Pier 1 Imports, aisle nostalgia

Every year when I come home for Christmas now, my mom specifically asks for my Tri-Cities "to do" list, if you will. This year especially I think she was feeling the sting of the empty nest more than usual since my sister is studying in Australia for her spring semester (oober jealous). I always sort of have the usual pit stops on the schedule, mainly consisting of delicious food that can only be found here (Atomic pizza, spudnuts of all varieties, Nancy Smith's chocolate chip pie) and local businesses my soul, and wallet, love to give themselves to (Barracuda's, The Bookworm).

But as I thought beyond just the shopping list of calories and new-to-me books, I realized that home in its morphing form is becoming just that: a checklist. Looking out to see the snow-capped Blue Mountains or meandering by the rivers will always feel like second-nature. This was especially true as I found the wonderful company of old friends who were able to But this isn't a place I can just be anymore. Too many haunts are still frequented by ghosts of decisions past, or have changed to the point of being almost unrecognizable (read: church). Once I'm done with my godfather pizza and potato flour maple bar, I hit a rut. Next year I suppose I'll have to add a bagel and chinese food stops to delay the rut a bit longer.

Despite this somewhat downhearted realization, I did receive the gift of wonderful company with old friends, an unexpected pleasantry this year for a lot of faces I haven't seen in quite some time. It's nice to know that so many of the ghosts are friendly ones.

as if you need another way to waste an evening

In the name of research, I got on Facebook to look through a few pictures of the bacon haircuts over the years, in preparation for tomorrow's salon visit...

3 hours later, I was delving much farther into my psyche than I was prepared for on a sober Wednesday.

Although the self-stalking capabilities offered by Facebook didn't really start for me until the college years, the occasional walk down memory lane offered a glimpse into the Kodak version of my life starting with a 6th grade Fun Friday; it was pretty much downhill from those khaki overalls and pigtails, let me tell you.

Complicating matters is my aversion to carrying a camera with me to major life events, so most of the photos are what other people found interesting/memorable/worth the space on an SD card. meaning lots of me making ridiculous faces to hide the chipmunk cheeks or inability to smile and keep my eyes looking normal. Other noted trends:

-In standing group photos I'm almost always the outside figure. I don't know if this means I'm just a last-minute addition to most pictures or I'm just the last one to get in the game.

-I am significantly taller than the majority of my friends. This could also account for the awkward outside poses, but as a result I always look slouched and body parts are unflatteringly shifted because I'm leaning down or trying to contort in some other way. This gets worse as Weakley's drunk pictures are usually taken from a down-to-up angle.

-I have two hair lengths: short and butch, or long and stringy. I'm trying to rectify this tomorrow, but let's be honest, I've never been the "well why not just try something out of the box" kind of girl. Although I might go brunette...

-My quota for "omg I'm taking my own picture in a public place or maybe with my bff" pictures is well below average. This is I think is a sign of my good judgment. Although I can't say the same for any of my sister's Facebook albums...

I expected more from the white leggigs

Baltimore, you disappointed me last night.

Sure, you were dressed to the nines in your platform heels and one size too small white leggings (and actually leggings of all different varied patterns that make me rethink my earlier post on the subject). You even kept your cool when Usher pulled you onstage to essentially simulate sex for a good 10 minutes. You had some good counter moves.

But compared to the enthusiasm I've seen you exhibit for lake trout and a chicken box, I was expecting much more when the king of abs himself was asking you to wave your hands.

Now I wasn't asking for you to throw your panties onstage or start some sort of Bieber-esque hysteria. We were all mature, loyal fans patiently waiting for our dreams to come true. But I don't think it's too much to ask that when Usher is busting out a medley of the old classics that you put down the camera phones and actually engage with the performance. You could've just taken your picture with the 10-foot prom background of his 12-pack and saved your battery for another day.

I expected more. After all, I was able to scream the lyrics to "Burn" while also snapping a crappy quality photo of him performing ABOVE THE AUDIENCE. Can no one multitask anymore?

I stil cringe at jeggings

I don't think I'm alone in frustration when I say that 1994 called and wants its fashion trends back.

Between the female flannel, stirrup pants, and tapered jeans, I've just about given up on wasting my money on glossy magazines showing me just how untrendy I am for not thinking dominatrix shoes and shoulder pads make for the perfect night on the town.

But in honor of pushing myself out of the small square peg I usually dress inside, I dipped a toe into the crazy world of American Apparel's candy land and attempted the safest trend I could conceivably live with: the long cardigan/leggings combo.

