of the models of femininity or womanhood as he so defines them. I'm not 5'7 and 110 lbs and I'm not a waitress, a part time model, or an air hostess from the 60s. Those women exist and I exist, and other women exist. We are all real, worthwhile and terrific.

I hope that this writer finds that 22 year-old beautiful, smart (but not too smart), subservient, loving, but not too loving woman. And then I hope that she stays 22 forever for him.

Blog of Yesteryear: I miss you Fictional Rockstar.

2009-02-16T21:25:00.009-05:00

A while ago, I erased my old blog Fictional Rockstar. I got rid of every post I'd ever written, every word that I had constructed. It was a dissertation of my life, and more than anything, I wanted to see it gone. It had taken on a life of its own and it didn't belong to me. It belonged to an 'us'. You see, a year into the blog, I suddenly found myself writing to an audience of one. I wasn't just writing for myself. I was writing to and for him.

I think that the blog was as much mine as it was his. The rest of the readers? They were wonderful, but they weren't always the intended readers. In fact, they rarely were.

The words that were happy, the words that were testy, the words that weren't there?

They all belonged to him.

I couldn't change my feelings about that blog or about him. That was a very unique time in my life. One that I probably will never ever forget as long as I live. When I quit writing for good, I'll remember that blog and I'll remember to whom it was ultimately dedicated.

But then he, he to whom I had secretly given every word, every idea, every thing, changed his mind. He said, "I have changed my feelings about you. It took time, but I have changed my feelings."

I questioned his phrasing hoping that it was something that was awkwardly constructed, something that had come out incoherently.

How can one change one's feelings? I didn't believe that it was humanly possible.

I knew that feelings could change, and I had always thought of it as a passive act, not an active one. If he had said, "My feelings for you have changed. I don't see you the same way," I would have understood that. And he told me that I should do the same thing for him. Change my feelings about him. I could have as soon changed my feelings as I could have my eye color or my blood type or my ability to speak.

I didn't know that I could force my feelings into another category. Move from love to like or from like to tolerate. I didn't know that. I didn't know how to do that.

I refused to force my feelings to do anything. They changed of course, from love to sadness (with love) to disappointment (with love) to hatred (with love )and then to quiet contentment still, with love. I, however, to the end, to this day, have not changed my feelings. They have changed me.

I won't ever approach anything or anyone the same way. I'm a bit more hesitant and cautious, but I will never change my feelings. They are what they are. And they make me who I am.

Through the magic of google reader (the blog reading service), I was able to get back a year's worth of postings from my old blog Fictional Rockstar. I reread a bunch of postings last night. It was as if the reader knew which year it was supposed to store. It kept from late January 2006 right until the middle of 2007. I got to look back on that span of time and remember so many things about myself, so many feelings I used to have (and still have), and witness so much of my life that has changed, I daresay for the better.

I'm not ashamed or upset by anything I wrote or felt in those years, and I hope that one day, I'll be more like that writer--that version of me--who wrote that blog. She was a pretty terrific person, even if I didn't get that at the time.

A long lost Valentine.

2009-02-11T21:10:00.003-05:00

Several years ago I used to go to the Folger Shakespeare Library in Capitol Hill at every opportunity. I was gung ho about research and learning and I enjoyed being surrounded by some of the most brilliant people in the business. I was in nerd heaven.

But to be completely honest, there was another reason why I liked to go to the library.

A very special, friendly, tall, cute reason--who stood gaurding the Supreme Court building.

Sure, there were other ways to walk to the library, and going past the Supreme Court was a little out of the way, but every extra minute in the cold was worth it.

The first time I saw him, it was really cold. I was wrapped up in new black coat, and I looked like every other person working on the Hill. I had a great red wool wrap and a red hat to match. That made me seem less legislative (at least in my mind).

I was still in awe that I worked so close to a place where so many life altering decisions got made. I made a special trip around the building and stood and stared at the edifice. And then I turned to make my way to the library and I saw him looking at me while I looked at the building. He looked at me with a puzzled expression. He must have thought I was some kind of court worshiper. I wasn't really.

Then every time I walked past the building I saw him. Later that day, the next week, the week after that.

I managed to squeak out a hello one time. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to speak to someone as he was on the job so I mostly smiled.

One day, I was headed to the library to do research with my friend E (who, consequently is about to get her first book published! WOOO!), and I dragged her around the building just in case he was there.

"You see, E, he's like super cute and I don't know if he's working today, but I like to walk this way..." I was not speaking in the sotto voce that one should in these circumstances.

And there he was. Smiling.

And what did I do? Smile and say nothing. E said quite candidly, "He's super cute. Go back there and say something. "

Did I? No.

