maintaining friendships

I'm going to try and make this quick, because I'm heading out to hang out with some local friends.

The distinction is only important because of the topic of this post.  And I can't believe it's taken me so long to write about this.

I think I have mentioned before that I could not have predicted my post-grad long-distance social network, and the varying degrees of keeping-in-touch.  Some people I talk to most now I never, or rarely, talked to while we were at school together.  Some of the people I have the most important conversations with, too.

Granted, these conversations tend to happen on Facebook chat, but that doesn't make the subject matter less important.

That being said, I would like to reiterate Kyle's (incredibly salient) point that a 10-word text message can be enough to maintain a relationship with a good friend you haven't seen or talked to in awhile.  This can make all the difference in the world.  I was inexplicably happy to get a text from J the other day that read, "I'm finding that people really like it when you reach out to them via text."  And a minute later: "You taught me that."

One of my favorite ways to stay in touch regularly is with my famed #LunchBreakPhoneDates.  I have 30 minutes for lunch most days, which is by no means long enough for a satisfying long-distance conversation, but I am the queen of working healthy activities into my daily or weekly routine.  If we keep waiting until we have enough time to have a satisfying conversation, we will never have any conversation, and eventually we'll just stop trying.  There is no way I will let that happen.

Now, the 30-minute time limit also means we can't waste time worrying about what to talk about.  I don't care to talk about "what's new in my life" because it's just another day to me.  But, as you may have noticed, I ALWAYS have something on my mind.  So what do I talk about on a typical #LunchBreakPhoneDate?  Here is a brief sampling and synopsis of topics.

1. Hair care and no 'poo.  Yes, this is some hippie shit.  But you all know I love it.  Also, I have a lot of hair, so there's a lot to talk about.  This particular #LunchBreakPhoneDate also has quite a lot of hair, so between the two of us, we're set for AT LEAST 30 minutes.  If not 30 hours, or 30 days.  Or 30 years.  I'm sure we'll still be talking about hair when we're 50.
2. Objectification, to-be-or-not-to-be a feminist, and Take Back the Night/sexual assault.  This, of course, is part of an ongoing conversation, which I have been meaning to write about, but it's an armful to take on.  I'm not sure yet what approach I want to take.  But here's a teaser: I promise to consider the complexity of these issues, every time I consider them.  Which, as a woman, is pretty much every day.
3. Relationships, theoretical and otherwise.  Yeah, pretty much every conversation I have has something to do with relationship theory, but since most of my friends are negotiating the minefield of post-college relationships, our specific experiences come up a LOT.  Also the weird number of our peers who are suddenly engaged, married, or popping out babies.
4. Work.  Sometimes this topic has a "what-do-I-want-to-do-with-my-life" kind of spin on it, but in my case, I like my job and I'm happy here at least for now.  And most of my friends are at least somewhat satisfied with their current status.  So we also talk about how much money we make, and where we see ourselves going, and what we're passionate about that we'd like to push more into our work now or in the future.  (Work.  Is this what adult life is all about?!  It often seems that way.)

Obviously this is not a comprehensive list, but none of you care about my day-to-day conversations anyway, unless you're having them with me.  Or you only care about them to the extent that they often inspire me to write about some topic or another right here on the blog.

I know I don't have to tell you this, but every conversation and every relationship is different.  Some relationships need more careful curation than others, more time and energy and demonstration.  I thought of this yesterday when I was (as usual) chillin' on Facebook and someone I haven't touched base with in awhile popped up in my top 6 friends.  I am not a habitual Facebook stalker, but I read my news feed, and every once in awhile I give someone's timeline a skim just to make sure they're apparently alive and happy.  And usually I'll drop a line.  In this case, the line I thought to drop was a simple "<3".  But right before I hit "Post," I remembered what a mutual friend said about her once: "You really have to reach out to her, because she likes to do things, but she doesn't like to call.  She feels like she's imposing."

And so I sat there debating whether I should feel guilty for not writing something more substantial, until the most obvious epiphany hit me like a water balloon: That's how Mutual Friend is friends with Her.  My friendship with Her is not that way.  My friendship with Her is incredibly comfortable with a <3 from time to time, and in fact, is more comfortable with that than with obligatory extensions and "catching up."


That may have been a little obscure, but the thesis of my story is that each friendship, and even each individual friendship within trios and groups, is different.  Some of my best friends (as much as I cringe to use that word, there isn't really any use denying it) are people I don't feel the need to have big catching-up conversations with every day.  Because our friendships depend on the fact that we each lead our own separate and active life, and that's something we like and respect about each other.  It makes the time we do spend together that much richer and more worthwhile.

Now, speaking of spending time together, I'm off to curate my present relationships: it's ladies' night!  (By the way, if you were wondering, my love language is Quality Time.  You don't have to act surprised.)

Thanks for tuning in, as always!  Each of your comments continues and enriches my conversations with you, and that's why I keep writing.  So keep writing back :)

picking up the storyline

It's getting weird seeing all the posts on Facebook and Twitter about finals, about people going home for the summer, about people GRADUATING.  My brother is home for the summer, looking for cars to drive to the job he's got set up, and my middle sister is in the throes of AP exams, put in her enrollment deposit to ST. OLAF (fram fram!) and is looking forward to graduating in about a month.

Meanwhile, my parents and Asha are looking at this huge house and thinking how empty it will be in a few months, with the two middle kids away at school and me (fingers crossed) in my own apartment somewhere in the city.

My friends, the ones I graduated with, are feeling the ends of their one-year commitments closing in on them, issuing ultimatums and maydays about the long-awaited "rest of our lives."  They are frantically scouring Craigslist for plausible careers, submitting resumes and cover letters and wondering what they really want to be doing with their time.  It's throwing into pretty sharp relief the fact that I am no longer a student (and perhaps nevermore) and that I have in fact been a graduate for almost an entire year now, and I have worked in my current position for more than 8 months.  My story has taken a different turn.  Maybe we're onto a sequel now.

This is making me think about the passage of time.  It seemed to take awhile to hit 6 months, but after that the months just fell like dominoes behind me.  Just as I start feeling tired because it's Tuesday, I'm playing Loverboy's Working for the Weekend on repeat and putting in my last posts on Friday afternoon.

Kristy and I measure the passage of time by Tuesdays and Thursdays and girls' nights.  We always laugh because when someone asks what day it is, Kristy looks at her watch, and I use relativity to figure out what day of the week it is, and then which week it is.  "Well, two days ago we went to yoga, and last week you were in Chicago, which is the week my parents went to Boston to pick up my brother..."  But looking back, the days and nights and big events and boring afternoons and the mornings I didn't think I'd make it through all melt together into this blurry, psychedelic GIF that is my life.

Between the two of us I think we create a pretty workable narrative.

I'm picking up the storyline now of this blog, of my life as a post-grad.  I'm picking up this meta-story from December 27, when I talked about the storyline of the history of fruitcake.

Here's a story I like, about watches making their way back into fashion after being shut out by the cell phone revolution.  I like it because it's tangible.  It's built out of images.  It pulls in history, economics, fashion, practicality.

