tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392946259922640062024-03-04T21:10:33.550-08:00On The Road Againajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-2622907835256713632012-09-06T18:03:00.000-07:002012-09-06T18:03:03.401-07:00Excuse me while I just lick this salt off my fingers...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeZmRoJmvXj54Ue5cztG52hKdOSR93TgQVOPWwK_PVO3WP7x1G4xojGpbYeC9AbnDmsOdr-gW65CQdOF97qfS4QnXgDj0IzTqEQt4XuVMaB_MMMzE1VV4ODJ7lYevQpwK2ZMNbXVYK8c/s1600/Chip-Mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeZmRoJmvXj54Ue5cztG52hKdOSR93TgQVOPWwK_PVO3WP7x1G4xojGpbYeC9AbnDmsOdr-gW65CQdOF97qfS4QnXgDj0IzTqEQt4XuVMaB_MMMzE1VV4ODJ7lYevQpwK2ZMNbXVYK8c/s320/Chip-Mountain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Top Five Signs Your Work-From-Home Arrangement Just Might Include Too Many Potato Chips:</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">1. You know that the keys you use most often on your computer are "A" and "E" because they are the most encrusted with salt.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">2. When you walk into your office, the dog automatically stations herself under the desk with her mouth open to catch dropped chips.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">3. Whenever you stand up, inches of crumbs fall from your lap and slowly drift down toward the floor (and the dog, see #2).</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">4. You find yourself thinking they go with everything; nothing garnishes banana bread quite like a nice crispy Sour Cream & Onion potato chip.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">5. You consider having potato chips with your lunch, but think to yourself, "Oh, but I had chips for breakfast."</span></span><br />
ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-41102396500667427792012-09-03T14:40:00.001-07:002012-09-03T14:40:18.607-07:00A sigh of contentment<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICqrX8NXly0bJhyAWB0eBkTYxBHRlzeVx3KABcsspUfAl8KJgjCucF2Bzbgmnd2TfysRLegfLcX8bkdBzOo4Tf-5SajScPDmNzHG0m3nfJlKevNk6peh2rSG405yzlb22o7zInfF6FzQ/s1600/2012-08-25_09-38-18_195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICqrX8NXly0bJhyAWB0eBkTYxBHRlzeVx3KABcsspUfAl8KJgjCucF2Bzbgmnd2TfysRLegfLcX8bkdBzOo4Tf-5SajScPDmNzHG0m3nfJlKevNk6peh2rSG405yzlb22o7zInfF6FzQ/s200/2012-08-25_09-38-18_195.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm feeling particularly sunny and happy today. Maybe it's because it's sunny outside, with a clear blue sky and delightfully cool temperatures. Maybe it was almost 30 miles of biking on country roads before 10 a.m. Maybe it's because a new neighbor delivered a fresh hot loaf of banana bread to my door this morning. Maybe it's because it's now been a full month since the last time I had to commute on the Washington DC Metro (which, don't get me wrong, provided pretty good service so long as you were willing to be crammed into a train with hundreds of other sweaty people and get your ass groped once or twice a month). Maybe it's that we're finally nearly unpacked and at last I know where my other pair of running shoes are.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Mike and our chariots in downtown W3, note they are not even locked up!)</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After just three weeks here, we are already getting into the tempo of our new country mice lives. We walk places: to the store, to friends' houses, to work, to the local pub. We get outside: biking along long country roads, running through trails cut into fields, walking the dog in the evening and staring at all the stars. We chat with folks: the neighbors (seriously, thank you for that bread), the woman at the boutique in town (about whom I now know more than some people I worked with in DC for years), the guy at the Farmers' Market who answered a question about native plants with a long disquisition on the very meaning of "native," the pilot down the street who as it turns out can, indeed, recommend a good vet. We cheered at our first local parade although we missed the big annual fair (see note above about emptying boxes in search of running gear), but are vowing to hit the Round-Up down in Pendleton next month (even money says I come home with another pair of cowboy boots).</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(There is a special place in heaven for guys who volunteer to be the rodeo clown with the pooper scooper in a horse-filled parade)</td></tr>
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There's really only one more thing that will make this first holiday in W3 (Walla Walla, Washington) absolutely perfect. Yes, a nap. Maybe after another piece of banana bread. Here's the August monthly report, although somehow August already feels really far away.</div>
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<br />ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-79986536918486199052012-08-25T15:37:00.004-07:002012-08-25T15:37:59.794-07:00Transitions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKb3saBohYgSKzISWWOKgXLlIYBnkBAVHJKj4b28z-d-_-fALEPKzusLiBcYfQhbA34AGDjQaPP3WntTKzG8atBcr0HZIpklwJSejY_ih9iyRhkwv8pyjBRme50X1Anp3lr3EIs8ksEC0/s1600/2012-08-13_09-23-59_836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKb3saBohYgSKzISWWOKgXLlIYBnkBAVHJKj4b28z-d-_-fALEPKzusLiBcYfQhbA34AGDjQaPP3WntTKzG8atBcr0HZIpklwJSejY_ih9iyRhkwv8pyjBRme50X1Anp3lr3EIs8ksEC0/s320/2012-08-13_09-23-59_836.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If this move still doesn't feel entirely real, it is no doubt due to the fact that we continue to inhabit an empty house. And yet, somehow our life in Virginia is taking on an unreal tone for me as well. We are neither here nor there, but also both there and here. We are camped out, if camping can mean air conditioning, a double-thick air mattress, and Netflix videos on the computer at night. We are settled down, if one can be settled when all of one's belongings are somewhere in Nebraska. Or Utah. Or Montana. We are filled with plans for the future, just as soon as we finish the process of selling the home of our past.</div>
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We marvel at the cool mornings and crisp evenings, and still compare the weather with our last known address. We paint--and when the color is awful, we repaint--and we try to remember the size of our furniture as we wander through each room. We have a $100 bet about what color the couch actually is. </div>
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We do our work, me from a camp chair in what will eventually be the dining room. We go on bike rides. I get myself hopelessly lost on runs through fields and residential neighborhoods. We have laughter-filled meals with old friends. We have twilight drinks with new ones. We buy a second box of plastic forks, because I keep forgetting and throwing them away after we eat.</div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">They say the lessons come not from the destination, but the journey. This is a long class, indeed. But a good one.</span> ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-16324026977862347372012-08-12T06:20:00.000-07:002012-08-12T06:23:50.931-07:00Lost in America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizN9xwdv0L5Ift2fJ7HBNeVlIvr65rMCmOEizfIrKO9JfCJPmLKuKAPnLVuz4EVYGbcxodOI91ajzBvjBmZgxKnpFCBBXjS76MJoYhfVx3tzNvi0HVDiYGETRfEy7R0rrzYaTt0pCcgeI/s1600/DSC02622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizN9xwdv0L5Ift2fJ7HBNeVlIvr65rMCmOEizfIrKO9JfCJPmLKuKAPnLVuz4EVYGbcxodOI91ajzBvjBmZgxKnpFCBBXjS76MJoYhfVx3tzNvi0HVDiYGETRfEy7R0rrzYaTt0pCcgeI/s320/DSC02622.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's the thing about spending days and days on the road, living out of your car: your life becomes all about spending days and days on the road, living out of your car. It's load it up, drive, drive, drive, let the dog out to pee, drive, drive, bad food, drive, check into a hotel, unload the car, walk the dog, feed the dog, eat more bad food, collapse, start over tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was going to try to sum up my thoughts about leaving Virginia after six years, but right now Virginia is nothing but a place I was seven states ago. So instead I'll just post July's monthly report and promise Very Deep and Profound Thoughts on starting over--sort of, not completely, since happily I still have my job, my dog and my husband (in no particular order) carrying over from the last chapter--at some later date. Probably from an empty house while I wait for the movers to arrive.</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxVlL0lFMC24siWorDBzpxnHmgVq4WDXsr5xbvsyigpaIOO5m8jvy7QGSD8OTPei4UI0UP8S9oyZFxKFPhNdQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-2411693559826653262012-07-21T15:21:00.002-07:002012-07-21T15:21:37.237-07:00"No time for a kiss at the subway station..."*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc637shQBajl3AuCUSM0zf8-c58xKW_Mq9u8EPahU3ywEHnnLRY8oxhr-eYNtqtItF0kTfILPW52lRmmE2EyAXLTA6d_hxSiTwE5wABpdmUxtMvDR3P2Bf6zhlR47Sz0aBNHUFv9jz0A/s1600/clock+three.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc637shQBajl3AuCUSM0zf8-c58xKW_Mq9u8EPahU3ywEHnnLRY8oxhr-eYNtqtItF0kTfILPW52lRmmE2EyAXLTA6d_hxSiTwE5wABpdmUxtMvDR3P2Bf6zhlR47Sz0aBNHUFv9jz0A/s200/clock+three.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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So the other day I stood wedged into an overheated car on an Orange Line train, trying to ignore the conversation of some neighboring tourists about which building was actually the Capitol and hoping that for <i>once</i> nobody would grab my ass, and it occurred to me that in just a couple of weeks, I won't have to commute anymore. No more mildewed trains, no more broken escalators, and no more cramped trains on the Metro. No more detours to the gym for a shower, no more dodging unpredictable taxis, no more knees popping all the way up the hills on my bike. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here in the Hard Core 'Burbs of Northern Virginia, I fritter away moments each morning checking the weather, looking at my schedule, mapping in my head where I need to be and when in order to determine what mode of transport I shall take. debate whether a 50% chance of rain really means it will rain, or if a triple-digit temperature forecast really means collapse. I pull out bike clothes, I put away bike clothes, I pull them back out again before shaking my head and looking for my Metro card. I plan out the packing of pannier bags like some sort of clothing engineer. I offer up a quick prayer that I don't destroy a computer in a fall. And then...only then...do I spend the actual 75 minutes or so getting to work.</span></div>