And then the next week? He was gone. :(

So, wherever you are, Mr. Supreme Court Police Officer, I thought you were adorable and interesting even though we never actually had a conversation.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, and to all of you!

Scribo, Scribere, Scripsi

2009-02-06T13:59:00.004-05:00

He writes, but his sentences are beyond complicated. The subjects and verbs are divided by miles of adverbial clauses. There are too many dependent clauses and they leave me searching for a simple meaning that I know, for sure, is there.

There is this question. Can you teach someone how to write? Can you help undo years of mistaken words, banal phrases, and poor grammatical constructions? Can Strunk and White, The Chicago Manual of Style and a copy of the MLA Writer's Guide save someone? (Can it save me?)

Recently, and only recently, have I decided the following: I am a writer.

Sure, my prose can be frustrating, plaintive or problematic; it can be lacking in focus, tangled and confusing, or just plain awful; nevertheless, I continue to write. A lot of people do, but a lot more of them don't. There are writers (even of blogs) I miss reading. I just liked the way that they wrote--imperfections and all. But like all things, I imagine that blogs will go the way of the dinosaur, and when they do, I'll write somewhere else. I'll fill an electric tablet with my unread musings.

Why do I write? Why do I write this blog? Who knows? Who cares? I just do it.

I wrote a great letter the other day. I could spend my whole life writing letters like those. Perhaps one day, I'll write a letter to you, but don't hold your breath. I'm lazy.

So, yes. Here, I have finally declared myself a writer and I now must deal with the consequences of that declaration.

Entre nous; pas entrez-vous.

2009-02-04T22:00:00.002-05:00

I wonder when the past is officially the past?

He kept saying to me that closure was overrated.

"Why do girls need it so much?" he asked me.

I couldn't answer that question. I always fail when questions like that are directed at me in such a bald manner. Of course, he didn't mean for this question to upset me, or for it to produce a speechlessness in me, but it did. I don't know why we need it, or if 'we' need it. I can only speak for myself. I only need that from those whom I have loved to the point of discomfort.

"Just move forward and don't turn back," he said.

"If only it were that easy," I said.

"But it is. And you keep threatening to do that to me."

And that was true. I keep threatening to push past him, not question him about his life or learn about what is going on in a regular fashion--to close the gate of communication. But with him, it can't be deliberate. It would be too performative. It would be as if I were shouting, "This avant garde play in which you and I were main characters is coming to a close! The final act is a upon us, the climax is well behind us and we are in a denoument."

And in his passable French he would say, "Mais oui, mon amie, ca c'est vrai. Ca. C'est. Vrai."

It will happen, but like all things, it takes time. The time that seems intermnible when we are younger. I have forgotten that things take years to digest, or to understand fully.

Instead, I prolong this eventual denoument and wait for closure on something that whether I realize or not, is now relegated to the past.

I am like Friar Bacon, only I am not asleep. But don't you worry, I too have fucked things up and missed the chanting of the Brazen Head:

Time is. Time was. Time is past.

And she. She has said to me many times that it is best just to close up shop, end the play, finish the writing and "For god's sake. Know that it's okay to move on."

The Brazen head has already fallen to the floor.

I suppose then, yes. Yes. And more yes.

Time is, indeed, past.

With whom am I speaking now?

2009-02-02T22:23:00.003-05:00

You were wrong.

April is not the cruelest month.

(Addendum. Think about Chaucer. Think about what Chaucer wrote. Think about this crappy weather we have. It has been cold. My blood is thin. But no. I am not about to jump off of a bridge.)

Lest I am too late. My poetry entry for today.

2009-02-02T13:38:00.003-05:00

The First Sonnet of Astrophel and Stella.

I
Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show,
That she, deare Shee, might take som pleasure of my paine,
Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pittie winne, and pity grace obtaine,
I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inuentions fine, her wits to entertaine,
Oft turning others leaues, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitfull showers vpon my sun-burnd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Inuentions stay;
Inuention, Natures childe, fledde step-dame Studies blowes;
And others feet still seemde but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with childe to speak, and helplesse in my throwes,
Biting my trewand pen, beating myselfe for spite,
Fool, said my Muse to me, looke in thy heart, and write.

Stop making me cry, British readers! (A Fun Thursday Night Post)

2009-01-29T22:46:00.007-05:00

So, a couple of my favorite bloggers over at A Very British Dude have created lists of things that they dislike and like that have been imported into Britain from the United States. I believe that most of their points are valid. They don't want certain things from America carried into their beloved sceptered Isle. I get it. They've had a history of not liking strangers, you know. Travelgal seems to have an unabashed love for all things American (especially football, Beyonce and Jessica Alba), and I can't say I blame him. America's pretty great! (Can I get a Hell yeah?)