It's essentially about hipsters.  I am haughty of hipsterdom, but I will be the first to admit that it's all a ruse because, in fact, I am the Worst of the Hipsters.

Also, the composite storyline is the reason I am so obsessing over public radio these days.  The long reports and interviews, the multiple subjective insights they reap over the course of days, weeks, or months digging into the same story.

I value this storytelling style as a counterpoint and a complement to the flash news we get as we go through the day.  To be fair, our brains really have an incredible capacity to process information.  Part of the reason we are able to take in so much is the fact that people make snap judgments that are completely and unavoidably subjective.  Sam McNerney (a classmate of a friend of mine) writes this often mentally-straining but always jaw-dropping psych blog.  In a post I read today, The Irrationality of Irrationality, connects subjectivity to the narrative in the passage below:

[M]ental shortcuts are necessary because they lessen the cognitive load and help us organize the world – we would be overwhelmed if we were truly rational. 

This is one of the reasons we humans love narratives; they summarize the important information in a form that’s familiar and easy to digest. It’s much easier to understand events in the world as instances of good versus evil, or any one of the seven story types. 

...In the process, hooking up my inner anthropologist to my inner writer for some serious intellectual fireworks.

Anyway, McNerney first raises our hackles and guilts us into recognizing our inevitable bias in every decision we make--and then promptly soothes our smarting egos with the assurance that "It’s natural for us to reduce the complexity of our rationality into convenient bite-sized ideas."

He wraps it all up with a warning: Take every new story as a new side to the same story, a new puzzle piece.  Life in society is complex; court cases are complex; arguments and fights between friends and lovers are complex.

And what do I get out of this?  Acknowledge your story.  Own it.  But let it change.

8 or more things making me happy

Yesterday I discovered a weekly talk radio show called Pop Culture Happy Hour on NPR.  Fortunately since I’ve never heard it before there are literally YEARS’ worth of past happy hours for me to listen to, so I’ve been scrolling back to listen to the incredibly intelligent crew discussing trendy cultural tidbits in a way that reminds me more than a little of my liberal arts education.

Each show ends with a segment about what's making them happy this week.  Something pop culture-related, of course.  It vaguely reminds me of All Good Things, the KSTO radio show I hosted last year with my girl Cassie, in which we played feel-good music and ad-libbed our list of the week’s Top 10 All Good Things.  Sometimes serious, often totally random, but always an exercise in not taking things for granted, in picking out the silver lining even of the toughest weeks, and a reminder to enjoy life always.

I have missed this show, and missed Cassie, so often since May.  And from time to time I feel that nagging urge to make that list.

But today, the urge is driving me to distraction, and I am unavoidably inspired to host my own Pop Culture What's-Making-Me-Happy Give-or-Take-an-Hour.

#1

The show is first on my list, since I have not stopped listening to it for 2 days (except to watch a video of Sophia Grace and Rosie’s return to The Ellen Show), and since I love pop culture, and intelligent people discussing pop culture.  Also, people laughing a lot and un-self-consciously.  They have really good laughs, too--good the way Audrey and Karin and I just feed off each other's really contagious laughter forever.  And just positive energy in general.  Here's a good episode (2012 pop culture resolutions) to get hooked on.

#2

Sisterhood Everlasting.  Since my original mention I have actually started reading this book, and it’s been, true to form, un-put-downable.  I can’t honestly say the book is a happy book, and I also can’t say that I haven’t cried or felt my throat close up at least a few times, and in fact it’s a really sad book so far.  But it’s deeply evocative, and when I think about it, any real depth of emotion qualifies as happiness for me.  There is something beautiful about empathy, about allowing myself to be touched by the world, which maybe neurologically is no more than a thrill, a hit of brain chemicals, but to me feels like being happy.

#3

California 37.  You may have realized that I. LOVE. TRAIN.  And I am not ashamed of this fact.  I've had this album on some degree of repeat since I bought it on Saturday, and I think it may be my favorite Train album ever.  Speaking of pop culture, the album features an incredible array of pop culture references; "This'll Be My Year," which people are calling a reprise of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" (except less tiresome to listen to); "Bruises," a collaboration with Ashley Monroe about the occupational hazards of living; and "You Can Meet My Mom," which just makes me really happy.

#4
Today is Poem In Your Pocket Day, and there's an exhilarating melee going on around the #pocketpoem hashtag on Twitter.  It makes me want to Twitter-jam, bad.

collage beginnings

Anyway, probably not one single person will be surprised to learn that my #pocketpoem is "i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)" by e.e.cummings.  I'm sure I could finagle some horrible wordplay about carrying poems in pockets out of that line, but I will spare you.  I also have a line-by-line collage representation of this beloved piece in the works, but it's not done yet.

My fellow poet and Soc/Anthro major Julia may have stumped this holiday, though: "I dunno if I can fit 'howl' in my pocket..."

Asha, age 4

#5
Today my baby sister turns sixteen.

Yeah.  Sixteen.

It's hard to believe.  I swear I look at her (and Maria) every day and get surprised at how big, and grown-up, and mature they are.  And hilarious.  And beautiful, and smart as hell...  The list goes on!  If there is one reason I'm glad I moved home this year (and there are many) it is that the time I'm getting to spend with my sisters is priceless.  I even enjoy picking them up from school or dropping them off somewhere, or hitting up the mall together on a Saturday.  I value the opportunities I have gotten to share my experiences with them, and to hear about the things they struggle with and the things that make them happy.

It is a great joy and responsibility to be a big sister, and despite my complaining, I wouldn't give it up for the world.  And I wouldn't trade my sissies for any other sissies.  So don't even ask.

#6
The unbelievably delicious chocolate chip cookies Asha made to take to school for her own birthday.  They are so good, and I love how she loves to bake.  And also it reminds me of the time last year when Timmy got up at 8:00am on Lutefest to make himself a very, very chocolate birthday cake.  There is something bittersweet (but very tasty) about this style of self-celebration.  Something important, I think, something poignant with a Dust-Bowl-vignette quality to it.  I can’t say it’s sad because both Timmy and Asha have plenty of people who will gladly share their baked goods, and more importantly their company, but almost.

#7
As of tonight, my brother will be home from school for the summer!  I'm pumped.  He's got a sweet summer job using some of his architecture skills, and I'm hoping to take him out and introduce him to people--and maybe even meet some new ones!  OK, I'll be honest: I'm secretly plotting how to make him fall in love with Delaware too.  Plus, I just love him.  He's my first best friend and we've been in cahoots for almost 21 years now.

#8
Oranges.  (Is anyone surprised?)  I've had one for lunch every day this week, and every day I look forward to the orange at the bottom of my lunch bag.  It makes my fingers sticky but I love the smell of them and I hate the color orange but somehow I love it when it's on the fruit.  It's so bright and cheerful.  I love how juicy they are, how sweetly tart.  I love peeling them, both intrinsically and in anticipation of what's to come.  I love the texture, and how they're naturally packaged in little bite-sized pieces.  I love what I remember about them, and the people they remind me of.  I love vitamin C.  And for a whole host of other reasons I probably couldn't even begin to name or recognize, oranges just make me really, simply, bottom-of-my-heart happy.