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But in just two weeks, my commute will consist of the 3 or 4 seconds it takes to carry my coffee from the kitchen into the home office; I'll suddenly have all those hours I spend commuting back. </div>
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Let me say that again: I will have an additional couple of hours to fill as I please each day. That's 13 to 15 <i>HOURS</i> a <i>WEEK</i> to spend doing things other than shuffle my way to and from work. Over the course of a year, it'll add up to the equivalent of 5 weeks of vacation--it's like I'm suddenly going to be French! Whatever shall I do with it? (Other than taking up smoking and pretending that I am French.)</div>
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Bike rides, but unhampered by excess commuting gear and the dreaded Circulator Bus? Become a true "yogini," maybe get to the point where I can touch my toes <i>without</i> groaning? Learn to do that funky chi running thing (even though I feel like I'd look kind of silly at it)?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_rQdK-tORQzfIj0_C1SBI_Cwo3abKo0b_2qleEhqkKYLnGS5apzK6-pnRYseCgeilzEq5U1zYZSZrRHahj7IsZi6Qo_cJFRVrISiSswwcBES5vo0eQmcnXnfD7STUKXD5j-eK7x9SGU/s1600/clock+two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_rQdK-tORQzfIj0_C1SBI_Cwo3abKo0b_2qleEhqkKYLnGS5apzK6-pnRYseCgeilzEq5U1zYZSZrRHahj7IsZi6Qo_cJFRVrISiSswwcBES5vo0eQmcnXnfD7STUKXD5j-eK7x9SGU/s200/clock+two.jpg" width="200" /></a>Maybe I should embrace the arts. I could finally learn to knit. Take up watercolors, or set up a pottery wheel out on the deck? I could try to make something to sell on Etsy, or maybe start off by understanding what Etsy is. Or maybe I should attempt another belly-dancing class, this time without a torn shoulder and a sling which, frankly, can really cramp a girl's efforts to undulate and shimmy. (Can one take a belly-dancing class in Walla Walla, Washington?)</div>
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Conversely, I could blow the dust off my banjo. Maybe this time I can actually turn on a metronome without falling under its hypnotic spell and stop playing "On Top of Old Smokey" like a dirge. I can learn to read music well enough that I can transcribe it, and amuse all my friends with ironic versions of bluegrass versions of the Clash or Donna Summer.</div>
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Mmmmm. Maybe I should read more. Not just the Harper's Index ("Minimum number of U.S. states whose constitutions forbid atheists from holding public office: 6") and Scandinavian detective novels, but brainy stuff that will arm me with useful tidbits of information at cocktail parties. ("Well, of course you know what Kant would have said about that! Ha, ha...Hey, would you like to hear me play 'Hot Stuff' on the banjo?")</div>
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I could spend the time becoming a bona fide small-town-style fixture. I'd walk into the coffee shop in the mornings and be greeted by name before pretending to look at the menu and saying, "Oh, what the heck, I'll have the regular!" I'll chat with other folks about the weather and how the Walla Walla Sweets are going to do this season now that really good outfielder graduated and all. When the winery tourist folks come into the joint I'll tip my hat [note to self: get a hat] as I walk past them and the waitress will say, "Her? Oh, she's a regular. You should see her belly dance."</div>
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An extra 2 and 1/2 to 3 hours a day. That's a lot of time. Maybe I don't actually have to choose.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">*The subject line is a lyric. Sound familiar? Yeah, it's from "No Time This Time" by the incomparable band The Police. I should spend some time digging around for that CD....</span></span>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-52489330680333662132012-07-07T08:35:00.002-07:002012-07-07T08:36:23.512-07:00Totally In the Dark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you read the papers--or if you have friends or family in the Greater Washington DC who, like me, tend to revel in complaining about the weather--you'll know by now that at the end of June we got one helluva storm here in Ol' Virginny, followed by a blackout. While losing electricity can be a sort of adventure, a chance to live all "old-timey" and eat by candlelight, the fact that this one came in the midst of a heat wave was....problematic. The fact that it lasted for days was nerve fraying.<br />
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Within 12 hours, civilization here in the Hard Core 'Burbs (such as it is) started to crumble. Housewives in their Lululemon yoga pants all but came to blows at the local Harris Teeter when the ice supplies ran low. Gas station owners raised their prices per gallon by about $0.40 virtually overnight, and they could get away with it because so few had any power and the lines were reminiscent of 1973. Traffic lights were out, and rather than come to a stop local Virginians adopted a "might makes right" attitude with SUVs barreling through intersections at an awe-inspiring death-defying 40 miles per hour. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NUKZloxLUDCGRorUWMxxI4sm84vaWryXeHkDCSWWsPLVc8ZHd8O-yPEY5iI7FaIXsKLq1MFuSIEARQKHy7vVl73PT2yIpkDInqJ8aUaWz52-1T9sVOd_S-QEZm3-xi4j0k4xKvsVlZw/s1600/Molly+on+the+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NUKZloxLUDCGRorUWMxxI4sm84vaWryXeHkDCSWWsPLVc8ZHd8O-yPEY5iI7FaIXsKLq1MFuSIEARQKHy7vVl73PT2yIpkDInqJ8aUaWz52-1T9sVOd_S-QEZm3-xi4j0k4xKvsVlZw/s200/Molly+on+the+porch.jpg" width="110" /></a>We retreated to the basement, hiding from searing heat during the day and sleeping on makeshift beds formed out of sofa cushions at night. The dog was panting and looking at us beseechingly, "Really, you guys can open the dog food cans but you can't do anything about this damn heat?" One night as I lay there suffocating under a wet blanket of humid air I thought about how millions and millions of people all over the planet live like this every day; subject to increasingly violent and unpredictable weather they suffer through without refrigeration, without air conditioning, without coffee makers for the love of god. I silently acknowledged how very lucky I am to live when and where I do.<br />
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But because I am a very good multitasker, in addition to this compassion for others less fortunate I was able to feel a deep and abiding pity for myself. It is this ability to redirect my attention to my own suffering that makes me a true American, I think. I proved that I am not equal to our pioneer forefathers. Hell, I wouldn't have lasted long in about 1950. Also, any plans I may have been entertaining about becoming Amish have gone out the window--the solidly-closed-to-seal-in-the-air-conditioning window. Now, a week later, we once again can contribute to global warming by keeping our own living space cool, we are slowly refilling the refrigerator with expensive foodstuffs, and with the cushions back on the sofa the dog can once again take up all the space while we watch our stories on the Tee Vee. And I am able to boot up the computer and do the monthly report for June. Enjoy!<br />
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<br />ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-5824872347300984382012-06-12T07:32:00.001-07:002012-06-12T07:33:12.228-07:00Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If change is the new normal, I've got normalcy down pat. New job for my spouse? Check. Moving cross country (again)? Check. </div>
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Three years ago we moved into the Hard Core 'Burbs and thought we wouldn't be moving again for a long time. Hell, we even got rid of those ratty cardboard boxes we'd used to go from Los Angeles to Washington State, from Seattle to Virginia, and through three moves here in Virginia. Yes, well, "pride goeth before a fall" as they say. (I guess that one would be "<span lang="fr">fierté vient</span><span lang="fr"> avant une chute," though I'm not sure the French are as concerned with pride as we Americans are.)</span></div>
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<span lang="fr">So now we ponied up some moolah for new boxes, we're sorting through all our stuff, and I am grateful to have mundane everyday type things to keep track of in the midst of all the madness.</span></div>