Now I am the first girl to shout from the rooftop that leggings are not pants. (In fact catch me on the street after a solid happy hour and I really do yell it). My roommate convinced me that yes, the red cardigan covered the junk in my larger-than-average trunk, and no, my lady business was not unflatteringly exposed. (A major fashion faux pas in my book). Also complicating my fashion fears was the outfit's use at my church's advent concert, meaning I would be up on stage in front of Jesus himself, and more worrisome, old ladies.

I didn't take a picture for you to judge for yourselves, but I think we can call it a success. Just don't expect a jegging to be in my future. Or any of your futures if I have anything to say about it.

(Also I realize that if I'm going to parade myself around as an aspiring writer I should probably not let my blog go to the weeds. My apologies.)

our economy thanks you, Norway

In the Fell's Point neighborhood of Baltimore, you can usually see a myriad of cultures represented. A large latino community is about 4 blocks north of the water, and the pubs that line the harbor waterfront represent Irish, German, and Italian backgrounds.

Then last week the Norweigans came to town. In their huge effing boat.

This is not the first time foreign boats have invaded the harbor waters to use the fire hydrant. A few months ago I was just walking along, eating my soft pretzel, when I turned around and was face to face with a 12 year old brandishing a large automatic weapon aboard a ship from the British Royal Navy. (Ok I'm sure he wasn't actually 12, but his baby face was way too young to have that size of firearm strapped to his side).

And I can understand that when you've been at sea for god knows how long, you'll need to go grocery shopping. Fresh foods, basic supplies, and maybe a few splurges, all reasonable. So imagine my surprise when the 14 year old-looking Norweigans (I guess Scandanavians wait a couple years before enslaving children in their armed forces) started unloaded their 15-passenger van with NOTHING BUT AMERICAN BEER. Case after case of Coors Light, Budweiser, and Bud Light. The van was full floor to ceiling. Well done, my friends. Well done.

On a side note, I also gave myself a pat on the back for correctly identifying the ship's flag of origin. Thanks Winter Olympic standings graphics.

speechless

In less than 24 hours my DonorsChoose project went from being a distant reality to FULLY FUNDED.

Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.

And for those of you who are saying to yourselves "darn I wanted to help but now it's too late!" you can still go to DonorsChoose and search/support one of the thousands of other high-needs classrooms waiting for resources. If your family/friends support a charity for the holidays, consider adding this one to the list. As a teacher who often finds herself constantly slammed up against a brick wall, this site is a breath of fresh air to those of us on the front lines.

Bless you all.

"I saw OUR author on tv this weekend"

These are the words Kayla excitedly greeted me with this morning. We started our memoir unit last week, and she saw our anchor text's author being interviewed. She asked when our books were coming, because she wanted to get a head start on the reading so she could "really think about some intelligent things to say." Kayla has never finished a chapter book cover to cover.

I don't think I've ever been as nervous as the night I shook hands with Wes Moore. Not only had he written a powerful memoir about expectations and life choices, he spoke eloquently, gave a 5-minute shout out to his mother (named Joy, ironically), and is not hard on the eyes. He had just finished a sort of town-hall style discussion about educational policy in the U.S., and I was 4th in line to get my book signed and meet him. This wasn't my first rodeo in terms of book signings, so I was expecting the standard what's your name, thanks for coming, amusing catch phrase, and send you on your way. 10 minutes later I was still holding back tears and talking about the neighborhood where he grew up, the same neighborhood that is zoned for my students today.

I need your help to create this "ah hah" moment for my students. We're already halfway to funding a class set of The Other Wes Moore, his true account of his Baltimore childhood and the childhood of another Wes Moore, currently serving a life-sentence for murder. This story is all too familiar for the Wes Moores sitting in my classroom today. You can help by visiting my DonorsChoose project and getting us the rest of the way to our goal of 30 books. Huge shout outs to the Zerkels, grandma busby, and Jim McPherson for their more than generous contributions already! Every little bit helps, especially because the page gets more publicity on the DonorsChoose homepage based on the number of donors to a project. An easy way to think about it is each book costs $17.