Note the absence of oranges in this fruit bowl
(I have eaten them all)

scavengers

I spent yesterday--chilly, damp day that it was--blazing through the first book of The Hunger Games (written by Suzanne Collins, for future reference).

Let me first say I haven't been that taken by a book since The Help this summer.  And before that, probably re-reading the Harry Potter series over the summer of 2009.  This is one of those books whose writer is naturally gifted enough not to agonize over the craft of the language, which makes it easy to read, but not painful like some books whose writers have a knack for plot but just suck at writing.  I would give you an example but I'm finding I must have blocked them all from my memory.  I'll let you know if I think of one you might be familiar with.

Anyway, I was so absorbed that I finished the last 310 pages in a single Sunday afternoon, about 5 hours curled up in my awesome giant green chair, completely oblivious to the world around me.  The action-packed plot would have been enough in itself, but what really got me was the layering.

It's a YA novel, written from the perspective of a 16-year-old girl.  A 16-year-old girl who is the main provider for her family, but a 16-year-old girl nonetheless.  So I was roguishly delighted by the depth of the story.  I've heard very little outcry about the political undertones or societal criticism I found hard to ignore--thrilling, in fact.  Its post-apocalyptic setting inevitably carries the values that led this society to its demise, a demise that terrifies those of us who take democracy for granted--a la 1984.  I find it hard to believe that there has been no debate on the perpetual leftism of implied apocalypse--I may have just missed it, but that would be uncharacteristic of me.  Maybe I'm just reading into it too much.

I was also impressed at how well-researched it was, and how insightful.  There was a lot of anthropology woven into the story's social scheme, and a lot of psychology.  And while Collins alluded to fairly complex concepts and theories, and in fact based huge chunks of the story on these theories, they did not interrupt the flow or drop heavily into the narrative.  She explained huge ideas, like biopower, hegemony, and cycles of poverty, in terms the YA audience could grasp fairly easily, on the ground, in a way that was important to the story.

Yes, I am a nerd, and also far too academic for my own good.  I don't blame you if you got stuck in the middle of that and stopped reading.  SKIP TO HERE: READ THIS BOOK.  It's much less dense than my review of it.  Can't wait to get my hands on #2.

I should track it down now, because I will no doubt have to reserve it or wait for it to turn up, and I already have another book lined up that I'm pumped about: Sisterhood Everlasting, by Ann Brashares.

Sounds familiar?  It should, if you are or have ever been rightfully obsessed with the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series.  This is the adult book follow-up to the last college-freshmen reunion we witnessed of the famous foursome, Tibby, Carma, Bea, and Lena.  So I can't wait to start this.

I stumbled upon this book on Saturday while looking for a Nicholas Sparks title at the New Castle Public Library--no, I am NOT trying to READ a Nicholas Sparks book (but if you asked me if I ever have read one and I was hooked up to a lie detector, I couldn't say no).  He has a book called Safe Haven which fit the bill of "A book with safe in the title"--an item on our list of things to scavenge and hunt.  (For a scavenger hunt...)

Scavenger hunts have unintended side effects, like accidentally learning historical facts about the place you are scavenging, or finding used syringes in the sand at the public park.  Sketchy.  We added it to our list and carefully (without touching it) removed the needle from the beach, where there were tons of little kids running around.  Kind of a rough awakening.

American flag from another era

Coin from the year someone on the team was born

Out-of-state license plate

Help Wanted sign (a little outdated...)

Business cards from REAL working professionals!

Date/time marked with Roman numerals

Animal made out of glass

Picture with someone dressed from another era

Sign with the name of a team member

Birdfeeder (bird not on the list)

Group jumping photo

(Really awkward) group picture on a slide

On a lighter note, I have some more Delaware historical tidbits for you!  Someone asked me once why Dover is the capital of this lovely state, if most of the action happens up north in Wilmington.  Turns out, after the American Revolution, the Brits were parked in the Delaware River, pointing 400 guns right at Delaware's capital: New Castle.  Now, the rebels, traitors to the crown, understandably felt very nervous about their vulnerable position; so they moved the whole operation inland, out of the way, in the middle of nowhere--to Dover, where it still operates today.

Operating from the new, non-centrally-located capital, Delaware has always been revolutionary.  The First State to ratify the U.S. Constitution, may I remind you, was the last state to ratify the 13th Amendment.  You know, the one that freed the slaves.

That story, like every other story, history or Hunger Games, is a lot more complex than just that.  But I'll leave it for now, because I could never hope to address, or even comprehend, the full scope of pain surrounding slavery and its prohibition and the years that have followed.

Speaking of pain, flogging (by bull-whip) was a legal punishment in this state until 1972.  The last incident punished this way, though, was in 1952.  Wife-beating.

Sometimes it takes awhile for things to change in law, on the books, after they have already changed in the world we live in.

And sometimes it's the other way around.

In 1970, two years before flogging became illegal in the First State, Democrats and Republicans in Washington cooperated to instate Earth Day.  Things were changing.  And now, 42 years later, things are still changing.  This year, people are still writing about the good of the earth, and about fighting for the good of the earth, and about fighting to preserve what's left of the earth.  Things are better than they were in 1970, or so I've heard, but they're still changing.

The longest-serving member of the House of Reps wrote an Earth Day post I really loved.  "This world is not ours," he wrote.  He says we borrow this earth from future generations.  I see that we're sharing it, with too many people and organisms to ever conceptualize.

What I love is that he places us "at a vital point in history. We lead, but if we fail in our leadership, we will fall into the dustbins of history."

The dustbins of history.  My favorite place to play.

a study in touch

Today I'm thinking about phantom limb syndrome and other phenomena of touch.

About a month ago I noticed this little lump in my palm, right below the base of my right ring finger.  I lived with it for a week, freaking out the whole time, of course, and finally made an appointment with a hand specialist for a month later--this morning.

During that time I had to learn to live with my little lump.  Got a new mouse at work.  Started thinking differently about how I distribute pressure and movement around my hand, how I use my fingers and my wrist and how all the parts fit together.

And it stopped bugging me, almost disappeared completely except for a tiny reminder on the tendon in the ball of my writing hand.

So I went in this morning for a consultation with the hand doctor and had my first-ever X-ray.  The X-ray technician took X-rays of my right hand in a few different postures, like thumb and forefinger pinched together, the other three fingers fanned out beneath.  "You should be my hand model," she said.  "Most of these guys don't get it!  ...Most of the women don't either, in fact."

So I sat and waited for the doctor, and he came in and felt the lump and said it is a ganglion cyst and that since it's not irritating me right now I could either leave it alone until it starts bugging me again...  Or I could get a cortisone injection that will make the tendon casing scar over and not fill up again.  Nip it in the bud.

I went for the injection, which also had some Novocaine in it, so my right ring finger and half of my pinky are numb like they dropped off somewhere and I've been at work all day with only 3 working fingers on my dominant hand.

Thus the phantom limb sensation.  Or phantom digits, I suppose.