Don't get me wrong, I rather like Britain; I liked living there for a short while and I have even considered living there for a long while. But eventually I would have to come home even if I had all of the McVittie's digestives I could handle (Dark Chocolate, Please!). I'd need a break from tea, the tube, driving on the other side of the road, 'queuing' in lines, nonsensical punctuation rules (excepting the Oxford Comma) saying "Ta" or "Ta-ra" instead of "Thank You," and saying 'mate' for friend, and 'bloke' for 'hot guy you want to make out with in a bar. '

I'm not going to list things that I love about Britain because I don't want to be called an Anglophile. I don't think I am. I forget all of the new vocabulary that I had to learn to communicate with the citizens of that country when I lived there. There are SO many words that made no sense to me. ( I mean really, Aubergine for Eggplant? What are you, French? And it's a Zucchini not a Courgette!) I don't know where the good tea and hat shops are, nor can I afford a bespoke tailored suit like Kanye West. I can barely get around London without getting lost, I don't pretend to care about Big Brother or Neighbors or East Enders or whatever other nonsense they watch on television (not the Telly!--as the only Telly I know is Savalas).

I'm not going to waste your American time explaining that there isn't one uniform British accent. They don't all sound like Colin Firth or Thandie Newton or Kate Winslet or Hugh Laurie or (mmmmm) Clive Owen. They don't all sound like people who've gone to public school, then Oxford or Cambridge or St. Andrews or whatever.

I'm not going to explain that Wales is like a whole different place from England, not just some country outpost. And I am not going to try to explain why the Prince of Wales is the Prince of Wales. Too difficult.

I'm not going to say that Shakespeare is Britian's best export, because I believe that Christopher Marlowe is actually the best export. I mean, really folks, Shakespeare's practically as American as Jesus Christ himself.

I'm not going to say that many American last names (not SURnames) come from Britian--including my own, and I'm not going to think about how I'm probably related to a fair number of 'Academics' on that island.

And hell, I'm not the most patriotic gal in the world, but I got a little cranky reading that British blog and seeing the whining and complaining in the comments section about the Americanization (NOT Americanisation with an S) of the world. Blah Blah, no one knows who Gordon Brown is...how come American English is so popular? Why can't we all spell color and flavor with extra letters? Wah Wah, how come Hugh Laurie works on an American Television show? BOOO. How come we can't go to the States and get everything for half price anymore? Why do those Yanks like their guns so much? :(

But wait, before you get upset and cancel your Virgin Atlantic flight for this summer, the British still LOVE the American people. They love individual ones of us--especially if we speak 'good' (even American) English.

"Oh, MA" a certain Mr. JackArt will say, "you speak Excellent English."

Well why the hell not, bucko? We do okay over here.

It's what we bring with us to England, (the two) Irelands, Scotland and Wales: the hip hop, the use of "you go girl," the Jesus freaks, the loudness, substandard beers and other things. Those things are what annoy our British brethren to no end. What can we do? We are who we are. USA. USA!

What's the point of this post? I have no idea. I don't have to know. Thank goodness--because I'm an American and I don't have to know! Tell that to your Queen (most respectfully of course because she's pretty rad and I'd like to hang out with her and the Welsh Corgies one day)!

CK Dexter Haven! Oh, CK Dexter Haven!

2009-01-26T19:47:00.004-05:00

This weekend, I watched The Philadelphia Story (starring Katharine Hepburn, Carey Grant, Jimmy Stewart and Ruth Hussey) for what must be the thirtieth time. Every time I see this film I notice another thing that magnifies how brilliant this ensemble cast worked to create a film that makes language, pun, 'inundo' (You, know, 'inundo!), comebacks and zingers into true works of art.

I know that I've written about conversation and chemistry before, and I know that this is a scripted series of conversations, but there's no mistaking the chemistry between and among the characters in this film. I love when this type of chemistry exists between friends and I love when I am fast enough to participate in conversations that sound as though they could be extra scenes in a movie like The Philadelphia Story.

There's a terrific rhythm to great conversation, isn't there?

Just a few thoughts.

2009-01-24T20:59:00.004-05:00

So, there’s this blog that I don’t read unless someone else lets me know about it because he or she is outraged by what the writer espouses for that week. Most of the time, it’s tripe about how only certain men (i.e. the author of the blog)can score with hot chicks, and other times it’s about what’s wrong with women over 30 why women in their 20s are way better. I think that if it makes the author feel better to pass on advice about how to get on in life by sleeping with younger women, more power to him.

But I read something by him this evening that just made me so angry I don’t want to even go into it. It was so mean.