Kayla's ready to read. Let's make it happen!

www.donorschoose.org/msbacon

**troubleshooting note: some people have been having trouble getting the donation cart to work. Most likely this is caused because you have to create a donors page through the site. It takes like 2 seconds and you can still give to project anonymously.**

canine concession

I've blogged before about my insistence that we are entirely too much of a dog-obsessed culture. Man's best friend should be human, not a drooling smelly canine who eats the table leftovers and falls for the fake ball-throw every time (unless your human friend drools and smells, at which point you should just say hey, dude, get a hold of yourself).

But this past weekend while visiting a human friend in d.c., I found myself swooning for her Cocker Spaniel roommate. By the end of the second day I was even wrestling Barney for his ball right out of his mouth, a task previously considered absolutely beyond my capacity. I don't know what came over me, but the combination of his ridiculously soft black fur, oversized paws, and bark that sounded like me whining for another piece of cake melted my heart. But still, I'm hesitant to say I've been made a believer. I take the same stance with dogs as I do with children: sure, their are diamonds in the rough that make you oooh and aww and feel yourself suddenly inspiried. But then there are the other 99% of encounters that leave you covered in unwanted snot/slobber, hearing impaired from excessive cries for attention, and exhausted from telling it to get out of the cookie jar.

I've always considered myself more of a cat person, for their sheer predictability of self-reliance. Cats do not need a mother, nor do they need a best friend at all times. In fact, Sloane Crosley's essay for the New York Times was a hot emailed item to all my dog-washed friends. And while I'm currently without any sort of non-human housemate, I can see myself buying friendship in the next year or so. We'll see which camp I commit to.

stuff white people like: ms. bacon edition

brunch, coffee dates with friends, country clubs, shaving off male facial hair, shopping in the suburbs, vegetables, tomatoes (specifically mentioned separately from vegetables), sunshine, country music, dating other white people, Starbucks (as opposed to Dunkin Donuts), cosmos, reading, black eyeliner, driving slow, swimming.

(as all mentioned, questioned, or stated by my students lately.)

superman? let's start with adequately compotent normal guy

As one of the few "perks" of Teach for America, I participated in an advance screening of the much-hyped "Waiting for Superman" documentary, which focuses on the public education system.

I have to say, it's quite the Debby Downer.

The film, praised by the likes of Oprah and countless others, crusades against drop-out factories, rubber rooms, teachers unions, school lotteries, and an overall broken system. It follows the fates of a handful of kids trying to get out of their assigned public neighborhood school and into either charter or magnet schools in both suburban and urban communities. Spoiler alert: only two of them make it out.

As a teacher working in just such a failing school, as measured by state tests scores for English and Algebra, discussions of this nature are bittersweet. While Oprah's overflowing promises that "this is the movie that will finally change your life" are well-intentioned, I can't help but be somewhat skeptical. Reformers from the KIPP network and Harlem Success Academy are highlighted as heroes; Michelle Rhee, chancellor of D.C. public schools, is set up to as almost a martyr for the case against bureaucracy. But what the film never really tells you is that these 5 kids are stuck in a lottery for a reason: it's terribly difficult to replicate these successes on a large scale. The recipe for success in the gumbo of a successful school is more than just teachers; principals, efficient budgeting, parent support, intervention resources, and those are just the stalk ingredients. Forget the spices to taste for differentiated curriculum, attendance monitoring, extracurricular support, etc.

I'd love for superman to swoop in and start cooking the gumbo. But for now, I'd just settle for slightly better than chaos.

Instead of watching tv today I...

finished a journal review assignment for a hopkins class that was due last Thursday. Once I got down to business it only took 45 minutes: highlighters and sticky notes as a strategy for keeping students with ADHD on task? useful.

I did come home and watch an episode of Gilmore Girls in between work and going to my other hopkins class, but I considered that acceptable because it really was for relaxation at a time when I would otherwise have just taken a nap.

alternate reality: a challenge

I waste entirely too much time in front of the television.

When I was little we were theoretically limited to one hour a day, and that hour could only consist of PBS programming. Don't get me wrong, I loved Kratts Creatures and Wishbone like none other, but sometimes Nickelodeon may have "accidentally" ended up sucking me into what my parents considered the epicenter of all childhood sins.

As I've gained the ability to choose my own TV channels, I can't say I've made better choices than ones dictated to me. Sometimes I just sit there and 2 hours later can literally feel my soul grimacing in defeat. I've always said I watch reality/crappy tv to prove to myself that my own life is intelligent and full of good decisions (aka to not leave a hook up date alone in my room while I make a meal first. Thanks Jersey Shore). But lately I've realized there's a fine line between relaxing escapement and just a plain waste of time.