"You can go about your business, but you won't feel anything for a few hours," the doctor said.  "Papercuts, hot, cold...  You won't feel any of that.  So just... be aware."

This has been an intensely weird experience for me, who has never had a surgery or a broken bone or a concussion.  Me, who likes to be barefoot and/or naked just to keep my senses sharp, to minimize the buffer between my nervous system and my environment with its endless stimuli.  Me, who hasn't taken a painkiller in two years.  Me, who types and clicks all day as a basic job requirement, and for whom writing (right-handed) is an identity.

Of course I am also mulling over the possibility that the Novocaine will have a permanent nerve-dulling effect on my fingers, which would be unfortunate and also a very strange scar to carry with me throughout my life.  And exploring the possibilities of living with some kind of sensory void.  The way I used to ask people I cared about to let me explore their faces with my hands, eyes closed, so that if I ever went blind, I would be able to recognize them.

Touch is a two-way sensation.  This is suddenly mirror-clear to me.  My fingers feel completely different in texture when they can't feel back.  The senseless finger feels like an alien, inanimate object attached to my hand where my really useful fourth finger used to be.  But the weirdest part is that it's not inanimate at all.  In fact, I'm using it to type as we speak and it still has weight and the tendons are still connected and it still bends and it still grips things.  It's just alienation of labor, and I am suddenly strangely aware of the physiological middle man that comes into play with muscle memory and contractions and response to environmental stimuli.  I feel like I'm playing the claw game in the arcade.

My mom once told me (when I was like 15, like she didn't think about how dangerous this wise tidbit could be falling into the wrong hormonal teenaged hands) that "Human beings need skin-to-skin contact to survive."  And in the current state of my hand I am profoundly struck by the mutual connotations of skin-to-skin contact.  Touch creates the most physical connection we can have with anything that is not ourselves, the most tangible, the most visceral, the most real.  And to share that connection with someone creates the intimacy of shared space, of intermingling, colliding surface atoms.  Poetically, the blurring of boundaries between two separate entities to confuse their separateness.

So touching ourselves is reflexive and similarly intimate and important in establishing our individual wholeness.  (Yes, some erotic undertones intended.)  And when I can't mutually intermingle the atoms of my separate fingers, the wholeness of my hand becomes confused.  This is why check-ins, and goodbye kisses, and hello kisses, and hugs are so important and keep us all from falling apart.

I'm arguing for a literal interpretation here.

smiling meditation: war stories

Last week I was driving home, touting my characteristic meditative (plastic) smile all over the place.

Note to potential smiling meditants: I know it's hard to smile for five whole minutes when you're starting out.  But after a couple of days--seriously, less than a week--your face gets used to it and the five minutes are over in a flash, and then suddenly you look at the clock and realize you've been grinning like a ninny for 10 minutes... then 15...  Trust me.  It's good for you.


In fact, my girl Kristy was telling me a pretty traumatic story the other day and I'm sitting there thinking, "When is this going to get funny?"  Because her eyes are sparkling and she just has this cute smile playing at the corners of her mouth through the whole thing.  But then the story is over, and I burst out, "That's awful!  I kept waiting for it to get funny because you were laughing the whole time!  But it never did.  If it had happened to me I would be so serious, tormented even."


"Well," she explained, "my natural face looks really angry, so I just trained myself to smile instead.  So now everybody thinks I'm just really happy all the time because a smile is my default face."


How much nicer this is than my default grimace.  Everyone probably thinks I'm a huge bitch (I have some testimony to back this up), or that I am the most unhappy person ever, or that I take myself verrrry seriously.  On the contrary, I am quite a sweet girl, if I do say so myself, and I'm actually one of the more existentially happy people I know, and I don't take myself THAT seriously.  I should work on this.


Back to the story.  So last week, as I meditated the shit out of my forced smile, I got cut off.  Twice.

Now, my normal reaction would have been to start (harmlessly and good-naturedly) cussing out these incompetent drivers under my breath.  But my road rage was surprised to find, instead of a ready glare, a silly grin in its place.  I could feel my face contorting as the two expressions battled for the front-line real estate of my visage.  But the smiling meditation, with the element of surprise on its side, sent the anger scurrying off into a dark alley somewhere with its tail between its legs.

This all happened very slowly.  I got this really odd out-of-body feeling that I had just witnessed a crucial turning point in history, like the Shot Heard 'Round The World or the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand.  Or maybe the invention of the internet.

The compound effect of this bizarre phenomenon was that I started laughing at myself, which totally dissipated the entire idea of road rage, and even sparked a hint of sheepishness about the fact that I'd gotten upset about unknown idiots who can't drive properly.

Aside from the shock factor, I maintain that smiling is a superior facial expression to the poor dejected glare, and that in a power struggle Happiness would win out over Anger.  I am not by any means downplaying Anger's very real potential to consume, and perhaps this is just another facet of my "happy endings depend on where you put the period" theory.

Either way, in my life, I accept this as one of the Obvious Universal Truths.  As you have probably gathered by now, I am a firm believer in the healing properties of laughter.  Also, if I had to choose one weapon to vanquish all the world's forces of negativity, laughter would be my first and instantaneous pick.  Call me naive, happy-go-lucky, idealistic, and I will laugh it off and move on with my life.  It's really a win-win situation.

***

Speaking of happiness, Kristy and I discovered on Friday one of Wilmington's most famous happy hours, at Dead Presidents.  A great way to end a universally weird week, with half-price appetizers from 4-7 and $3 rail drinks after 6pm.   We actually missed the half-price apps, partially because Kristy set her ID on the computer desk at my house and we had parked in the Dead Pres lot before she realized it was missing.  Partly because we weren't really looking for food anyway.

The drinks, though, were strong.  This bartender kicked my butt on the heavy-handed scale, which is saying something.  Nobody's complaining.

On the way home we stopped at this bakery we'd passed earlier, and noted for the delicious baking-bread smell hanging over the whole neighborhood.  We stopped there at 9:00, looking for pizza--but it closed at 6:00 and didn't have pizza anyway.  Just your standard bakery fare.

So we hit up Yummy Pizza instead, on the corner of Old Capitol Trail and Newport Gap.  I ordered a small Hawaiian pizza, and 10 minutes later the girl at check-out waved a box at us.  She told me how much I owed and as she counted out the change, she said, "You ordered a medium, but they gave you a large.  But we charged you for the medium."

I tipped them well, and smiled at the guys peeking out of the kitchen, and as we stumbled out into the street I asked Kristy, "Did they do that on purpose?"  And she replied, "Yup."

Again, nobody's complaining.

a delaware love affair

And again, you've caught me being remiss in my writing.  I am still excited about Kyle's list from last week, partly because it gave me a post off, but mostly because I can never get enough of hearing my classmates' reflections about life before and after graduation.  As Nathan Soland commented, "One of the most important things St. Olaf taught me was to reflect; [Kyle did] that here with honesty, wit, and thoughtfulness."  This is something I seriously appreciate about my college education: My fellow Ole alumni reflect thoughtfully, intelligently, self-deprecatingly, on our shared circumstances and on the circumstances we no longer share.