But I guess, he has his fans and one day, when he’s old and gray, he can look back on his blog to remember what it was like to be young and worshiped by a few adoring fans.

I’ve never felt like I’ve had all the answers to anything, and I’ve never been so sure of myself that I would ever write generalizations about people the way that this person does.

These are just a few thoughts.

An Open Letter to the 44th President of the United States, Mr. Barak Hussein Obama:

2009-01-20T21:37:00.004-05:00

Dear Mr. Obama:

What you have achieved today is proof that this country is an amazing place, a place where any (U.S. born) citizen can become the Commander and Chief. At the same time, I would like to emphasize that while you are functioning as symbol—the first African-American President—you are still a human. You are a human who is capable of mistakes; one who is not perfect; one who is not the second coming of Christ himself. I am very optimistic for your administration, but I am cautious. (That says nothing about you, sir. It is just my nature to be cautious about things.)

You have a great deal of work ahead of you, and it seems as though you have thought hard about the people that you want working with you. You’ve chosen some really intelligent people to tackle the problems that this country has at the moment. I was fortunate to be in the capital city as you took your oath surrounded by these great minds. Bravo to you. Bravo to them.

I think one of the most intriguing things about you is that you represent the foreign and the domestic, the black and the white, the insider and the outsider. You are educated, articulate and gifted rhetorically. You work out, you like to think, and you seem genuinely to like (and love) your family. You seem unflappable and cool, a zen-like surfer among more hot-tempered individuals. You embody the traits of Castiglione’s ideal man, one who exudes sprezzaturra—coolness, unaffected(but nonetheless practiced) intelligence and grace--something that I wish I could exude. Perhaps you’ve been reading The Book of the Courtier lately. We all should.

I wish you a great deal of luck with this job. I’m glad that if I were to have a child, she has the opportunity to achieve the office that you have (that any kid can), but I don’t know that I’d want that for her. What pressure. What scrutiny. What challenges. (I hope she chooses to be a world class cellist instead. Ha.)

We have many things in common, but one of my favorite things about you is this: You are left handed. I watched you sign some papers this morning and I noticed that you picked up the pen and signed with your left hand. I am sure that I have read somewhere before that you are, in fact, left handed, but it sunk in today. You and I are both left handed! Being left handed is so AWESOME and I hope that you remember that. Use that creative energy, restlessness and eccentricity that comes with being left handed (I’m not owning all of these things, you sensitive right handed folks)!

I wish you all success; I remember that you are human and I hope you do the same.

Best Wishes for an exciting term as President,

Oh Vocative case! How you distract me.

2009-01-14T22:29:00.007-05:00

For some reason, while resting on the sofa late this evening, I started thinking about the vocative case. We as speakers of English don't use it to its full advantage. Calling someone or something by name and emphasizing his, her or its very existence simply resonates: it is nothing but potent. That type of utterance during a conversation, whether is it passionate or dispassionate, makes things memorable. Whether used for good or for ill, the vocative case is a powerful tool of language, my friends.

I want you to know this, readers. (see how I used that last noun here? And the time before that? Those are examples of the vocative case--as unsexy as it can be in English. And I apologize for my teacherly voice here.)

For those of you who are familiar with Latin: The vocative is something that you'd see in poems by Horace, or you'd see it in the famous "O Mores, O Tempores" line from Cicero. You also see it in a more inelegant moment in history, in the fictionalized ultimate words of Julius Caesar (by way of Shakespeare), "Et tu Brute?" Although, of course, scholars (thanks to the historian Suetonius) have proffered that Caesar's last words--"Kai su technon?" (And you too, my son?)-- were actually in Greek(!) allowing for a whole host of speculation about the possible biological ties between betrayer and betrayed. But never fear, my friends, the vocative case was still used!

In certain times, and in certain places, an increased emphasis on a noun is certainly needed--especially when you plan on being totally dramatic:

"Oh, Stella! Why do you insist on scratching the chair with your claws? Sure it is only an Ikea chair, but it is my chair. Oh, horrible cat! Oh poor chair!" (There has got to be a great Latin translation for the 'horrible cat' bit.)

I think that the vocative gets used in interesting ways depending on where you live geographically, and in some parts of the country, it seems more natural than others. I won't say where I find this to be the case (pun intended?), so you should feel free to tell me where you think the vocative does work well--if you care enough to participate in tonight's shenanigans.

On a more personal note, there are a couple of people I know or I have known who use the vocative so intuitively, so masterfully, that it is totally natural as they mold this structure to work its siren-like, seductive powers on you. One is a professor. ( And my friends who have taken a class with this professor had better damned well know of whom I am writing. ) One of them writes a pretty damn good blog. The other, you don't know.