Which brings me to my October challenge: no extra tv. Now granted, Glee, Grey's Anatomy, and Private Practice can stay; I'm not going to just toss out all my stress relief techniques. (Plus John Stamos and Taye Diggs are looking quite attractive these days). This also includes online viewing. Netflix Instant Play, while the best invention ever, makes it too easy to look up and realize 8 episodes of Weeds later that I could be doing something more useful, like my 8 loads of laundry or Hopkins homework. But other than that, it's go find a book, or actually write for fun, or, god forbid, exercise consistently. Also not included would be news-watching or the upcoming PBS series on God in America starting Oct. 11. I consider being informed as counting toward the self-edification process.

We'll see how this week goes...

a lesson in moderation

As Weakley and I perused the Baltimore Book Festival today, we tried to keep in mind Alyssa's latest encouragement to be frugal with the printed word. Despite the calling out of several beautifully worn books (and the constraints of limited cash on hand), we managed to stick to a minimized pile of purchases:

-The Sparrow (which I couldn't believe I didn't have my own copy of). Sometimes you just want to have your own copy of something so if I die suddenly at a young age I can prove I had good taste.

-The Liar's Club, by Mary Karr. Recommended by Weakley from a creative nonfiction class.

-The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. A classic that's always been on the need-to-read list.

-The Pleasure of my Company, by Steve Martin. I loved Shopgirl and was intrigued by his newer short work.

-Selected Poems of Rita Dove.

-A year subscription to the Baltimore Sun Sunday edition. What can I say, it's an investment in my potential future job opportunities.

ingredients for a pretty good Sunday

- 2 hours of perusing the Abell Street Fair, conveniently located on my street with art vendors, bake sale items, and several community organizations promoting their causes. I walked away with two paintings, a "conversation tin" (similar to a loaded questions-type game), a flyer for next weekend's car wash, and a kick-ass piece of chocolate cake baked by an 8 year old.

-a continued commitment to reading my home delivery Sunday Times. I absolved my journalistic guilt by subscribing to the print edition for Sundays, and it keeps proving to be an excellent expenditure of time and money. This week's Time Magazine in particular is very good, all focused on education. (See the Delicious links on right).

-3 Clorox wipes and a dustpan, applied to our still-emerging living room.

-leftover cheesy bread

-being called a "love guru" by a friend in need of relationship advice. It's nice to know that my sometimes bumpy experiences are being put to good use.

-having 3 people say hello to me by name at church. It's taken me a while, but I finally am a recognized face and name, at least by my fellow choir members.

my blood probably runs redder these days

In honor of my day off (thanks Maryland primaries), I decided to hit the town. And on a Fall Monday, chances are every bar in town is packed with one type of person:

a Ravens fan.

Now I've slowly been acclimating myself to the world of football, mostly out of necessity at first. I never really saw a need to watch men who, if encountered in a dark alley, would cause me to wet myself, bumble about in spandex trying to knock each other over. The only time my family watched football was on Thanksgiving, and high school football games were much more about socializing and perfecting that damn pat-your-neighbors-leg cheer.

College friends required a bit more investment, for the sole purpose of being able to see them on a Saturday between September and February. I learned the difference between a buckeye and a pot leaf (or at least that there's supposed to be a difference), and politely picked the dead Oregon pom-pom off the seat before getting in my friend's car for our Saturday Costco runs. I even kicked it in my college president's basement one year for the Ohio/Michigan game (although I slept through the third quarter....what can I say he had a really comfy bean bag chair). Now I even belong to what we refer to as the "Ohio State crew," a group of miscreants who either attended the school, lived in Ohio, stumbled into the wrong bar, or just look really good in scarlet.

But Baltimore fans are a breed of their own. Casual Friday around here means wear your favorite jersey, the mention of the Colts will get you kicked out of an establishment, and the day after a tough loss students are either inconsolable or fighting about who knows more obscure statistics from the game. I swore I'd never drink the Kool-Aid, that no matter how much I wanted to jump into the Baltimore culture this was one cult I was just too sane to follow. And believe me, if they thought it would help their Super Bowl chances, these people would drink just about anything...