That being said, and in the wake of Kyle's thoughtful, funny and true list of life lessons, I am growing weary of my play-by-plays and reviews of cool pubs and restaurants.  There are a few things I'd really love to share with you all, but I don't want to lose sight of the underlying exploration of this new life.  Plus, things have lately been thrown into an interesting new light.

I took Good Friday off from work and drove up to New York on Thursday night to meet my usual crew, Karin and Audrey, plus a delightful extra: My beloved Boo and one of my best and oldest college friends, Lisa, who was on spring break on the East Coast.  (Yeah, she works at an elementary school, and I'm betting she's really good at it...  But it means she gets spring break.  Jealous.)

Lisa: "Thanks! Just press the big button on top."
Jorge the Waiter: "Oh, I thought it was different from every other camera."

We met up with Heidi, who lived in Pod TMI with Lisa and I last year, and Mariella, Heidi's host in Brooklyn.  While Karin was at work the 5 of us went to Da Gennaro's in Little Italy for a delicious lunch, and it struck me that most of my beautiful, incredible friends are in one-year service positions: Episcopal Service Corps, Good Shepherd Volunteers, Minnesota Reading Corps...

And I have found something permanent.  Or at least long-term.  This puts me in a different mindset than a lot of my friends, especially those who are now in a similar situation as we all were this time last year (although most of them are freaking out less right now than we all were last year).

That being said, the four of us headed up to New Haven to stay in Audrey's house for a couple of nights.  In between sneaking into Yale dorms in search of a bathroom (unsuccessful), a smoky Episcopalian Easter vigil, throwing back a pitcher of the world's best margaritas at Viva, and chasing down cherry blossoms with bread, hummus, and strawberry picnics, Audrey gave me a gift she'd found at New Haven Reads, where she works: Delaware, a hardcover picture book produced by the State Quarter people.

I was pumped.

I love state quarters, and history, and Delaware.  (Who woulda thunk?!)

Lisa watched as I flipped enthusiastically through the pages, reading aloud facts about Delaware being the first state and explaining the perfectly round northern border.  Audrey and Karin laughed at me with the same expression they reserve for my professions of skepticism and everything else over-the-top that I do (which is a lot of things).  "Clara loves Delaware," they said.

"Why?" Lisa asked, looking very solemn.  "What do you love about it?"

I thought about it for a moment, and the first thing that came to mind was, characteristically, the robbery.

Which is kind of funny considering that the robbery typically tops the list of reasons to hate this state.  On a psychological level, though, those kind of intense experiences create intense emotional reactions that associate heavily with a place, person, or situation.  And then they mutate and skew in a way that can cause some pretty unfortunate circumstances, for example, addictions to unhealthy relationships.

I'm definitely not comparing my growing love for Delaware to an unhealthy relationship; the connection is that in the wake of the pretty serious trauma of having my home robbed within three weeks of moving into it, I experienced some incredible grace, love, and compassion.  To this day I am awestruck at the mental image of packages addressed to me and my family, full of love and other, more tactile things.  The address on these packages was in Wilmington, DE.  Reason #1.

Also in the wake of the robbery I moved into my own space and set it up the way I wanted.  I got a new bed, put up posters and photos, set up my books and mugs.  Invested in my living area.

A few months down the line I had my first visitor: Audrey, back in December.  This visit was an important milestone both in that I got to own my space, show it to someone, and because it was my first real foray into the history of the First State.

I love that Delaware is the first state.

I love my Delaware license plate, and my Delaware driver's license (even though I got really sad for a second when I saw a New York license this weekend) and the fact that there is no sales tax.

I love cherry blossom snow outside my window at work, and how close I am to New York, and that we are close enough to the ocean for fresh seafood.

DE pride at Two Stones!

I love Wawa.  Like, LOVE Wawa.

I love Delaware craft beer.  Even though Dogfish Head mostly makes IPAs.  Last week was Delaware beer week at Two Stones Pub, which has 25 taps of all craft beer at any given time, and last week served only Delaware beers.  We went on Old Dominion night.  You know I love it.

I love my job, and my friends, and my man, the bars and coffeeshops, and the creek behind my house, and I love being close to my family.  I even feel at home at Hope Church, despite the fact I don't go that much.

When I really boil it down, it mostly all comes down to this: I have settled.  I have put down roots.  I am investing my time and energy (and tax-free consumer dollars) into my life here.  I am making friends.  As Ann says, we'll find people to love anywhere, no matter where we go, if we stay there for awhile.

I miss my far-flung loves, of course, and I cherish every hour I can spare for a conversation with each of them.  As Kyle said, a random 10-word text from a distant friend is better than pretty much everything else.  Because, as Kyle also said,  friendship isn't measured by how well you stay in touch.

I realized a few months ago that love is a decision.  Among other things, of course.  And I'm definitely not trying to say that we don't ever fall in love with people or things we shouldn't or don't want to fall in love with.  If I told you that I would be a big-time liar.  But for love to work, you have to let yourself fall into it.  You have to decide that you're going to do everything in your power to let it happen, to make it work, to make it work well.

Delaware and I had a slow start.  In fact, I'll say we started in the negatives.  But slowly, we've decided to accept each other.  Slowly, we've decided to love each other.  Slowly, we've decided to put our all into making this work.  And now, I'm attached.  Like a tick to bare ankles in the summertime.

Aaaand we come full-circle.  Love them ticks.

I'm sure the feeling is decisively mutual.

guest post: things i've learned since i left college

I got an email a few days ago from my friend and St. Olaf classmate Kyle, basically a quick check-in on post-grad life.  The meat of this message was the following list, which pretty much speaks for itself.  And now, without further ado...

Things I've learned since I left college:

• That nobody is going to be impressed by you bragging about how many hours/week you work. 
• That college stories seem significantly less funny when you try and tell them to post-college friends.
• That Sunday is suddenly the best day of the week.
• That a quick 10 word text from a distant friend means a lot.
• That you might still feel weird while bringing your 12-pack of beer from the car to your house.
• That you will realize that you were way more stressed out at St. Olaf than you realized at the time
• That there are plenty of attractive, smart, and fun people off the Hill, but they are much, much less concentrated.
• That everybody has a tough adjustment. 
• That if you come back for Homecoming or for Fest and ask old friends how they are doing, almost invariably they will answer, "I'm fine."
• That "fine" is not bad. 
• That St. Olaf was a much stranger place than you thought, when you compare it to the rest of the country.
• That sometimes you'll be walking across the street and a memory of some dumb thing you did in college will pop into your head, and you will laugh like a fool, and that this is a good thing. 
• That you're probably not going to stay in touch w/ Olaf friends as well as you want to.
• That infrequent communication in a long-distance friendship isn't a reflection on the importance or authenticity of that friendship
• That you will have absolutely no obligations much more frequently, and that this is a wonderful thing.
• That reading for pleasure is much, much more rewarding than reading for class. 
• That there may come a time when you have this perverse itch to write an eight page paper, footnotes and all. 
• That professors really do like it when you keep in touch with them.
• That your parents are actually fairly wise and cool.
• That having to make a plan for how to get home at the end of a night is a huge pain in the ass.
• That St. Olaf was way more homogeneous than you thought, no matter what Admissions says.
• That bars are way more intimidating when you don't know everybody's name.
• That the anonymity at these bars is quite nice sometimes.
• That the food in the Caf was really, really good.
• That online dating is rough.
• That spending time alone is not only permissible, but even healthy.
• That most musical ensembles are much less in tune that the St. Olaf ensembles.
• That, in all honesty, you're not sure if you would go back to Olaf, even if you could, wonderful as it was.
• That there is no dream so beautiful as the dream of living within 1/2 mile of your 40 closest friends again.
• That making new friends is easier once you realize most recent college graduates are looking for new friendships, just like you.
• That St. Olaf taught you to work hard, to listen, and to question, and to truly seek understanding
• That your boss may not appreciate the last two, but hey, s/he's the one who hired a Liberal Arts graduate.
• That the "glass half full/glass half empty" maxim is shockingly true and important to think about every day
• That some days are just going to suck.
• That some days aren't.
• That drinking on a Tuesday night, or a Wednesday, or a Monday, isn't as bad an idea as it was in college. 
• That drinking on a Sunday night is still a pretty bad idea.
• That there isn't chapel time, but you can (and should) make chapel time for yourself every day.
• That happy hour always sounds like a great idea, but then you're just groggy for the rest of the day
• That you don't need to be happy all the time to be doing well.*
• That you're really grateful to your professors for teaching you how to think/write/create/whatever.
• That having a little bit of money is actually pretty fun.
• That most jobs don't have an interim break.
• That there are people who went to lower-ranked schools who are way smarter than you. And vice-versa.*
• That, when thinking back to college, you tend to forget the crappy times and just remember the awesome times.
• That this selective memory, while pleasant, can be dangerous.
• That it's good to remind yourself on the days you hate your job that there were days you hated your college classes too. 
• That St. Olaf will mail you something every two weeks.
• That, if you give a gift to the college, they will send you a thank-you letter, including a pre-stamped envelope asking for more money
• That you'll get through whatever you're going through.*
• That having somebody else clean your bathroom was really nice.
• That not having to share a bathroom is really nice. 
• Finally, that "Fram Fram" isn't just the school song. It's the mission that got inside of you during your time on the hill. Forward, Forward. 

Kyle is a fellow band'o'lier (legacy from a haphazard sophomore year spring break trip to New Mexico, before which I really didn't know him) and St. Olaf Class of 2011 graduate.  He is currently doing a year of AmeriCorps service with Admissions Possible in Omaha, Nebraska.  For a quick glimpse into what he's been doing since May 29, 2011, check out the blog post that made my heart soar, with pride for my friend, hope for my classmates, and faith in community.

*Starred comments are the contribution of another 2011 Ole, affectionately known as "JoePa," who is currently studying at Princeton Theological Seminary in New Jersey.

food blog

I sat down to blog yesterday but got distracted (this may be an emerging trend... or an emerged one) first by online apartment hunting, and then by a text from one of my besties who happened to be free for a phone call at the same time as me!  For the first time in months.  I decided to get up from my screen to make lunch while I talked to him.  On the menu: grilled cheese on honey wheat bread, with beautifully sliced beautiful tomatoes I picked out at the farmers' market last weekend.  And reheated red pepper soup from the Lenten soup supper at church on Wednesday.  Somehow it turned into pretty much the most delicious lunch I have eaten in what seemed like eons, and Mike was totally jealous.  Even though we broke off our conversation so he could go out for Sushi Sunday.

And also because another friend called with a post-breakup tear-stained voice, so I called her back for a round of healing affirmation and a sweepingly great conversation that ended in her recommending that I invest in a Magic Bullet for breakfast smoothie purposes, and promising to send along recipes for great, energizing, unexpected smoothies.

Smoothies are a long-time love of mine, the kind of thing I can always get into, the kind of thing I crave, and apparently I have a "smoothie face" which sets J immediately to the task of whipping up The Perfect Smoothie as soon as I walk into Bishop's after work.  Chili, another of Bishop's specialties (see #5), has always been a good pick for Sunday lunch...  But lately I have been really into Sunday afternoon grilled cheese sandwiches.  And let me tell you, I make a wicked grilled cheese sandwich.

Some other good grilled cheese sandwiches can be found at Bittersweet on Division Street in Northfield, in the good ol' 55057 zip code--they put cream cheese on theirs, and we all know that there are very few times when I will turn down cream cheese, in almost any form.  And there is also a beer and grilled cheese special somewhere in Wilmington--World Café Live at The Queen, as a matter of fact--which I haven't checked out yet, only because I've always been reminded of it at the wrong moment.  But look for a review in the relatively near future.

A slight recipe mutation turns the classic grilled cheese into another big-time favorite: the beloved Tunamelt, which will never fail to send me reeling back to the Summer of Sunny V.  (Incidentally, I'm thinking I'm going to have to commission a cover of Bryan Adams' all-American classic Summer of '69.  Maybe Summer of Tunamelts would be a more representative title.)  I haven't flown solo on the tunamelt front, maybe ever, but at least in quite some time, and let me tell you, I missed my Bizz, who always seemed to keep the pans straight, and keep the tuna sauce from burning to the bottom of the pan, and managed to make everything come together right at the right moment.

That being said, my Single-Bizz Tunamelt was a pretty killer sandwich specimen.  Also, extra sharp cheddar cheese is the best cheese ever, and you can get huge blocks of it for super cheap at BJ's: the place to go for cheese, gas, and frozen pizza.

Also giant bulk packs of gum, and quick home microbrewing kits.  Which sounds really gross.

Food is an important thing to think about all the time, but lately the social aspects of eating have sent my diet into very weird relief.  Every Thursday, for example, Kristy and I go to either Spinning or Zumba at the Y and then hit up Applebee's for the appetizer sampler platter and drinks.  That's more about the eating experience than the actual food, even though we love mozz sticks and quesadillas and tequila and spin dip and even boneless wings.  (Not wings with bones, though.)  I've also written about nachos and wings every other week or so, and just in general the easiest thing to do as a group of young adults is to go out somewhere to eat, drink, and be merry.  This is not only easy, but gets expensive, and it also puts a little weight in the pit of my belly.

On Wednesdays in Lent my mom counts on soup suppers for our family to eat; but since I don't go to church on Wednesday nights I never have dinner plans.  On the other hand, Wednesday tends to be date night, so I usually get something with J when he gets out of work.  A few weeks ago we made some squash and pepper in a red wine reduction with caramelized onions, or something fancy like that.  (I would have said I threw a bunch of delicious veggies into a frying pan with some oil and wine and ate it with chopsticks over rice, but J is passionate about food so he knows all the lingo.  Don't quote me on it though.)  Last week I dropped Maria off at band practice and then met up with him on Main Street Newark.

The air was so warm and pleasantly heavy, and all the outdoor seating was up and bustling.  "My goal for tonight is to get some really good food and to really enjoy eating it," I said.  And that we did.