It's amazing what the right voice and the right grammatical case can do.

That's all for now, muffins. Good night.

P.S. I seem to be focusing on the "natural(ness)" of a grammatical structure that upon further reflection could seem unnatural to some speakers of various languages. I'm not sure what I think of any of this 'natural' business now. I've gone and made myself uncomfortable philosophically. But that is a topic of discussion for another time. Now, I'm serious, muffins. Good night.

What do to for inauguration?

2009-01-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

If you could live in the awesome, 'edgy' (sometimes dangerous and unpredictable and called the "Ghetto" by my pal Dr. N) part of DC called Petworth and could walk down to the inauguration, would you?

Please tell me. I'm not sure, but I might just sit and eat a nice breakfast and watch all of the events unfold on TV.

It might not be a bad way to spend the day.

It's all happening... (the pointless blog post full of parentheses)

2009-01-11T23:17:00.005-05:00

This weekend I watched Almost Famous for the first time in five or six years. I had forgotten how seamless and entertaining the movie is--and a great deal of the seamlessness comes from the soundtrack.

I had no idea that Nancy Wilson from Heart is married to Cameron Crowe (the writer and director of the film) and that she did the soundtrack. She paid tribute to the rock and roll of 1972 and 1973 brilliantly--according to people who were alive and rocking during that time. I was familiar with all of the songs from the 70s thanks to my father (and of course my being born in the latter half of the decade), and whenever I see that movie or hear its soundtrack I think of him.

Thanks to his eclectic taste in music, I never had to go through a "Classic Rock" phase because my parents had (now? Um...) such great taste in music and there was never a time when there wasn't some kind of music playing in our house. I hope that if I ever have kids that I remember to make itunes mixes or get the robot nanny to play mixes in her sound system. I owe my eclecticism in music (and my eccentricity) to my parents.

***
Perhaps guided by Nancy Wilson and my perhaps my upbringing, I made a mix of music on my ipod that was eclectic and fun (and I'll never release the mix as some of the music I *might* be embarrassed to claim as my own), I gamboled to Giant to get some groceries for the next couple of weeks.

I will tell you that the first song in the mix is "Lucifer" by Jay-Z from the Black Album, and let me tell you, if you don't start practically dancing or running down the street as you listen to it, there's something wrong with you.

This soundtrack made the walk to the store more fun, and it make shopping more fun as well. I didn't even mind how crowded the store was and the creepy guy who works there tried to talk, I couldn't hear him past Yael Naim.

And then I went home, and made Chicken soup.

The End.

Please! Work out, but be Courteous!

2009-01-09T00:00:00.001-05:00

Dear New Year Resolutioners:

I congratulate you on your new found dedication to fitness. My commitment has ebbed over the last year, and I can admit this without shame. I too am recommitting myself to fitness and losing that unfortunate weight I gained during the last six months of the year from Hades.

However, unlike you, I am at the gym to actually work out. I don't like that you come in large groups. I don't like that you have to do every part of your exercise routine together or you'll pout and complain loudly: "OMG if we had come two minutes earlier WE COULD BE TOGETHER ON THE TREADMILLS!" Especially if there are more than two of you. It messes with things--Gym Feung Shi or Vatsu if you will.

I go to the gym with two fabulous women from work. We all go in to the building together put in our headphones, and head to equipment and work out. We don't talk, we don't mozy on the treadmill at 2.0 miles an hour shouting about how much weight we are going to lose and then jump off of the treadmill after 10 minutes declaring victory.

ARGH! You're not working out. You haven't broken a sweat, and your loud talking is messing with my awesome mix of tunes.

I do not send you good wishes until you learn to be more polite.

MA.

***

I experienced this today all the while thinking of a friend of mine who has had to deal with the worse people restarting their commitment to the gym where he works out. Fortunately, he had a gym colleague to ask them to stop being so uncollegial . I wish he could send that messenger our way.

I would rather use the stair climber next to the man who drips sweat on me (Oh, wait, that happened today) than deal with you.

But seriously folks, I wish that there were a different date for Fitness New Year. I wonder if Future Surgeon General and cute guy Dr. Sanjay Gupta could help with that? What would be a good Fitness New Year Date? Anyone?

Another reason why it's time for me to move on.

2009-01-08T00:00:00.002-05:00

"Why would I want to major in English, even if I'm good [editor's note: relatively good at it] at it and I like it? It's shallow, and what those majors do is shallow. Studying that doesn't help anyone, you don't do anything, and you won't make money. Sure I need to repeat the first class in the major here, but I'll get through it."