So I figured holding out a year in this place was enough grounding in reality, and hit the town, purple tank top and all. And I gotta say, it was one hell of a game. Besides the fact that I love any excuse to trash talk in a public setting, football lends itself well to social gatherings. The game lolligags around enough that I can catch up with friends, or not worry that a sneeze is going to ruin the game-winning shot. And it was nice to feel a part of something that had nothing to do with "tracking the achievement gap." I was just another person screaming insults about a 400 lb man's love making abilities in front of the local news camera. Ah, to belong.

call me when you lose a limb

I've never been part of a "well you have the sick leave, so take it" mentality. We called no blood no foul. And usually if there was blood, it just meant you hadn't gotten a big enough band-aid the first time around. We went to the doctor, sure, but that was just to get instructions or meds that legitimized not taking it easy. Pop the pill and call it a day.

I've played basketball tournaments that required a trashcan at the end of the bench for vomit. Still recovering from pneumonia when team camp rolled around? Suck it up and make sure to have extra fruit with breakfast. Broken wrist from rollerblading at the park? Wait a couple hours and brace it with the phone book from the drawer, cause we have to finish this rink session first. In all my time growing up I can only remember my dad taking 1 sick day from school, and that was because he threw his back out and literally could not stand up.

So now that I have my own authority to call the shots, I still find myself reverting back to the "fake it till you make it" approach to self-care. Granted I'm much more prone to using my union-contracted sick leave (thanks mono), but I just can't legitimize "taking it easy" when it comes to illness (laziness is another story...). I've taught more than once with a significant fever, and now tomorrow will hit room 215 trying to ignore the unsightly but harmless rash on my arms and legs resulting from a reaction to strep medication. Nothing my navy blazer can't solve.

the baby walks

After only, you know, a month and a half, I finally put the finishing touches on my new room. The rest of the house is still in progress, but significant steps forward (like visible floor in our living room) have been made.

In an unusual morning burst of energy, I not only started laundry (which was put away within my 24 hour goal), but mounted my wall mirror, hung 2 pictures, and shanghaied the broken DVD shelf using a leftover screw. This involved a hammer, mounting brackets, 6 nails, 5 screws, and at least 3 do-overs to adjust for straightness.

I made a joke that I deserved some male body parts after all that handiwork, but my new roommate gave me the awkward laugh. Like I said, work in progress.

is there such thing as a bad onion?

In honor of the pending doom that is the start of our respective school years, Sarah, Charita and I decided to continue family dinner every Sunday (a "tradition" inspired by the unofficial HHS class of '05 reunion a couple weeks ago here). This week's charge: chicken enchiladas.

Pretty much anything I cook that isn't my family macaroni and cheese or cake from a box, I have to utilize some serious hand holding. Because even if you have a recipe, there's still an assumed level of culinary background that just makes the whole thing too damn complicated. Take today, for example. Weakley and I decided to go off the cuff and figure out the enchiladas ourselves, without having to call our mommas for advice. Several problems immediately presented themselves:

1. I did not realize that enchilada sauce is not the same thing as salsa. Thus resulting in an argument in the Hispanic food aisle with Sarah, while intermittently commenting on the Phil Collins blaring in the background. We got some good laughs out of our fellow shoppers. Also helpful because the sauce can conveniently had a recipe on it so we had at least some direction.

2. I knew that onion would taste good, but realized that I neither knew which color of onion to choose, nor what constitutes a "good" onion. Firm or soft? Aromatic or no? I went with the assumption that onions should not be squishy, and the yellow one was the cheapest, so done and done.

3. I would have killed us all if I'd been in charge of the cooking, because thanks to my father I assume anything going in the oven doesn't need to be pre-cooked. Again, Weakley with the save.

They should be done in about 20 minutes, so we'll see if our improvising will pay off. I'm suspicious of the decision to go with the cayenne pepper...

And as a side note, the link to good onions is quite insightful. An excellent place to start for all you other kitchen novices.

can I get an amen

For some reason the past 48 hours have been brim full of introspection. Blame it on Teach for America, if nothing else.

It started with my mom asking me to help her with her Sunday School lesson for the week about support systems. I blanked when she asked "so how did you make all those huge changes in your life over the past 2 years? What was your support system?" I mean the obvious answers of great friends and my family came to mind, but more than anything else, it was more based in beings successful in spite of local connections. I wanted to prove to others, and myself, that I could create my own life, friends, living arrangements, and job without a hand to hold that was closer than 1,000 miles away.