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<span lang="fr" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Here--somewhat delayed--is the May monthly report. It features coffee, tight hamstrings and bunny rabbits. What could be more normal than that? Or as our friends across the Atlantic would say (right before cooking up said bunny rabbit, no doubt), "</span><span lang="fr"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ce qui pourrait être plus normal?"</span></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/OzKQBpv8Ivo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-803470155842590552012-06-08T16:04:00.001-07:002012-06-08T16:04:18.149-07:00The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUCKvc8sjRNnGy2SlVvJtLC_BLrSy1nBSlwNDznEyEgORB9g6ShmTHof8iP1AvMrGcs1Rqx1ciYXhWBOoTk3ONjgZt_NGd5ebcoxydp5tlEEn6i5VxoPb9_LoWuKMExl79X15sVVFVOc/s1600/Nothing-Lasts-Forever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUCKvc8sjRNnGy2SlVvJtLC_BLrSy1nBSlwNDznEyEgORB9g6ShmTHof8iP1AvMrGcs1Rqx1ciYXhWBOoTk3ONjgZt_NGd5ebcoxydp5tlEEn6i5VxoPb9_LoWuKMExl79X15sVVFVOc/s320/Nothing-Lasts-Forever.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am trying to keep my heart open. I am trying to see the value in the <i>process.</i> I am trying not to have a nervous breakdown at the very thought of having to pack up everything I own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This is an opportunity to unburden myself. This move--is it number 28? 30?--is a gift; a chance to think about the role that my possessions play in my life. This is a time to run my fingers over the binding of a book, recall the joy I felt submerging myself in that world, to feel again the way my heart pounded when the heroine was in danger; and then to let it go into the bag for donations. A moment in which to hold each bowl, each running medal, each crazy little Virgin de Guadalupe tchotchke (and how is that for a multi-cultural reference?) and really see it, sometimes for the first time in ages. If they are covered with dust, unused and unloved, then they should go in the hopes that they can bring beauty or joy to someone else. This move represents a time to release the anxious grasp on material things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh, who am I kidding? This move is a pain, and I'm half inclined to burn the joint to the ground. </span><b></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-5446592800003335872012-05-26T13:43:00.005-07:002012-05-26T13:53:24.330-07:00Three Wishes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In just seven days, I will join you--five extraordinary, amazing, hilarious and determined little girls--in toeing up at the starting line for your first 5k race. You'll be jittery and excited. You may feel a little unsure whether you'll succeed. You're going to be surrounded by hundreds of other little girls, some of whom will have come from very different--very privileged--neighborhoods. But we'll do our best to focus, and when we hear the word "Go!" we'll dig down deep inside and draw on twelve weeks of practicing. I have every confidence you are all going to make it across the finish line (and that I will be crying). But the fact is, that tape really marks a beginning. Because all of you are poised to start another kind of race, too: the race against uncertainty, against assaults on your confidence, and against all the odds that teen aged girls in one of DC's poorest neighborhoods are going to have to confront. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If I could have just three wishes for you as you get started on that marathon, this is what they would be:</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Stay Strong.</b> When we started our twice-a-week sessions last March, you couldn't even comprehend a 3.1 mile race. We did a few laps around the confines of your school yard and you begged to rest. But week after week, we ran. When our legs hurt, we ran. When our chests heaved, we ran. And at one point, much to your surprise, we did a full three miles just to prove we could. Each and every one of you has had an afternoon when you wanted to just stop moving, but you didn't. We put our hands on our hearts, and we caught our breath, and we kept running (left, right, left, right) and somehow we found the strength to get it done. Remember that feeling. When people are cruel, when the work becomes hard, and when all you want to do is lie down and quit, you remember just how strong you are. Feel your heart beating, take a deep breath, find your strength and keep on moving. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Stay Beautiful.</b> We are short, and we are tall. We have braids, and we do not. Our skin is every hue. Frequently, our socks don't match. When we run, we grin and we laugh. We jump and we skip. We nourish ourselves with healthy food (well, mostly, though we do have a penchant for Jolly Rancher candies). We feel the power in our legs. We pump our arms up and down. We feel the energy emanating off of us. We are happy in our bodies. Hold onto that joy. Keep that pride in the connection between your body and your mind. If the world tells you that you are too dark/heavy/short/tall or that you should be blonder/skinnier/curvier to be "pretty," you remember all the incredible and beautiful things that your body can do, then use your powerful legs to move away from that narrow thinking. You are luminous. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Stay Together.</b> There are so many things our society somehow neglected to provide for you: plentiful and warm clothing, access to fresh food, ample housing for you and your siblings, safe streets. Right under the noses of our national leaders, you are starting your race having to hurtle over joblessness, little access to health care, </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">low graduation rates and high rates of substance abuse. And you know what, it is absolutely not fair and we have failed you. But you do have parents who love you, and siblings to help you. Your teachers are there for you, as are your coaches. Most importantly, you have each other. During our season you argued, and sometimes you disappointed each other; but you also talked it out, supported each other, and hugged each other in the end. You are each others' secret weapon, and together you are unstoppable. </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm not going to lie to you, being a teen aged girl can be really hard. Really hard. But you've already shown that you can do "the impossible." You've proven to yourself and the rest of the world that you are tough, and smart, and determined. You are a Girl on the Run getting ready for the starter's gun to go off, and there is no stopping you. And you can be sure that I am always cheering you on. You can do this. On your marks, get set.....GO!</span>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-27583694600488256412012-05-16T14:55:00.000-07:002012-05-16T14:58:30.924-07:00Learning New Tricks from an Old Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Out of necessity we developed a puppy peeing protocol pretty
quickly. As soon as the alarm went off, one
person was positioned next to the dog’s crate in the bedroom, gently assuring
her she was going to be able to go outside in just a moment. The other was at the ready at the front door;
hand on the door-knob ready to throw it open.
After shouting confirmations across the apartment, both doors were
released and both humans cried, “Go! Go! Go!”
Molly—little more than an orange blur through the bedroom, then the
hallway, and finally the living room—would typically make it until she reached the
front doorstep, at which point she would abandon her self-control. A pitcher of water was ceremoniously dumped
on the porch, and we would pat ourselves on the back for coming one step closer
to house-breaking our beloved dog.</div>
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The walk itself was an exercise in physical and mental
fortitude. Her powerful chest strained
against her harness as she lunged down the sidewalk, while her human companion flexed
legs, back and shoulders to keep her in check.
Peripheral vision was critical in order to spot squirrels in advance of
the puppy noticing them; one had only nanoseconds to prepare or run the risk of
a dislocated shoulder or skinned knee.</div>
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As a puppy, Molly taught us patience, unconditional love,
and the value of owning a steam cleaner.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5vryq6YBgG0C6QxwXmbFLWQhGq3yH03Cp91WlgxIQNqBnP0vCpDKBs6SkGUvZ_pCRZS4uvwMi_cU_J1RlqMUgPnk4aFLz4xohMjM2QJTgqqsOiwZ9nK0aXErgNLZyLE8iWBkrABlUv4/s1600/2301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5vryq6YBgG0C6QxwXmbFLWQhGq3yH03Cp91WlgxIQNqBnP0vCpDKBs6SkGUvZ_pCRZS4uvwMi_cU_J1RlqMUgPnk4aFLz4xohMjM2QJTgqqsOiwZ9nK0aXErgNLZyLE8iWBkrABlUv4/s320/2301.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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These days she groggily meanders from her bed (memory foam,
covered with synthetic sheepskin and her name embroidered on it, naturally)
into the living room, usually around the time that both her humans are well
into their first cup of coffee. She nods
to us, allows us to scratch her ears, and then settles onto the couch to drift
back to sleep. Some time later we gently
wake her, and suggest that if she’s amenable perhaps she would enjoy a walk?