"I suppose you're right, John."

I've never thought of what I have spent a chunk of my life doing as a shallow endeavor. Maybe if I did, I wouldn't be stultified by the writing and thinking process.

I think that it might be a little freeing to think about myself as a shallow individual. I mean, I do like art, aesthetics, cooking, literature and history and oh, don't forget design, furniture and architecture.

I am interested in world events, but I don't do anything to alleviate the world's ills except by being polite on metro. I can't heal people by operating on their brains or other organs, I don't teach children how to read, I didn't start a charter school in DC, I don't know how to fix a car and I don't know how to renovate a house single handedly. I can't program (or operate) a supercomputer; I can barely code in HTML.

It's starting to get hard to work in a place where many of the students are interested in the bottom line. Mind you, many of them aren't, but large numbers are. It's disheartening.

I'm not saying that I'm against capitalism or earning money. I just don't understand thinking in which undergrad=$$$$$!!!!!! Especially if once you earn that money, you're still the same philistine that started undergrad.

I guess I'm doomed to be shallow and poor. But certainly on my way to happy.

Bring back the Polaroid Camera! Please!

2009-01-07T00:01:00.005-05:00

At lunch with a new acquaintance/friend* I learned that we share a love of something so awesomely retro that it totally needs to come back into public consciousness and consumption (unlike leggings and the off-the-shoulder sweatshirts):

Yes. The Polaroid instant camera.

On my 25th birthday, I used my Polaroid and took pictures with fancy artsy black and white instant film. The photos were so much fun. In fact, one of my favorite pictures of myself (I only have three) was taken with that camera. I was barefoot standing in the middle of a yard in College Park, MD, and I was in a word, happy. The instant camera caught that moment.

The immediate satisfaction of a photograph taken with a Polaroid Instant camera is better than a camera phone or a digital camera. I think it has to do with the tangible object that is produced--something that doesn't have to do with pixels or megabytes. The picture belongs to you and no one else (unless of course it is scanned and put on the internets for the whole world to see--not that I would know about that). The Polaroid instant photograph is Romantic (capital R)-- it captures a moment and delivers it in a telltale format.

I looked on the internets to find the film for my little camera and it is hella expensive. Way more expensive than mid level professional grade B&W film. That saddens me a bit. However, I think that I might purchase a little piece of nostalgia before it disappears.

I do hope that the Polaroid instant camera (or even the Kodak Instamatic (TM) that totally infringed on the patent for the Polaroid) makes a comeback.

So many lamer things have come back. Why not this?

*Thanks for the introduction, Claven. xoxo!

Semper eadem, Numquam eadem.

2009-01-06T00:44:00.005-05:00

"It is the same! -For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutablilty."**

Don't get me wrong. I'm hardly one of those naifs who believes that everything in life is static, unchanging. Mutability is a fact of life. Everything changes, blah, blah, blah. I think that I have gotten hit with more than a few changes and I'm finally ready to speak up about a few of them.

Perhaps I didn't feel shifts in my life as abruptly when I was younger, or I welcomed them. Or I haven't really experienced enough.

Mutability is going to be a continual theme for me in the coming months.

I celebrate that fact.

But it annoys me when changes put pressure on something (like a friendship) that should not change that much. And it devastates me when changes put so much pressure on things (like a friendship) that it is rendered impossible.

Yes, this is one of those circumstances where I am going to make a circumlocuitous, tautological whining argument.

Whenever I have gotten upset about something having to do with a friend, my mother would inevitably say to me, "MA. Stop. Friendship is a two way street."

Well, damn it, what happens when you're the friend that always makes the effort--even in the face of changes--and you stop making effort on your side of the street?

In one case, I've vocalized my disappointment with always being the one to initiate conversation or contact. The response? "I'm just really bad at keeping up with people." My response? (In my head? 'You're dead to me.'). In another, I've said little to nothing. And I'm watching both friendships die. I hate this shit. And I'm glad that I have great people around me in any case.

And I can't say that I haven't done the same thing to other people lest I be thought a hypocrite.

Damned PR people for Obama are right. Change is so 2009.

So I think my Latin phrase for this year is the following:

Semper eadem et Numquam eadem.

I should print up a t-shirt.

**Prize goes to the person who can name the author of this poem without the Google.

The City.

2009-01-04T21:35:00.005-05:00

Damn it if I haven't been sucked in to watching yet another MTV production--from the makers of Laguna Beach (Yeah. I watched it and cringed every time I heard the name SteVEN! Team LC all the way!) and The Hills (although, admittedly, I watched that more sporadically because I couldn't keep with the schedule and got tired of the girlfriend drama).

But now? Now I have TiVo and The City.