We sat on the patio at Rooney's, and ordered a warm goat cheese salad and New Orleans pasta with blackened chicken, which was very spicy.  The salad was one of the most delicious salads I've ever tasted, though, with apples, candied walnuts, goat cheese, and a really perfect viniagrette.  Even the warm bread and honey butter that came before the meal was divine.

I actually cleaned both plates after J quit, which we both got a kick out of, and then he bought me froyo, even though I was so full, because I come from a long line of people who can't say no to ice cream.

There is an important lesson in froyo for me, a lesson my chocolate-loving sister learned 14 years ago: Get what you want.  I always feel stupid going out for froyo, looking at the 10 different choices of froyo flavors and settling on plain old original tart.  But that's always what I want.  So I'm eating my dessert thinking, "Well, yeah, this is good, but I wish I had gotten the plain old."

The lesson: Get what you want.  Also, don't order half price nachos if you already feel your stomach rolling at the thought of eating a whole plate of nachos.  Don't order half price wings if you don't like wings.  It's that simple.

Order what you feel like eating, cook what you feel like eating, and then sit and enjoy every last bite.  And when you're full, stop eating.  Eat the rest for lunch tomorrow.  Mix unconventional leftovers (like black beans and mac-n-cheese) for an exciting day 2 experience.  Treat yourself sometimes, eat slowly, eat in the sun.  Eat food that reminds you of someone or someplace you love and miss.  Play games like "pick-out-the-flavors-in-this-delicious-concoction."  Spend some time around the family table, spend some time cooking and eating and digesting with good friends, spend some one-on-one time eating with somebody who makes you forget that you're not the only two people on the planet.

Notable eating experiences?  Reflections on food?  Favorite places to chow down in your area?  Please share!

making plays and kicking ass: a collective biography

Yep.  Seasonal affect order (SAO) is kicking in.  I'm gonna be totally honest here: I hate--hate hate hate!--that my mood is so heavily affected by the weather, but I think my life will be better if I just acknowledge that fact.  Now the key is to remember that next time it gets dark at 4:00pm.

Speaking of getting dark at 4:00pm, happy equinox!  And first day of spring!  (I appreciate the pagan holidays because it never makes sense that winter starts on December 21, and this is the first year that spring has actually beat the equinox to me.  So nail a pizza to a tree, or something, in honor of the equinox.)

OK.  Let's get down to business.  I am in a really good mood if you couldn't tell, in large part due to the awesome holiday weekend that just happened.  (Was St. Pat a pagan? I hope so.)  Here's why: I was house- and cat-sitting for my fam while they hit up Ohio and Indiana for some college visits, so instead of resigning myself to loneliness I decided to fill the house with good people.

My mom suggested I get a keg, but I chickened out.  Jameson tastes wayyy better anyway.

So.  I spent Friday on the edge of my seat waiting for the day to be done so I could meet up with my girls.  Ellen, one of my beloved Olaf Kansans, drove up from D.C.  She, Kristy, and I snagged Audrey off the bus around 8:00, and we headed over to Cosmo's Diner on Maryland Ave.

First off, I was very proud of myself for finding it with very little direction, aside from checking out the map on Kristy's phone before we left home.  Makes me feel like a local.

And speaking of locals, let me add to my list of reasons it rocks dating local boys.  Awhile back I was seriously craving baklava, so J took me to Ali Baba's for $1 baklava.  We also talked about someday trying to make it, which I've heard is quite a feat, and would therefore most likely involve me constantly refilling our wine glasses and him doing most of the work.  Anyway, I took the following picture of a sign on the table and sent it to him:

"Also look what i found!"

And he IMMEDIATELY responded: "COsmos!!!!"

Too great.

Anyway, Cosmo's was awesome.  The bread and the salad alone kicked some serious ass, and my spanakopita definitely did not disappoint (even though I still can't pronounce it).  While we were sitting there, not surprisingly being the most raucous booth in the whole place, the lights flickered on and off, and on and off again, and went out for a second before what we assumed was the generator kicked on.  Meanwhile, a series of dramatic flashes of electricity lit up the skyline outside, vaguely in the direction of my house.  It wasn't really in the direction of my house, but close enough that I set a world record in short-course heart racing.


But we all know I overreact.

After dinner we headed over to W. 4th Street to an 80s-themed arcade bar I saw in Out & About last month: 1984.  It seemed pretty legit, but since I wasn't around in 1984 I can't say for sure.  It seemed like everyone else in there was around in 1984, though.  Unclear in some cases whether they were going to bars in 1984, but still.  One guy watched us all open tabs with the bartender and leaned over to Ellen: "Remember when you had to pay in cash at bars?"

Actually none of  us remember that, because we've only been going to bars for a year or so.  We balanced our pride in being four of the last/best things to come out of the 80s by feeling a little out of place, but nobody made us feel unwelcome.  The bartenders were pretty cool, actually, gave us recommendations and helped us make tough decisions like what our next beer would be.  Among them: Abita Purple Haze, which was the best raspberry wheat I've had since hitting the 75th Street Brewery in Kansas; Evolution Lucky 7 Porter, which kinda stole my heart; Angry Orchard Apple Ginger hard cider, which was by far my favorite cider ever; and the ever-popular Old Dominion Oak Barrel Stout, touted enthusiastically by Audrey as her all-time most favorite beer ever that she can never find but it's here!

Love at first pour

Note that 1984 does not have a full bar, just a killer selection of hipster beers (I could say craft but they're pretty proud of their PBR so I'll widen the net for that) and the Mike's Hard/Twisted Tea varieties.  This threw an interesting wrench in Kristy's beer-weaning, which wasn't scheduled to start until laying-out weather.  She kind of had to jump out of the nest after two cheer beers, and discovered to my shock and awe that she likes hoppy beers, and hates wheat.  Huh.

I'm also fascinated by the fact that their Facebook page ranks way higher than the actual website, which I found on Yelp.  It just opened in early December, and it feels like real-people, on-the-ground management.  Everyone was friendly and familiar and there was a DJ who was spinning actual records, which is awesome.  And I think we secured our street cred from leading a rousing chorus of "TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT! I DON'T WANNA LET YOU GO 'TIL YOU SEE THE LIGHT!"

We stayed there as long as we could, waiting for Karin to report on the status of her late bus from New York.  She got in around 1:30 and since Wilmington is in a metropolitan no-man's land the only two places open at that time of night are IHOP (but only on Main Street Newark) and Denny's on 273.  So we went there, to eat ill-timed breakfast food with all the other drunk people in the state, and catch up a little before Ellen had to head back to D.C. at 6 in the morning.  Far shot from our New York nights of leaving the bar before everyone else at 3:30am...

Saturday, despite Ellen's absence, was an absolutely gorgeous day.  We picked up Anne from the train station at noon and the five of us headed out to Old New Castle to meet Jess.

The most beautiful women in Delaware. I'm sure of it.

As you may have noticed, Old New Castle is pretty much my favorite place ever.  It's that history-romance-cobblestone thing.  (Those are pretty much synonyms, by the way.)  Also the fact that the courthouse steeple is the center of the Delaware circle.