Whereas she once forged ahead, dragging her human behind like some sort of
flailing animated anchor, she’s now often bringing up the rear. If she used to require at least a quarter of
a mile between her and her house to even consider taking her poop, she’s now
frequently happy to go no further than the front yard. And yet, all these years
later she continues to teach me valuable life lessons.</div>
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When you’re moving slowly you have the chance to really pay
attention to your surroundings. On our strolls I have learned the call and
response of our local birds and can follow the progress of hawk hatchlings by
the change in their cries. I know precisely when the frogs start singing, and on occasion catch a glimpse of deer leaping through the underbrush. I now recognize subtle differences in the
sound of my own footsteps; there is a distinction between the way that twigs crackle
underfoot on the dirt path, the murmur of shoes on fine cinder paths, and the
robust crunch of walking on gravel. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMq7J2CVFdJlLbQdWBlZNZC3fhIyOYj4z4xjXotJLioWMwI9WDTfPzjzKpIFQQR01A4Cgym5GZWqeHZYHfzjVvsAt5pnkMJ8wGpeOlr1E1-Kg5H8RUuWNDz2tsAYEYVYmcSe0s0nhfJE/s1600/282+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMq7J2CVFdJlLbQdWBlZNZC3fhIyOYj4z4xjXotJLioWMwI9WDTfPzjzKpIFQQR01A4Cgym5GZWqeHZYHfzjVvsAt5pnkMJ8wGpeOlr1E1-Kg5H8RUuWNDz2tsAYEYVYmcSe0s0nhfJE/s320/282+%282%29.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I
watch fiddlehead ferns unfurl and tiny yellow flowers bloom on the forest
floor. I examine home renovations in the neighborhood and
assess their aesthetic value like some sort of architectural peeping tom.</div>
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<br />
I’ve also learned interpersonal skills. Molly has shown me that if you are feeling
tired or overwhelmed, slowing down and visiting with people is both a chance to
rest and to broaden your social circle. Taking
the same route each day is not a reflection of being stuck in a rut, but an
opportunity to see familiar faces and to check in with acquaintances. And if you approach a person eagerly with a
broad smile, they will more than likely stop to talk to you and possibly even
share a biscuit from their pocket. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And sometimes leaving home isn’t even the cure for whatever
ails you. Sometimes what you really need
is to roll around in the grass and enjoy the sunshine on your belly.</div>
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Thanks, Molly, for giving me the chance for lifelong
learning.</div>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-50829285866343582852012-05-06T10:49:00.000-07:002012-05-06T10:59:24.689-07:00Achooo!!!!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbCKIIaRItfzuhSKTaRB75RNwMgSWHBOpdOGuA7icxFDv3omt4p_4h0kiaPIEtJ9A5Ki2LFqXnHAFgf5zFgDc5Ni6BGQOmLjbneXSMJk5h216Al_kvW4uTEsLSIIRHEwwTb18IjPcHuI/s1600/1060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbCKIIaRItfzuhSKTaRB75RNwMgSWHBOpdOGuA7icxFDv3omt4p_4h0kiaPIEtJ9A5Ki2LFqXnHAFgf5zFgDc5Ni6BGQOmLjbneXSMJk5h216Al_kvW4uTEsLSIIRHEwwTb18IjPcHuI/s200/1060.jpg" width="200" /></a>In going over the stats for this month's Monthly Report, I realized that I was sick pretty much all month long. And do you know who I blame? I blame Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, one of those meddlesome 19th century lady busybodies, and her partner in crime, First Lady Helen Herron Taft. Because of these two, Washington D.C. is virtually crawling with cherry blossom trees and I spent pretty much all of April sneezing my brains out. Way to go, ladies. Couldn't you have just built a goddamn school or started a book club like all the other "civic improvement" types?<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/mLTau3fRAww?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
Anyhoo, here you have it: running the numbers for my April. <span style="background-color: magenta;">WARNING</span>: There is some math involved. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eliza_Ruhamah_Scidmore" title="Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore"></a>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-43234466868363042772012-04-23T06:51:00.001-07:002012-04-23T06:51:13.172-07:00Wanderlust<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCu1E6PcGnTeol0eUDXczHrHFeaCIKw4ybZtrf4GLVXdd_B7Umh0ozkIzpH9e71qyJ0ujQd1HD7C0UMcUFyL91NIwO0Jo-d3oRt9IuvrFnlVuTWCuQ3pJ0lt8OibTzcbzcfFbmhC0K96I/s1600/old+suitcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCu1E6PcGnTeol0eUDXczHrHFeaCIKw4ybZtrf4GLVXdd_B7Umh0ozkIzpH9e71qyJ0ujQd1HD7C0UMcUFyL91NIwO0Jo-d3oRt9IuvrFnlVuTWCuQ3pJ0lt8OibTzcbzcfFbmhC0K96I/s1600/old+suitcase.jpg" /></a></div>
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I find myself suddenly seized by the desire to take a long
trip, the kind that requires a great big suitcase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What few travels I have done recently—oh, over
at least the past two decades, truth be told—have merited at best a small
suitcase, the kind one takes through security and to the jetway in hopes that
there will be enough overhead space to cram it onto the plane and thus avoid
the wait at the baggage carousel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want
to take a trip that unambiguously calls for an enormous suitcase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a trip would include multiple cities, perhaps
even variations in climate, and at least one train ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would need running shoes to lace up for
early morning explorations of strange towns and some strappy sandals for
dinners in out-of-the-way restaurants, where I would try heretofore unknown
dishes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would bring a bathing suit
for lounging poolside or at the beach, but also a sweater for hikes into the
woods. I want to carry a dog-eared tour book in my bag with temples, historic
districts and local markets tagged by post-it notes, and also a book listing
common phrases in a language I do not speak, although I know that ultimately
I’d fall back on hand motions and the kindness of strangers to get me through
stumbling conversations. I want my suitcase to have a lot of little pockets,
into which I would stuff the unfamiliar coins of other currencies and maybe a
shiny pebble or a seashell or two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
the end, even this suitcase will prove insufficient and I will buy another bag
to carry back treasures and gifts, causing a logistical challenge at the
airport on the way home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want pack a
very large suitcase and take a long trip.</div>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-4080592602077981762012-04-15T12:33:00.014-07:002012-04-15T15:47:22.024-07:00From the Mouths of Babes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6h84hPsOBA02r2JYIa4V65yf99SsEvs_5pFW_Q89bt9cYK34Q85gBjziIs1JJCMlKycWqJvFXM8qxc8qEA19_6SHceGrqQBsheMLC2T0xWVB_tl11LR0BmMCY4GsV7kRACUoQN40SO4/s1600/2012-04-10_16-31-57_136+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6h84hPsOBA02r2JYIa4V65yf99SsEvs_5pFW_Q89bt9cYK34Q85gBjziIs1JJCMlKycWqJvFXM8qxc8qEA19_6SHceGrqQBsheMLC2T0xWVB_tl11LR0BmMCY4GsV7kRACUoQN40SO4/s200/2012-04-10_16-31-57_136+-+Copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731713046926566130" border="0" /></a>I don't often have a lot of children in my life (unless you count my husband, ba-dum-DUM). But lately I've been spending what is for me an extraordinary amount of time with the 10-and-under set, and to my surprise I've found the experience quite educational. I expected boundless energy, spontaneous demonstrations of affection, and not a small amount of bodily fluids. None of these presumptions have been proven unfounded yet.<br /><br />But children, I am learning, are also remarkably generous little creatures. When my girls' running team got headbands for every lap completed, and Alliyah ended up with two glittery ones and Shoyanna had none, Alliyah simply handed one of hers over. This required no conversation or cajoling; she just assumed that the bounty should be evenly distributed if everyone is to have a good time. When Paul toddled by a platter filled with cherry tomatoes, he gleefully handed some to anyone within reach not already eating. (Ok, they were covered with drool because he's two and so, ultimately, maybe not super appealing, but it's the thought that counts.) Max used his skills at hockey to raise $1800 to help the homeless, and while I'm not sure how much of the story of struggle, loss, incarceration, and ultimately redemption Max was able to absorb, I suspect that someday he'll remember the parallels in his life and that of Marque and will retain the empathy and compassion that he demonstrated raising money for this charity. Keira reminded me how to count in French and gleefully shared that most precious of possessions: knowledge that can makes one's world seem boundless. Even the littlest one, Sophie, never stinted on the smiles.<br /><br />For weeks I have seen one impulsive expression of altruism after another from these children; small little humans who are of many races, sexes, ages, religions and socio-economic backgrounds. While I'll concede that eleven children do not a scientific sample make, I will nevertheless conclude that those under ten maintain an embrace of concepts like "fairness," and "kindness," and "munificence," even in the absence of their being able to understand those actual words.<br /><br />So what happens? How do we end up with so many selfish, uncaring adults? Are our teenaged years really so terrible that we lose these instincts? Do we lose our moral bearings in the same way that we do that incredible physical flexibility that allows kids to hunker and put their feet in their mouths? (I can't even touch my toes, what the hell happened over the last 34 years?)<br /><br />All of these children are growing up in the shadow of a Congress that seeks to hoard so much of the nation's wealth for so very few people. Worse still, it seeks to punish the least powerful among us, denying children food and withholding from their parents affordable homes or wages high enough to care for them. I think that were these children and I to have a conversation about politics--which quite frankly none of us are inclined to do when there are so many more interesting things to talk about, but if we did--these kids would find these policies baffling, too. If there are dozens of tomatoes, why shouldn't everyone have one? If I know how to do something special, why not use that skill to help others or teach them how to do it too? If an ex-felon can become a mentor with just a little help, why deny him that aid? I suspect that, as is typically the case, these children would have so many questions (so, so many questions...always). I wish I could invite Eric Cantor to running practice so that the girls and I could ask him at least this one: just how many hairbands do you and your friends really need?ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-85365258687125369802012-03-31T15:11:00.011-07:002012-03-31T15:34:38.005-07:00'Fessing Up With the March Monthly Report<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtti7ffG7DD2jtugg4xmgVBywCP5LZ4ywrsxKfEBfk_UqerOCBJAhPRwiN6_e4qfuZr-cZUFcVCUkyOPGR1tsibNicUiiO7cRDBK2KV2xO2uOb1Ic3PA4tQY2dILm1UWrYh13C6w3iD3Y/s1600/007.bmp"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 187px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtti7ffG7DD2jtugg4xmgVBywCP5LZ4ywrsxKfEBfk_UqerOCBJAhPRwiN6_e4qfuZr-cZUFcVCUkyOPGR1tsibNicUiiO7cRDBK2KV2xO2uOb1Ic3PA4tQY2dILm1UWrYh13C6w3iD3Y/s200/007.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726190988045991986" border="0" /></a>So here's the interesting thing about <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8_kn2aqKAM&feature=youtu.be">carrying around a little notebook and keeping track of all your doings every day (video link)</a>: this practice makes time slow down a bit. When I was a little kid and summers were, like, <span style="font-style: italic;">endless</span> grown-ups would always say, "Just wait until you're a grown-up, time just flies by before you know it." Now, frankly, this statement always struck me as annoying because (a) I was obviously <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> going to be as old as they were, and (b) I didn't care about time in some vaguely defined future, I cared that I was super bored <span style="font-weight: bold;">now</span>.<br /><br />Well flash forward, check your calendar, and note that we are now squarely in the midst of the vaguely defined future. And time is totally flying by. I finished grad school TWELVE years ago. I moved to Virginia (for the second time) six years ago. It's been more than a month since my last pedicure (appointment tomorrow then wine with my gal pal M., whew!). But having to sit down every day--if only for a few seconds--and review how many sodas I consumed, or record how many push-ups I managed to do before my arms collapsed, does serve to make me note time passing. And it is passing. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8_kn2aqKAM&feature=youtu.be"> That's right people, it's already April</a>.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8_kn2aqKAM&feature=youtu.be">Here's the perfectly prosaic monthly report</a>. Bless me Interwebs, for I have sinned. I didn't do even close to enough banjo practice this month.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-71180071481767556492012-03-06T15:39:00.005-08:002012-03-07T08:49:00.633-08:00An Ode to my Trusty Steed<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKAxmYI_dHqnPCkKNmQsrhtxn_AHTq6t0soaEkLZBafPDBIxBkMXnPbdTkZBxNBmNV28fQDqHWhqPLODDlSeUe7nToqXI0JZ4cjk6JZIxk7OJJfAlXyCR15u1J2YEzyUei2XhNJ6vHl8/s1600/2011-07-09_14-25-44_32.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 200px; height: 131px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716933002228199618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKAxmYI_dHqnPCkKNmQsrhtxn_AHTq6t0soaEkLZBafPDBIxBkMXnPbdTkZBxNBmNV28fQDqHWhqPLODDlSeUe7nToqXI0JZ4cjk6JZIxk7OJJfAlXyCR15u1J2YEzyUei2XhNJ6vHl8/s200/2011-07-09_14-25-44_32.jpg" /></a><br />You deserved a better end than this. Six years ago I brought you home. I won't say "I bought you," because it was less impersonal than that. You'd called to me at the bike shop; sleek and dark grey with slightly bulbous lines to your frame, tucked in among brawny mountain bikes and trembling carbon-framed racing bikes. You weren't super fancy; you were a working bike, a steady bike, a commuter bike. We were kindred spirits.<br /><br />You sped me along the river when I was first learning my way around DC. Together we braved the congestion of the Mount Vernon path, harsh headwinds and even the occasional blast of hot air coming off a jet warming up on the tarmac at National airport. Later, we rode together in the car 35 miles each morning from our little house in the countryside to the Metro parking lot. Then you and I took off on the path for the last 15 miles into work, most often in the dark. And over these last couple of years, you were my stalwart partner in moving from the Hard Core Suburbs to the District. You were the Sancho to my Quixote, the Tonto to my Lone Ranger, the jelly to my peanut butter.<br /><br />I had other plans for you. I was going to keep riding you for at least another year, and then give you to one of the guys at the homeless shelter so that you could take him to work, or I would donate you to Bikes for the World so that somewhere in Africa or South America you would change the life of a child who could get to school or an adult who could get to the market. It was going to be a meaningful and dignified next phase for a steady friend, and you were going to continue to be loved and appreciated.<br /><br />I spent all day today eying bike racks throughout DC. Where are you? Are you still in one piece? Are you being treated okay? I know your brakes were temperamental; is somebody easing into them to keep you from squealing in protest? Your little brass bell was just the right tone, is somebody ringing it jauntily? Is there enough air in your tires? Those friggin' rims of yours are really a pain--I can't count how many tire levers I busted trying to change tubes--but those nice tires rarely puncture.<br /><br />I am trying to tell myself that the person who stole you from me is a person in pain. He's probably in the throes of some thing or another that has in turn stolen his will and his pride from him. I am trying to tell myself that he'll try to sell you, and that maybe somebody will see your bright pink seat and give him a few bills to bring you home to his daughter or his wife. Maybe you will bring a sense of liberation and possibility to another girl someplace, a girl who can't just go online or to a store and buy a new bike like I can.<br /><br />Maybe starting tomorrow you will soar through the streets of DC again. I hope so. I miss you.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-45375506671294059212012-03-03T03:59:00.006-08:002012-03-03T04:38:03.232-08:00Running the Numbers (with a movie!)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx4Vi99PBajPa1B9d1WQRh0ARQWL5UEZYHjiGLswTN9BBOyO4MA5HDs4YiQIDUeNQStLsVNhTsrHjz1dLufu1rCxDSUTtgFkuI1Ek_NE12Wn_u5EcXX2Ah_3QK8SXyp3HttOLNEKav8g/s1600/diary_open_520.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx4Vi99PBajPa1B9d1WQRh0ARQWL5UEZYHjiGLswTN9BBOyO4MA5HDs4YiQIDUeNQStLsVNhTsrHjz1dLufu1rCxDSUTtgFkuI1Ek_NE12Wn_u5EcXX2Ah_3QK8SXyp3HttOLNEKav8g/s320/diary_open_520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715644408366902354" border="0" /></a>I've never really been able to keep a diary. Even as a kid, I found writing about my day after the fact unbearably boring. Yet, <span style="font-style: italic;">during</span> the day it feels like a lot of stuff is happening. And at the end of the day, I can't quite get my head around what exactly it was I did.<br /><br />For over a decade now, much of my time has been spent with data. Spreadsheets, reports, powerpoints, testimonies; you name it and I've done the research and produced the materials. And so, I thought why not keep some data. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZirsJBTaX4&list=UUNhtlm623ZDub9ZHdg2BK4w&index=1&feature=plcp">This is my first monthly report, in movie form</a>. It sums up my month in 10 slides and less than 1 minute. It also represents the first time I have ever had to calculate how much toothpaste I use (about 1 inch per toothbrushing) or who is impeding Metro escalator flow. I'm going to produce one every month, though not tracking the same stuff. While I know this makes me a bad statistician, would <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> really want to count how many times you brush your teeth every single month? Yeah, I thought not.<br /><br />So here it is, set to jaunty music: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZirsJBTaX4&feature=youtu.be"> Anastasia's Perfectly Prosaic Monthly Report</a>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-24992702960705800682012-02-23T16:06:00.010-08:002012-02-23T16:34:59.586-08:00Road Rules<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaSd71HeEL3G8Qavk2k3ORhWVJG1NdHFhiyeQJZgG3GcBTrK-_XZAZolZS5juuckWb5USYQOEsQ1A2Wb_61XpmE5rwKMrNJukxV11s3TI4lT4GJS1I0WSNzNkFiQHKZhaGRJLEkFlmRU/s1600/2012-02-23_17-50-15_799.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaSd71HeEL3G8Qavk2k3ORhWVJG1NdHFhiyeQJZgG3GcBTrK-_XZAZolZS5juuckWb5USYQOEsQ1A2Wb_61XpmE5rwKMrNJukxV11s3TI4lT4GJS1I0WSNzNkFiQHKZhaGRJLEkFlmRU/s200/2012-02-23_17-50-15_799.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712488209505918930" border="0" /></a>When you spend a fair amount of time on the bike path, you can't help but make a few observations:<br /><br />1. Don't let anybody tell you different, Northern Virginia is a hilly place. Plus, you'll discover that against all rules of nature, there is always a headwind.<br /><br />2. You are statistically most likely to get hit by a taxi driver, swooping across three lanes of traffic (without using a signal, natch) to nab a fare from another cabbie. Ironically, the fare is most likely a tourist who doesn't realize he's already only three blocks from the White House.<br /><br />3. It doesn't matter that you are wearing a bright yellow jacket. It doesn't matter that you're nearly 6 feet tall when you're sitting on your bike. It doesn't matter that you have more randomly flashing lights going than a Donna Summer revival concert. Somehow those suburbanites driving their SUVs still manage not to see you.<br /><br />4. 83% of people under 25 don't actually appear to know their left from their right, so calling out "on your left" is really just wasting everyone's time and your breath.<br /><br />5. The salesman who sold the hip young man his shiny new Jamis commuter bike ($950), Brooks saddle ($150), and matching Brooks panier bags ($500) did not give him the free advice that a very busy bike path at 5:20 p.m. may not be the best choice for slowly and repeatedly trying to learn how to use those snazzy new toe clips on your pedals ($50).