Do I like the protagonist, Whitney? Well, yeah. I like her well enough.

Do I think that her 'hot' Australian boyfriend is hot? Um, no, not really. And I think he's a jerkface on top of that.

Do I like the other boy who loves her more? Hmmm. I haven't decided on that yet. I've only seen two episodes. I don't know about her taste in men. But then again, who am I to throw stones?

Do I wish that I were as tall as she is, have the killer legs that she does and could wear some of the clothes that she does? Well, hell yeah. I can still hope that the gym will create a miracle!

Would I give up my current job to go work for DVF (Dianne Von Furstenberg)? Yes, because that would be quite a change, wouldn't it?

And do I love this whole imaginary uptown/downtown richkid Manhattan dichotomy thing the producers have going on? Yeah, because I love false dichomoties like the best of them. Like the Petworth/Capitol Hill dichotomy. (Oooh. THAT actually exists now.)

I don't know what it is about these glossier, scripted reality television shows that pleases me to no end. I suppose it is because I am wonderfully human and dichotomous myself. I'm beginning to rediscover that quite well, on my own. Team MA!

Picking up the guitar again.

2009-01-03T14:18:00.003-05:00

I haven't picked up the guitar in a very, very long time. I usually don't play when I'm sad, or when I'm processing something in my life. I think that the time for processing things is over, and sometime soon--it may not be today, or tomorrow even--I will pick the guitar up and see if I can even remember how to play or write.

On Resolutions, Regrets and Saying Goodbye to 2008.

2008-12-29T19:54:00.003-05:00

Every year I do it. I promise myself a host of things--that which I am to accomplish, that which I wish to learn, that which I wish to forget.

This year? I'm going to promise absolutely nothing. I refuse to set myself up for failure, and I will not chastise myself for not doing all of the things that I should do, want to do, or have to do. Don't get me wrong, there are things that I want to do this next year, but I'm not going to hang the pressure of a fucking resolution on them.

Good lord, I am so far from perfect in so many ways. I need to come to terms with that.

Today, I sat with a friend in a Mexican Restaurant in Capitol Hill, and she said something that stuck with me: "I'm not going to worry about that--I'm simply going to live in the present."

I don't think that I have done enough of that this year.

This year was one of regret for a whole host of reasons. I don't want to rehash any of the reasons here. This is neither the time nor the place. Recently, I was told matter-of-factly that we "all live with regrets, and if you say something like 'Oh no! Not I! I never live with regrets,' then you are full of shit."

I'll have to agree with that statement for sure. But I do think that I'm leaving those regrets with the end of 2008. No sense in worrying about the past.

This year is the year that I won't look back on very fondly at all. It's so interesting because for some people this was one of the best years of their lives thus far. It really wasn't for me. And I'm okay with that.

There were some good moments, of course. There was one this weekend that involved hanging out in Columbia Heights with friends from Atlanta and San Francisco and remembering how nice it can be to sit around eating fish and chips, watching your friends drink English pints just shooting the breeze--what a phenomenally easy dynamic. These are people I'm lucky to know and have been lucky enough to get together with as a group a couple times. I hope we do it again
in 2009.

So here's to 2009, and to living in the present and letting go of past regrets.

I hope that each of you starts this new year brilliantly. And if it doesn't work out, there's always Chinese New Year for a reset. :)

Love to you all.

Happy Holidays, Y'all.

2008-12-18T21:34:00.001-05:00

Enjoy your families, significant others, friends et al.

Hopefully I'll catch you in the New Year.

:)

Why I love Flight of the Conchords...

2008-12-17T00:07:00.003-05:00

Other rappers dis me
Say my rhymes are sissy.
Why? Why? Why?
What?
Why exactly?
What? Why?
Be more constructive with your feedback, please. Why?
Why?

Why, because I rap about reality?
Like me and my grandma drinking a cup of tea?
There ain't no party like my nanna's tea party.
Hey! Ho!

Because there isn't a tea party like a Nana's tea party.
I wish I could write songs/raps like this.

To My Upstairs (or is it Downstairs?) Neighbor: An Open Letter.

2008-12-15T22:54:00.004-05:00

Dear Neighbor,

While I realize that watching sporting events on television can be both invigorating and exciting, I don't know that your yelling at the players while watching a game in your apartment is really going to spur your team on to victory. Your couch coaching is very entertaining to me. Sometimes I flip through the sports channels to guess what you are watching. Somehow, I think that you have special cable sports channels so that you can watch more games than the average Joe or Jane.

I'm really not annoyed by your yelling such things as "HOW CAN YOU FUCKING MISS THAT?" and "GET THE DAMNED BALL" at the television set and anyone within a certain radius who can hear you (i.e. ME), but I do wonder if you are okay up there and not urging on an early coronary.