Finding a church was no different. Unlike some church-reared, I've been through the experience of being the new kid on the block. It's easier in a sense when you're in high school because all the kids your age are in the same room (whether or not they like you is entirely a different story). But now, adjusting to flying solo in a new church is a whole new kind of awkward. One of the reasons I've kept going back to my church here is that so far, a new person has gone out of his/her way each week to greet me. It hasn't led to being remembered, per say (aggravated by my bouncing between the two services based on how much I feel like sleeping in), and sometimes I wonder if I would get the same reaction if I wasn't sitting alone.

I was going to conquer my ultimate fear of single-church living today by hitting up the all church picnic after the one service; I totally chickened out. And as much as I can blame it on the iffy weather, it was more just the terror of standing in the grass chowing on my burger and not having anyone to talk to.

So to answer you, mom, I guess I'm not as independent as I claim to be.

Abc's

As I head into my second year of teaching, I feel like I need to get a weight off my chest. For years, I've paraded around with this sense of superiority for knowing the correct use of a semicolon and the difference a hyphen makes in the word pompom (one is a weapon, the other is a fluffy symbol of school spirit).

But I can't spell to save my life.

Part of me blames this on growing up in the technology age. Even though we didn't get a home computer until I was in middle school, I wasn't exactly using complex compound words in my riveting* 5th grade report on the Stout-Hearted Seven. After that, automatic spell check became my crutch. Who needs to know where the a's and e's go when a little red squiggle line will gently remind you that you're an incompetent* user of the English language? As a result I also have very little tolerance for spelling errors in typed documents. The red squiggle is your best friend. Use it.

I could also blame this on my father, who, an English teacher himself back in the day, would bribe my sister and I to proofread his syllabus each year. Even now, my mom reads over any business* letter or document before he'll send it with confidence.

Only a few of my students caught on to my ironic existence* when they would ask how to spell a word and I would have to sit at the board with a furrowed brow and, after several erased attempts, tell them I wouldn't take points off if they guessed wrong. I vowed to NEVER be one of those teachers who answers the question of "how do you spell ____" with "D-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-R-Y." First of all, a dictionary is just another reason for johnny to have something to throw out the window. But secondly, you have to already know how to spell a word in order to find it in a timely fashion. For the 4th grade spelling bee I missed the word "immediately," and was sent to the dictionary to correct my error. But when my error was starting with an e instead of an i, an hour later I was in tears at my desk and may or may not have said some choice words to the long-term substitute.

I'm sure there's some sort of CD-ROM I could invest in that would teach me the rules for keeping/dropping vowels in compound nouns (judgment* always kills me), but honestly I'd rather invest in Rosetta Stone software. After all, spelling in Spanish is so much easier...

*denotes any word I originally misspelled in this post.

planes, trains, and a Vermont adventure

Train:
pro:

• excessive leg room. As in my legs didn't touch the seat in front of me if I put my knees up
• No one asks me if I want a beverage every 20 minutes
• (could also be a con): no security lines. I could've packed 20 pounds of shampoo and no one would have been the wiser.
• more spacious bathroom facilities
• less likely to be sitting next to a screaming child with ear problems from the pressure changes
• access to a cell phone, and outlets to charge said phone or other electronic devices
• significantly cheaper
  

con:

• 13 hours, and I only took enough OTC drugs to sleep for about 4 of these.
• The last 4 hours I had to ride backwards because of the track changes. No good.
• More likely to be sitting next to a screaming child because they're stuck on a train for 6 hours and can see freedom just beyond the window.
• no window shades
• no safety information presented except to mind the gap
  

Plane:
pro:

• Only takes about 4 hours, including layover.
• Easier to sleep
• more acceptable to fear for your life due to the possibility of freak accidents.

con:

• Two small planes in a row. I could tell you the eye color of every passenger, aka TOO SMALL.
• 30,000 feet in the air, including a stint over a large body of water.
• Larger ratio of wasted time due to my freakish need to arrive at an airport no later than 2 hours before takeoff.

Jury is still out on which I'll choose next time...

call me in 62 years (updated)

Lessons from my grandmother over the past four days:

1. "If you play with boys, you can end up pregnant. And a lot of boys are very convincing."

2. Always take the champagne if it's an option. Time of day is irrelevant.

3. Pie makes an excellent addition to any breakfast. Especially chocolate chip pie.

4. When you get older, you should find a younger man, because the old ones are only interested in your money. (I tried to convince her the younger ones were probably only after the money too, to which she responded "but yes they're more clever about it.")

5. Anyone scared to ride a motorcycle is a wimp.

6. Amanda (17 year old niece): "Yeah my boyfriend is coming over later."
Grandma: "So how many do you have?"
Amanda: "boyfriends?...um just one at a time."
Grandma: "oh well that's no fun. You gotta at least double up."