<br /><br />6. No matter how beautiful you think the sunset is from inside your car, it's nothing compared to how incredible it looks from on a bike.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-16194335712401537272012-02-16T14:35:00.000-08:002012-02-16T15:34:08.119-08:00A Paean to Waxed Wrapping Paper<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEFav8UOyYToh6N6a7QfkbCIxqDTTAS0zBAkJcM5WQFz46M6mRGcexsjOaIqrDmI0z4A4OHxDZDMFfyV7kR7sG7saSu-OLewiey7gn58kkhjXUV_zFLdqKE0Bqd6pWFfEbUbnu7axjeM/s1600/2012-01-28_15-52-55_260.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEFav8UOyYToh6N6a7QfkbCIxqDTTAS0zBAkJcM5WQFz46M6mRGcexsjOaIqrDmI0z4A4OHxDZDMFfyV7kR7sG7saSu-OLewiey7gn58kkhjXUV_zFLdqKE0Bqd6pWFfEbUbnu7axjeM/s320/2012-01-28_15-52-55_260.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709866120770975250" border="0" /></a>Okay, yes, butter is itself one of my favorite things, but right now I'm actually celebrating the wax paper that's wrapped around it. In a world of life-threatening plastic clamshells and squealing Styrofoam containers, I find the simplicity of the butter wrapper comforting. I love the bold red lettering; a confident sans serif font telling you what is inside without any spin or focus-grouped branding. And how can one sufficiently praise the handy teaspoon measuring scale on the back, as if they <span style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> you lost your measuring spoons, like, four moves ago. Butter has been packaged thusly since the early 1900s, because, as the leading historian of butter packaging has so insightfully noted, "fine butter does desire a dignified package in keeping with its high level of food value." (Don't believe me? <a href="http://drinc.ucdavis.edu/research/butter.pdf">Go ahead and check</a>, I'll wait and just sit here noshing this lovely buttery toast.)ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-26693128711024799002012-01-21T07:43:00.001-08:002012-01-21T07:45:16.347-08:00True Grit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVZEAGqbe7mrDTRMxS-ZZCoVnYrGl81rOcfTMNdV7kFec5sV5S3zR80KHm1L05AyyHAWH-fZfrEGGSpIHsptAFJEexIgMY8ld0GRU2XGN4fkn8e1gTW5FOO-tSua3Rju8CePYX2e79Ow/s1600/804.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVZEAGqbe7mrDTRMxS-ZZCoVnYrGl81rOcfTMNdV7kFec5sV5S3zR80KHm1L05AyyHAWH-fZfrEGGSpIHsptAFJEexIgMY8ld0GRU2XGN4fkn8e1gTW5FOO-tSua3Rju8CePYX2e79Ow/s320/804.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700111575091022866" border="0" /></a><!--[if gte mso 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">The room itself was not glamorous, a well-used podium set up in front of dozens of mismatched chairs with florescent lights overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But the view was appropriate for the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From the 11<sup>th</sup> floor much of DC was laid out below us; expansive and seemingly limitless.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We were gathered to honor 41 accomplished men and women.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They are restaurant workers and landscapers; they wield tools at construction sites and haul boxes in stockrooms.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They care for their children and comfort their aging parents.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They pay rent and bills, and they put aside savings to fulfill their plans for a larger apartment or to start a business of their own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And they continue to confront the legacies of substance abuse, incarceration and homelessness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They are the first alumni of the Washington DC chapter of Back of My Feet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Together they ran more than 8500 miles, though in the stories that volunteers and friends told about them it’s clear that these are men and women who were running toward something.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The words we heard most often were “proud,” “friend,” “supportive,” and “inspiration.” We celebrated “leadership,” “focus,” “determination,” and “strength.” We heard about men who once couldn’t run a single mile digging deep and finishing a half marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We heard about women who came out three times a week—every week, in the snowy winters and the sweltering summers—to join with others in logging their miles. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We shared stories of challenges overcome, of laughter, of love and of the occasional song belted out in the streets of DC. Honorees stood shyly as we read messages of congratulations and pride from their teammates, sometimes looking as if they couldn’t quite believe the effect they had on so many others.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And afterward we clustered together like you always do at a family gathering.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nibbling on cookies, catching up on the daily goings-on with those we haven’t seen in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We joked about pounds gained when work starts to encroach on training time, and compared notes about races we plan to run this year.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We cheered recent promotions and admired sharply pressed suits and well-shined shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the crowd slowly broke up, with some moving toward buses home and others cadging rides, one thing became clear:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>against tough odds and the expectations of many, but with the support and love of their Back on My Feet family, these alumni had made it. </p>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-31371135311713873812012-01-06T15:35:00.000-08:002012-01-06T15:43:22.681-08:00Lessons Learned<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpRUat7-k44otktSxdsS2bWLydYlADTn-W7Erhktj2ivSaLdmy9I52FT4YC42KOceL542Sn2nkLD4P97bw7v9Bv0HFVyBvuXP5oaQiOPpLupU_FFxB1rrEZXZIX4Bw4Yjm26kiMrpCgM/s1600/2012-01-06_18-24-11_182.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpRUat7-k44otktSxdsS2bWLydYlADTn-W7Erhktj2ivSaLdmy9I52FT4YC42KOceL542Sn2nkLD4P97bw7v9Bv0HFVyBvuXP5oaQiOPpLupU_FFxB1rrEZXZIX4Bw4Yjm26kiMrpCgM/s200/2012-01-06_18-24-11_182.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694667186337354818" border="0" /></a>One week into the New Year, and here is what we've learned thus far:<br /><ul><li>You are no more likely to exercise at the end of the day in 2012 than you were in 2011. Having a drink and watching TV is simply always going to sound better at that point.<br /></li><li>Tourists did not learn Metro etiquette--or their own left from their right--over the holidays.</li><li>The Republican primaries have been funnier than you thought they would be.</li><li>Cheese, olives, crackers and wine remains the all time best dinner. Hands down.</li></ul><p>On to Week Two!<br /></p>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-76207176189386745942011-12-30T14:50:00.000-08:002011-12-31T10:36:20.292-08:00Blemishes are Beautiful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tpxa83AkxwGjYtrrXMbkmKXuoPeiNtuszHxobH_CEQQfapeBpWYVjm9ic305SlbXSxO2ujE-HQrtZsEOI-gGiEhvus7LLI4VMaSlvMWwUe2cLGhYuAwzefaz_LAz7PbmwS1mPTaywgU/s1600/blemishes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tpxa83AkxwGjYtrrXMbkmKXuoPeiNtuszHxobH_CEQQfapeBpWYVjm9ic305SlbXSxO2ujE-HQrtZsEOI-gGiEhvus7LLI4VMaSlvMWwUe2cLGhYuAwzefaz_LAz7PbmwS1mPTaywgU/s200/blemishes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692351349914529970" border="0" /></a><br />This New Year's Eve, I am resolving to embrace being an under-achiever. For so long it wasn't enough to run, I had to run fast and far. I couldn't simply play the banjo, I had to master it. If I didn't bike to work every day, I was a slacker. And as a result, things that should be fun became work. Actually, I often had more fun at work than when I was working at having fun. (Go ahead, read that last sentence again, it's convoluted.)<br /><br />But this year, I am going to give myself permission to shoot a bit lower. I'm going to recognize that imperfect is, actually, plenty good enough. I'm going to accept the honor of the "Gentle(wo)man's C." I know what you're thinking: who wants to emulate George Bush? But other notable underachievers include Eero Saarinen (another C student at Yale), Steven Spielberg (rejected by film schools three times), Marilyn Monroe (dropped by her first studio) and Beethoven (his music teacher said he was "hopeless"). Lucille Ball's mother once got a note from her daughter's acting teacher saying that she was so bad that the tuition was a waste of money.<br /><br />So I'm not a very good cook, but I can try to learn a few new (and forgiving) dishes. True, I have no sense of musical meter, but that just means my waltzes are jaunty and my ditties are...um...emotionally complex. A slow three mile run has me outside the woods for just as long as a blazing six mile one, with the bonus of not feeling like throwing up at the end. Maybe it requires the occasional day squished onto a mildewy Metro car to truly appreciate the freedom of biking in on other days. Dog hair tumbleweeds in the hallway can signify more than just the need to vacuum; they demonstrate that this is a household filled with unconditional love.<br /><br />So here's to going part way. Cheers to taking a break. Huzzah for long languorous afternoons of not getting anything accomplished at all. It's time to celebrate enjoying something without mastering it, giving permission to put it down when it's not fun, and realizing that sometimes the smart thing to do is just have a chocolate (or two) instead. As that talentless redhead once said, "It's a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy." Happy New Year, Lucille.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-15818370806576453002011-10-27T15:49:00.000-07:002011-10-27T16:30:46.611-07:00A Farewell Message to my Cat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbKYXF-QdMa53_wspEGjc0lqGV4sBwUQG9jR7juf4Qcko2QlmO69a5vlHDayrLtI1e6l0p5gaYXlVzjia_70NufIuuSZphwfkzF_F2frx1JLBKwPfNdE3j60HSI2DY_7a87Lede_g94E/s1600/1249.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbKYXF-QdMa53_wspEGjc0lqGV4sBwUQG9jR7juf4Qcko2QlmO69a5vlHDayrLtI1e6l0p5gaYXlVzjia_70NufIuuSZphwfkzF_F2frx1JLBKwPfNdE3j60HSI2DY_7a87Lede_g94E/s200/1249.