You are a loud talker (I heard the Charlie Brown wah wah wah for 40 minutes during some conversation), a loud cheerer (WOOOO GO TEAM!) and an all around loud guy. (What's weird is that I never really hear you walk around. Huh) I'm sure that you're perfectly nice, and now I don't feel bad when my loud cranky elderly cat howls in the morning at 5:45 for me to get up and feed her. She's loud. Not as loud as you are, but she's loud.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to accomplish by writing this open letter other than hoping that the internets carry this message to you that yes, I am your neighbor, and no, I'm not angry with your loudness, but I do wish that you'd get out of the house and go see one of these games live.

Yell at those guys in person. Coach from the stands!

WOO. GO TEAM.

Best, loudest wishes!

MA.

It's hard to keep up.

2008-12-14T22:00:00.006-05:00

I went out to dinner with Jordan Baker and Megarita (who's in town for a couple of weeks) and I am once again confronted by the fact that I am not naturally funny. Witty? Sometimes. But I am not funny and witty to the 10th power! Not like these gals are. I'm sure the Hendricks and tonics and Hendricks martinis helped, but damn, I've not laughed so hard in a while. I was even a little funny. A little.

I am, however, awesome at eating a burger (with shared fries and onion rings) at Good Stuff Eatery in Capitol Hill and then topping it off with a large gin and tonic (at a bar called the Ugly Mug no less) and wait for it...wait for it... a dessert called 'Peanut Butter Panic.' Okay, so I know in my heart of hearts that gin and peanut butter ice cream cake are not supposed to go together, but I was with friends, and damn it, friends let you make wacko dessert choices and once you've told them it's not poisonous, they then choose to eat it with you.

***
I had some really strange dreams as a result of that food and drink combination. In one dream, I got into a mortal combat style fight with the creepy guy who works at the Tivoli Giant. It was awful.

He chased me through this house and down a tree lined street and then I just turned around and started hand to hand combat with him. I threw punches and I kicked him several times. Then he tried to shoot me! The nerve! Fortunately, I had some kind of hand held rapid fire weapon. I shot him in the shoulder and kneecaps. And I didn't even feel bad. Then I kicked him one more time and walked away. (Therapy is calling me.)

The kicker? I saw him today while I was taking my groceries out of the store and he asked me if I needed help. Needless to say, I ran out of there.

***

It was a great way to make up for a week in which I wanted to either quit my job or hurl expletives at students.

And I still believe that I am wasting my education at work, but I don't waste it with my friends. I have to use every ounce of smartness and sass I have just to keep up. Just thought I'd add that.

Yes, that is I.

2008-12-12T20:59:00.002-05:00

As I watched over 130 students descend upon 1200.00 worth Chinese food like vultures at the sight of dead rotting cattle flesh, it became perfectly clear to me.

I am wasting my education, or what little of it I remember of it. (I blanked on the name Horatio in Hamlet the other day while talking to a friend who is writing a paper for SAA. What the fuck is that?)

I haven't been interested in reading my architecture magazines; they are piling up--unopened-- in the pretty red box I bought to house them. I am too tired to read them or anything when I get home after solving uninteresting problems for students.

I have these dilettantish fits and starts and I haven't finished a book in a few weeks and now I want to. I haven't had an intellectual conversation not having to do with the inabilities or stupidity of students in weeks. I'm tired of being addressed as Mrs. Academic and even more tired of being treated like an unappreciated mother or housekeeper.

I'm tired of doing a two and a half jobs. I'm tired of unappreciative "customer service" oriented students.

I am tired of not teaching something I know and know well.

I'm tired of the bullshit politics at work.

I'm tired of not having enough time to do my job well.

Oh, and apropos of nothing in this post, I'm tired of hearing about the tanking economy and I think you jerkfaces in banking and finance should have taken more humanities courses and gotten something out of the liberal institutions you hate. Take your millions and go away.

I'm tired of being tired of being tired.

Misreadings when I'm tired.

2008-12-11T21:00:00.002-05:00

I was looking at the Washington Post online and saw this headline:

Md. Regulators Against Taking Back Power Plants.

However, I misread the headline and thought it said, "Maryland Regulators Against Taking Back Power PANTS."

I started thinking about what would constitute power pants? Pants that make your ass look fantastic? Pants that make you dance better? Pants that make you run faster, jump higher attract more people to you?

And if they are the British pants/underwear, THAT makes things even more interesting.

I now know that I am one tired girl at the end of the semester.

I do hope that you all get Power Pants for Christmas or Hanukkah.