7. (while posing for a picture): "sex and cheese. oh wait, does that mean I have to choose between one? Can't do it."

snapshot from the vermonter 056 train

Somewhere between nyc and hartford, CT, a young man got on the train and, after pacing for a seat, chose the one across the aisle from me. At first I was quite pleased, since he is not exactly sore on the eyes and seems about my age.

A little past the hartford stop he got out his computer. As I was currently on my 4th episode of gilmore girls so far this trip, I glanced over to see if my aisle mate had similarly good taste for frivilous televison.

Heks watching P90X, an intense workout video for those of you who have yet to be assaulted by tony. But no, not just watching it. Rewinding to watch the scenes with women in spandex shorts and neon sports bras do push ups to work off the theoretical .5 lbs of body fat left on their chisled frames.

He's watching workout porn.and not even the carmen electra or kim kardashian poser workout kind. p90x makes you lose weight for no other reason that you're afraid if you don't finish that last mountian climber, tony will jump out of the tv and punch you in the abs because he knows you don't have any.

And this guy definitely knows that I know, because at one point he caught my wayward glances of shock and just gave the "I do what I want but still think I'm attractive so we should hang out" head nod.

7 more hours to go...

gearing up for round two

In the past 18 days, I have visited the: U.S. Capitol, Baltimore Museum of Art, Smithsonian of the art, american history, natural history, and zoo varieties, Supreme Court, Library of Congress, National Geographic museum (probably my favorite of the bunch), Union Station, Mt. Vernon, Alexandria, Ocean City, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, monuments of the Lincoln, Washington (both D.C. and Baltimore), World War II, and Vietnam varieties, Ford Theatre, and Ace Hardware.

Needless to say, Saturday entailed a very long nap.

the first 4 am feeding

Two words: Ex hausted.

The labor went better than expected, thanks in large part to the wonderful aid of friends. A big shout out to Weakley, who helped me unload the entire U-haul the same night she helped load it and moved another friend of ours. Epic friend points.

But now, the baby is starting to whine and remind me that it needs things like food and clothing. Usually my regressive type-A personality flares up when I move; I unpack and organize as quickly as possible. However, since my family got into town the day after I unloaded the truck, my entire dining room is still full of boxes. Also, this lovely heat wave hitting the East Coast means that every window air conditioning unit in the city has been sold. So the first night trying to sleep through the night with my new little child meant being able to find no clothes, having no curtains to shield my near-naked sleeping, not being able to sleep through the night anyway because of unbearable heat, and my rusty pipes forcing the purchase of a new showerhead, which of course did not work in the fitting of the old showerhead but who would've thought to check that before taking off the old showerhead and making the entire shower feature nonfunctional. Not this new mama.

Thank God for Grandpa.

As many things as I find overbearing about my father, his insistence that his daughters will not be stranded by a flat tire or ask someone the difference between a flathead and phillips screwdriver are not on the list. So, when the new baby was not only keeping me from a good night's sleep but destroying any remnants of my normal lifestyle, he helped me tackle at least the shower.

Of course this first required a trip to Lowe's, where he loaded up a new toolbox full of more kinds of plyers than I will ever have need for. An hour and another trip to Ace Hardware later, and I have a rust-free, 5-option spray shower. And sometimes I think that's just what a new mother needs. I can't do anything about the sleeping (remedied at the moment by crashing in Weakley's air conditioned basement), or the unpacking until they leave, but I at least have a respite from life for as long as the water wants to flow. Or spray, or trickle, or whatever my fancy is at the moment. Of course the curtains I bought are too short, so clearly I just need to focus on one project at a time.

My sister (who is reading this post over my shoulder), slept through the entire afternoon ordeal. Hints of her future skills as an aunt, I think.

a partial transcript

Quotes from my dad watching his first-ever episode of The Bachelorette:

-"He could've saved so much money and just told her over the damn phone."

-"No guy talks like that. He sounds like a woman" (in reference to Chris Harrison).

-"Oh, well...wait why is this the most important decision of her life? I must've missed something."

-"Who are these people? What, they're parents are just footing the bill for them to fly wherever they want? This is ludicrous."

-"giggling." Literally giggling, not saying the word. That's a first I think.

(impersonating Frank): "you know, I got another broad. Deal with it."