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668316462926233442" border="0" /></a>Dear Isabella Boo-Manchu,<br /><br />I'm not sure why I'm writing you a letter, you being a cat and thus too haughty to learn to read, but I feel obligated to attempt to explain what is happening here. Tomorrow morning we will go to the vet's office, and you will fall asleep there and not come home again. I know you'll be scared--you've never quite trusted the vet--but I'll be there with you, even holding you in my arms if you'll let me.<br /><br />I suspect it's hard to believe, but I really am trying to spare you from all these problems you've been suffering over these past few years; these problems that make you hungry all the time but unable to absorb any satisfaction from your food. Having been feral in the beginning, you've never quite trusted me, either. And don't think that I don't recognize that a letter about putting you to sleep isn't really the best forum to make my case. But hear me out.<br /><br />Remember how you and your brother, Murray, showed up on my doorstep back in 1995 in Long Beach, California, hiding from the giant opossums that gorged off the garbage in the alleyway? You two were so tiny, and while he was ready to blindly trust any one who came by, you were the wary one, making sure it was safe for the two of you before you'd come into my apartment. Even once you were inside, warm and safe (November is chilly, even in Southern California) it took months before you'd let me pet you. But I kept you out of danger, and you have to admit that you liked being able to curl up and nap on the furniture.<br /><br />And once we'd moved to Los Angeles (you know, that apartment where you liked to knock all my ironic tsotchke crosses and Madonnas off the shelves every night?), do you remember how you got out one night and I slept on the floor next to the screen door to let you back in when you realized your folly at 3 a.m.? And who hung out with you and brought food to you when you wouldn't come out for three weeks once we got the dog? Yeah, me. And in Seattle when I spaced out and left the door open when we went away for the weekend, that was kind of a cool adventure for you, wasn't it?<br /><br />Now, I'll concede that once we moved to rural Virginia I could have handled your hunting habits better. But you have to admit that having a living but shocked chipmunk dropped on one's foot would cause just about anybody to scream. And seriously, after you figured out that the bell on your neck was scaring off the birds, how many deaf--thus dead--moles did I bury without comment?<br /><br />But these past couple of years have been tough. Here--in your 3rd state, 7th city and 9th address by my count--things have not gone so well. While you've become a bona fide lap kitty--and that only took 14 years--you've also been effectively starving to death regardless of how many pills we've given you. And slowly but surely we've had to close off ever greater parts of the house from you, lest you cause havoc. Your life is becoming increasingly circumscribed, and it isn't going to get any better.<br /><br />So tomorrow morning I am going to do the hardest thing we humans have to do for the animals who have given us so much. I am going to let you go. And I am going to miss you. I hope kitty heaven is cluttered with cans of tuna, and that there you don't need thumbs to get them open.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-79753814198265876882011-07-23T10:10:00.001-07:002011-07-23T10:34:36.268-07:00An Ambivalent Paean to Northern Virginia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlwbTqKD7pKk-8OHdabwfTbRHU6HYgJUcRvQG6YBQlEI52NKriBKMfHM8jNLm72UjAnCRhN1589taIRuyZCZiBIPgVPPkQRyieA3awcW9qxYYDdUOHGaQV0AVt0DvgwcL-2mWeWYU2V8/s1600/964.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlwbTqKD7pKk-8OHdabwfTbRHU6HYgJUcRvQG6YBQlEI52NKriBKMfHM8jNLm72UjAnCRhN1589taIRuyZCZiBIPgVPPkQRyieA3awcW9qxYYDdUOHGaQV0AVt0DvgwcL-2mWeWYU2V8/s200/964.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632597163688765010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(Note: I wouldn't ask you to read this much without giving you some TV to watch too. 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semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Subtle Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="32" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Intense Reference"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="33" semihidden="false" unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Is it possible to pen an equivocal ode, to be confident giving only a qualified endorsement? After five years in Northern Virginia, I fear ambivalence may remain the best I can do, but I will say that the heart grows fonder of a place when the eyes can take it in at a human pace.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">15 miles per hour is a speed at which you can take in the world; a pace at which your cerebral cortex can start to make some sense of the place where you are.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Biking (and before that, running) through my world makes this sprawling strip-mall centered landscape at least a little more comprehensible.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At a human pace, you get to know the regulars and you take notice of the little signs and signals of how this place came to be like it is.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At 15 miles per hour, you’re sticking around long enough to become part of the story.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like all of Northern Virginia, all this was once the enormous landholding of just one man, given by a King who had never laid eyes upon it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Later—and around here, by “later” we mean the 17<sup>th</sup> century—Col. William Fitzhugh purchased a cozy 24,000 acres of the land, christened it “Ravensworth,” and turned it into one of the largest tobacco plantations in the region.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not that he actually lived here, of course, even then, this place was not particularly centrally located. Instead slaves worked land that even Huguenot refugees found “primitive” and wouldn’t settle on.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When the old colonel died, he divided the land between sons (always a recipe for happy family relations) and part of it eventually came into the hands of Mary Randolph Custis Lee, wife of everyone’s favorite traitor, Robert E. Lee.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Happily, we live in the other half--despite being born in the South, I have a tough time reconciling myself to its history. (As an aside, the first house we saw as prospective homebuyers was located in a development called “Mosby Woods” after a famous Confederate raider.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> T</span>he house itself was located on “Sherman” street, but can you imagine giving directions to friends like, “Turn onto Plantation Parkway, then go left onto Confederate Lane.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you hit Reb Drive, you’ve gone too far.”)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead we bought a little brick ranch house in the admirably—if somewhat pompously—named “Broyhill Crest.” As is the case in so many mid-century eponymous developments, one can guess the names of the developer’s wife and children relatively easily:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Donna Circle, Brenda Lane, Wayne Drive and Marvin Street remain as monuments to the Broyhill clan.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Happily, Broyhill <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">pere</i> saw the value of the mature trees on his new land and determined to preserve many of them, including our very own 200 acre woods running along either side of the creek at the bottom of the hill. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I bike through the woods every morning, seeing as how it’s the quickest way to get from one cul-de-sac-filled subdivision to another.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(Another aside:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Cul de sac” means “bottom of the bag” in French, which sort of seems appropriate, doesn’t it?) I call out “Good Morning!” to the little old couple from over on Terrace Street.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She waves and sings “Good morning!” back at me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He’s quieter, though we once had a <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> long conversation about the new recycling bins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I nod at the brood of older Korean women on their morning walk, and they barely break stride or their enthusiastic conversation as they nod back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The neighborhood is filled with the older cars and trucks of the working middle-class, if such a thing can still be said to exist.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A construction worker, an electrician (a proud member of the IBEW, according to his license plate), a postman and a landscaper number among our neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Around here, 5 a.m. is a miniature rush hour as they <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>stumble out their identical doors to go to work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There are probably few “Brendas” or “Donnas” here anymore; our neighbors’ names include Nguyen, Yapur, Fernandez, Kcaho, Santos, Aguirre, Tan and the occasional Smith.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We still get mail for the guy here before us, Viengxay Prasonexay, whose name is like music if you say it out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once out of the neighborhood and on the bike trails, you get to know the regulars.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Bicyclists are a quirky species, and as such individuals start to stand out even on the crowded multi-use trails we use to commute to and from work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There’s the tall skinny guy on the racing bike whose long articulated arms and legs make him look like nothing so much as a Daddy Longlegs balanced on a little bike. One young man keeps his pace slow, so as to stay within sight of his two children each pedaling behind laden with a heavy backpack.