Turns out we were starving by the time we got there, so we stopped for lunch at Trader's Cove, a super cute cafe in an old colonial building with a gorgeous little beer & wine garden out back.  (We deduce it is a popular hangout for theater people, theater people in this case possibly being reenactors...?  Who knows.)  We got grown-up PBJ sandwiches and falafel sandwiches and I got a curry chicken sandwich.  All were very good, and come with adorably sliced fresh fruit, or homemade sweet potato chips.  Noms.

Actually, the colonial building is called Penn's Place--allegedly the place where William Penn slept his first night in New Castle.  (See what they did there? Eh? Eh?)  We think he was 22 at the time, and we postulate that he also ate grown-up PBJ's in his beer & wine garden.  Before he became a Quaker.

Mostly we spent the afternoon in the sun, chatting.  But Jess made us go inside this antique bookstore, a place called Between the Covers, where we all got lost for awhile.  We found some gems in there, like a British first edition Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which was going for $250.  Other books were worth tens of thousands of dollars.  Nuts.  For the literary crowd we are.

Old Town shuts down right around 5:00, so after the bookstore closed we meandered back to the house for the night.  J and some of his friends eventually came over and I could not have been happier at how the night went down.  Good number of good people, good drinks, good food, good times.  Just so satisfied.  Also, I love my friends.

And Jameson.

On Sunday I got up and made this gorgeous brunch, with the help of my gorgeous friends.  I love, love, LOVE hostessing.  Seriously.  And we were about to linger over brunch for a half hour or so, since Karin's bus left at "noonish."

Ha.

We were going around the table, stating our goals for the day, and Karin said, "My goal for today is to get to my bus with 30 seconds to spare."  We all laughed, and I said, "I'd like to give you a little more time," and Anne said, "Wait, what time does your bus leave?"

Karin looked at her watch, cooly, and said, "8 minutes from now?"

All five of us exploded from the table.  I just grabbed my keys, even though I was still in my PJs, and Karin and I zoomed off to the bus station (which is at least 10 minutes away--that usually seems close, but not under the circumstances).  I actually made very good time, without making any highly unsafe traffic decisions.

And the bus was still parked in front of the station when we got there.  Sigh of relief.

Turns out, they had severely overbooked the bus, so I waited in the car while Karin rescheduled her ticket for 2 hours later.  None of us were complaining at all about the extra hours with our girl.  And we all voted to just sit around and chat.  So we really lingered over brunch.  And chatting.  And grilled cheese sandwiches.

The thesis and theme of the weekend is, as usual, love.  A weekend with any and all of these girls never fails to leave each of us refreshed, encouraged, invigorated.  Content.  And contentedness has not been a particularly common feeling in any of our adult lives.

These friendships are so important, and what I have come to appreciate this weekend is that they are developing adult friendships, relationships that have moved beyond the bounds of our student status, Cage raging and research projects.  We have continued to support and affirm each other in very real ways in a very real world, and I have no words to express how valuable these grownup friendships have been to me so far this year.  They have surprised me, pleasantly, and given me the strength I've needed to come as far as I have since graduation.

This is not unusual for us.

Anne also mentioned laughter.  We laughed this weekend.  We laughed reminiscing about laughing in Buntrock, at Cage tables, at inopportune moments, in our weird but contagious choir, echoing and magnifying in the huge atrium student center.  She told us about a mutual friend, Hannah, who has started doing smiling meditation, and all the awkward moments that have come from her smiling outwardly for 5 minutes straight, for no apparent reason.  It struck me that I spend most of my days pursing my lips, squinting at my computer screen, hunching over in my supposedly ergonomic office chair, my right hand stiffening in its grip on the mouse.  So I started smiling for five minutes on my drive home everyday.

It's distracting, but it's evidence of how powerful and important these connections and conversations are in our lives if we are to be happy and successful.  And they are like a yeast starter: They build on themselves and spread to other people.  It gets easier and easier to reconnect with these women every time we meet up and say goodbye again.  Also, these relationships brought a new light and depth to some of my important local relationships, and I am ecstatic to have been able to share all these incredible people with each other.

Not to mention, the house was cleaner when they left than when they showed up.

My next goal is to make everyone move to Wilmington...

stream of sunshine consciousness

A few things.

I've noticed the past few days, driving down my street at around 5:00pm, a middle-aged couple walking together in the blinding late afternoon sunshine.  Single file to let me and other cars pass.  I hope that, 30 or 40 years down the line, or 50 or 60, for that matter, I am doing this.

After I passed them I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the man reach out and take the woman's hand.

I really hope I am doing this in my future.

Asha has gone out rollerblading.  I'm sitting on the back steps photosynthesizing the last warm rays of the day, basking in the alchemy of sunbeams into smiles beaming across my face.  I can't help it.  I almost definitely have some seasonal affect disorder (disorder? I think the disorder is that we trap ourselves inside all winter, live in cold climates, cover our skin) but now that the sun is out I can't stop grinning.

Today, though, I busted out the bug spray, because I have literally 10 bug bites from the other night.  Ha.

Unfortunately the wasps are starting to unfreeze and find themselves drawn to my room.  I am not particularly drawn there since it's colder inside than out these days, and downstairs than up.  But we run into each other from time to time, their lethargic presence eliciting obligatory shrieks and a thorough smashing on my end.

Fortunately it is almost beach-bikini-babe beer season.  I have never been so excited for summer to come.  At least it seems that way.  I am determined this summer to start Kristy drinking beer.  We'll start with my favorite classic, summer shandy.  First Leinie's, then the house version that I mix up by hand.  Pumped.

For today I am drinking this:
A "vanilla pale ale" with a slightly burnt caramel flavor.  (I didn't come up with that myself--it was on the bottle.  But when it comes to tea, I tend to like vanilla-caramel concoctions.  When it comes to anything, really, vanilla and caramel are pretty winning flavors.  Like flan, when it is almost burnt.

See the Peruvian Chicken House.)


Also I am excited about small skirts, dresses, and shorts.  And flashy shades.  And purple polka-dot bikinis, a la Jess at this weekend's Hilltop Superstars sports tourney.

It's supposed to hover in the 70s for the next few days.  I have been soaking up the sun via sunroof and parking lot lunch breaks so far this week.  My mood has skyrocketed from relative February levels.  All of these factors are key in the upcoming weekend shenans, when a few of my college girlfriends will be flocking to the illustrious city of Wilmington for St. Patty's Day.  That timing was mostly unplanned, but fortuitous nonetheless.

Gwen at the Y starts the Tuesday night yoga practice always with a drawn-out sun salutation, the core element of which is intention, focus, grounding.  She tells us to ground each of the four corners of our feet, first separately, then simultaneously, into our mat.  Feet hip-width apart, sink the inside of your heel into the mat, then the outside.  Dig in your big toe, then your little toe.  Hip-width apart.  Now all four corners at the same time.  It feels like roots shoot out of my soles at that point and hold me immovably to the shiny floor of the Western Room.  (Ironic, isn't it, that yoga is held in the Western Room.)

But now I'm shooting roots outside.  And I couldn't be more stoked about it.

she's only happy in the sun