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I find myself wondering what all the parents who drive their children to day care think of this father who shares fresh air and exercise with his children each morning. There's the older man on an ancient Schwinn who sports green sweatbands on his wrists, athletic socks pulled up to his knees and his helmet at a jaunty angle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He is not to be confused with the other senior citizen who rides his recumbent bicycle at an impressive pace, falling behind only on the very steep hills.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s not just the bikers you get to know. Other people and creatures also serve as landmarks when you’re moving at a slow enough pace to notice them: a woman, well into middle age, jogging in a scanty outfit and thrusting forward breasts at least twenty-five years younger than she is; a young woman running in a hijab, even in the sticky Washington, DC, heat; a heron is fishing in the bright green algae-covered pond and a family of bunnies munching companionably on grass just after the turn onto the path in Falls Church.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There are the kamikaze squirrels and bunnies that dash in front of the bike, runners with headphones who can’t—or won’t—hear the chimes of the bikers’ warning bells, and walkers texting and walking in a pattern that puts you in mind of a soldier evading a highly skilled sniper.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">You get to know the monotonous squeal of the overworked air conditioner above the “Touch of Class” salon and “Joseph’s Coat” resale shop, and you quickly learn to respect the spots where the tree roots aggressively reassert their primacy through the blacktop to bone-jarring effect.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In Georgetown’s streets an unwary bicyclist might hit broken glass or puddles of vomit waiting to be cleaned up by staff so that the streets will be clean again when the madras-clad sons and daughters of privilege emerge furry-tongued and bleary-eyed to start their carousing again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">At stop lights, the bikers take the opportunity to chat: comparing the merits of different pannier bags and lights, commenting on the traffic, or pondering the mystery of why there is always an inexplicably long line outside of Georgetown Cupcakes. (Tourists:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>the cupcakes cost over five dollars and they aren’t really all that good, the lesson being that you don’t have to be a particularly good bakery to have a television show.)</p><p class="MsoNormal">If one of our tribe is pulled off to the side, we all call out “Are you okay?” before we zip past.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When I had my second flat tire in as many weeks in the final 50 feet of a steep ascent, another biker was all too happy to stop to catch his breath and help me wrestle the tire off the rims. Afterwards, noting that he wasn’t as fast as I was, he promised he’d keep an eye out on the trail ahead in case I ran into trouble again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When I spelled a guy tired from using a hand pump to re-inflate his tire, we spent the time joking that what we really needed was a bike delivery guy with some cold beer. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There’s no written rule that you have to play it forward like this; it’s just how you do for those others who are taking on a world of six-lane roads, right turns on red and other automotive hazards while balanced on two wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Do I consider myself a Virginian yet?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Will I ever?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m not sure.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But somehow, without quite noticing how or when it happened, I became a part of the landscape of Northern Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And maybe that’s good enough.</p>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-29170418112056838992011-07-18T11:57:00.000-07:002011-07-18T12:11:43.324-07:00Lessons from (nearly) a month off running:<div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBG6cJ0vvaqWL96IEUJoFQoCxj6KxtLg5eONwBA-GO4trj8rxjYNTq3YGPXE2t-5R-sH-p7CfPrHgiXuO-eBFnZJE5bSBIoR1w-K74gZoEas1gqeKBXDqEBtHnvmlUkadlCcNo7ZOAP0/s1600/cake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 192px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630770655513172786" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBG6cJ0vvaqWL96IEUJoFQoCxj6KxtLg5eONwBA-GO4trj8rxjYNTq3YGPXE2t-5R-sH-p7CfPrHgiXuO-eBFnZJE5bSBIoR1w-K74gZoEas1gqeKBXDqEBtHnvmlUkadlCcNo7ZOAP0/s320/cake.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><ol><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">Sleeping in past 5 a.m.--because frankly you don't really care how early it's getting hot--is sort of nice.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">Unfortunately, the cat that you have inadvertently trained to howl for breakfast before dawn does not understand the word "hiatus." (Or, apparently, "Shut UP," or "Don't scratch me," or "I'm going to kill you once I catch you.")</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">Riding a bike significantly expands your range and you learn entirely new neighborhoods. You also learn that at least in Northern Virginia they look exactly like the old neighborhoods and you get lost. A lot.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">Swimming works those two bendy appendages that attach your hands to your body that you completely ignored during all those years of running. And they hurt.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">You can live like a Queen when you are no longer shelling out moolah for running shoes, GU and race entries every few weeks.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">You cannot use those newfound riches on eating like a Queen, because you aren't really burning calories anymore either.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">Your toenails start to grow back.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">You miss your running friends.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">You fall way behind on the podcasts you used to listen to every morning during your run and then you stink at the quizzes on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me."</span></li><li><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;">The bike really tightens the tush, and frankly at close to 44 years of fighting gravity you need all the help you can get.</span></li></ol></div></div>ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-539294625992264006.post-48548730074516476632011-07-03T13:42:00.000-07:002011-07-03T14:30:54.521-07:00Becoming Okay with Not Being Like Audrey Hepburn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqrbocbIla_DL1sBmkHQsxID3O46O0T48du_qW3AdserFc_8Y-IwGpR6hItIOI72yQM3yoSDYuUMG_RqYGjdF3PMjVUe2huchJReKfkb3yvfJroLs6kSVv4u5rCjoPL4xrM3ZkMO6VOs/s1600/Audrey2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqrbocbIla_DL1sBmkHQsxID3O46O0T48du_qW3AdserFc_8Y-IwGpR6hItIOI72yQM3yoSDYuUMG_RqYGjdF3PMjVUe2huchJReKfkb3yvfJroLs6kSVv4u5rCjoPL4xrM3ZkMO6VOs/s320/Audrey2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625231202302750546" border="0" /></a>If you've seen "Breakfast at Tiffany's" you know the scene. (And if you haven't seen it, for the love of god why are you reading this and not renting it from Netflix <span style="font-style: italic;">right now</span>?) Audrey is gazing at the windows of the famous jewelry store while nibbling on a danish and sipping take-out coffee from a paper cup. Her hair, with its bold streaks of blonde highlights, is smoothly and perfectly swept into an improbably high up-do, and her elbow-length black gloves don't even show a trace of crumbs. Her dress--and oh, what a dress it is--is a sleek black sheath with cut-outs in the back that emphasize her tiny wing-like shoulder blades. This is Audrey at her most Hepburn-esque, and I will never ever be like that.<br /><br />Audrey was clothed primarily by Givenchy. My wardrobe is primarily from the House du REI, a healthy dose of Mountain Hardware with a bit of North Face and Prana thrown in for good measure. Audrey was always fresh and well pressed. I always look like my clothes just came out of a panier bag on the back of my bike, mostly because, well, they just came out of a panier bag on the back of my bike.<br /><br />Audrey Hepburn had flawless hair, no matter if it was her Holly Golightly up-do or her impetuous kicky short coiffure as Anya Smith (the princess on the lamb in "Roman Holiday"). Even after a long night of cocktail drinking or a spin on a Vespa, the girl's hair looked <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">good. </span>My hair, by contrast, always looks like it's about four weeks beyond the date when I needed a haircut, even as I walk out of the salon having just gotten a haircut. The movie star I seem to resemble most is Benji the Dog, with hair in my eyes and weird bits sticking out in the wrong places. <br /><br />We won't even mention her make-up, since I refuse to wear anything but a tinted sunscreen. (Especially not those perfectly lined doe eyes with the long curvy eyelashes; how the hell did she <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> that?!?!) If I do actually try to wear lipstick, I always eat about half of it off within minutes leaving me looking like your crazy Aunt Lettie. I think we can simply note that my toe-nails are painted lime green and move on, shall we?<br /><br />After years of wishing I were more like Audrey, I am starting to think I may just need to accept that I am the kind of girl with scrapes on her knees, bike grease on her shins and garden dirt under her fingernails. For me, "dressed up" will forever mean wearing shoes that are not suitable for kayaking. Unlike <span style="font-style: italic;">la Audrey,</span> I don't move like a dancer; unless by "dancer" you mean somebody who hits her head a lot and gets a new bruise every time she takes the Metro (stupid armrests).<br /><br />OK, so I'm never going to be Audrey Hepburn. I'm not even Kate, though at least she wore pants a lot and you can imagine her swearing up a storm in private. I'm messy and clumsy and perpetually covered in dog hair. But we do have one thing in common: neither Audrey Hepburn nor I can sing for shit. So, there's that.ajchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552847974939792039noreply@blogger.com1