-"You can do it, cry for the camera. There you go, you can do it. Everyone loves some good tears...you're getting paid to do that for another 10 minutes, so you better keep it up."

(impersonating Ali): "No, you can do this I totally understand. I got an ex-boyfriend back home waiting for this paycheck, too."

-"Oh, there's other fish to fry, lady. You'll be fine."

it's like having a baby, over and over again

It's that time of year again. The time when I'm constantly dripping in sweat, letting out expletives like no one's business, and asking myself "how much do I care about my dishes?"

That's right, I'm moving.

Since I was 17, I have not lived in the same place for longer than 9 months. Most of this was due to coming and going from college, but since I never make things easy, I usually would move from college to home to another location for the summer, then back to home then back to school. Last summer was the trifecta: graduate, next day move home, pack not only my stuff to move across the country but pack my parent's house for their move, and then lived out of a suitcase for 3 months. It got to the point where I could pack my entire life in about 45 minutes.

I've realized that I now just assume I'm not going to stay somewhere very long. As I pack my bedroom (cough cough closet), I have nothing to take off the walls. No photos, posters, not even a decorative vase. I knew that the apartment was only for a year, and just told myself that I would just have to take everything down soon, so why bother. Almost like I was a surrogate mother for my living space, carrying it to gestation but knowing I couldn't get attached because I just had to give it back to its rightful owner.

The place I'm moving has definitely not been an enjoyable conception, but hopefully it will result in a loving relationship, rather than a purely symbiotic relationship. I think the porch swing should help with that...

I'll have to cut back on my weird crime story obsessions

Since I've been out of the journalism game for a while, I've fallen behind in the latest social media/online journalism marketing trends. I got on the bandwagon fairly early, at one point maintaining Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Blogger, Delicious, and Flickr accounts. However, adding the former hyperlinks forced me to visit some of those pages for the first time in months. Partly because of the legal ramifications for teachers with an online presence (no matter how squeaky clean it may be), and my limited patience for extraneous computer use during the past year, I've slowly pulled back from the world wide web.

But the other day when I was browsing the Washington Post, I noticed a new feature (or at least new to me): in the top right corner of the home page, I can view what my Facebook friends are reading and sharing from the paper's online content. This disturbed me for several reasons. One, I still get slightly creeped out when websites know more about me that I tell them, such as my Facebook friends or targeted advertising. Two, it provides yet another distraction from reading actual news, and instead adds a whole new level to a person's Facebook stalking abilities.

But I think the most unnerving about this addition was its representation of the larger problem: we rely on digital communication to tell us something about a person. Sure, it's interesting to see that Susan* read about the Coney Island hot dog eating contest, but in the grand scheme of things, I don't really care. I am completely guilty of flooding friends' inboxes with articles or interesting sites; I also know half of these go ignored, which in no way hurts my feelings. I even link my Delicious account to this blog, and try to link a variety of articles. To date I only know of 2 people ever reading one of these articles because I linked it.

I agree with *Jeremy* on most political and social issues. But rarely am I going to see that he liked the latest "summer pet pics" series and suddenly be motivated to view yappy dogs dressed in bathing suits.

I do have to say, the articles being highlighted made me proud of the depth and intellect of most of my "friends." But just remember, your future employer could see your unending devotion to the latest Kardashian family gossip and think twice...

hipsters aren't supposed to complain

When I moved to Baltimore, most people assumed that traveling to D.C. is the same as driving to Kennewick in the Tri-Cities or the Valley in Spokane: a short inconvenience, but basically you're in the same town. And while I've been making the southern trek more often as I've gotten comfortable with the travel options (drive, drive to Metro stop, MARC train, regular train, light rail that I've yet to use), I've realized that Baltimore has one advantage over the "hipster" filled D.C.:

the escalators.

Almost any Metro station in D.C. requires use of potentially lengthy escalators to enter and exit the station. There are elevators and sometimes old-school stairs, but neither of these are seen as a cool-kid option unless you have an actual handicap that requires it. Part of the D.C. culture is being able to navigate these escalators, and they're unspoken but firmly upheld rules: static passengers hug the right side of the contraption, leaving commuters and eager beavers free to walk up or down on the left side.

But unless I'm with wanna-be hipster friends (aka Doug) who sigh heavily any time they (he) has to wait behind tourists who don't abide by the escalator code, you can find me gripping the right handrail and praying for my life. I've never been a huge fan of escalators anyway, but the entrance/exits to the Metro sometimes reach phobia-inspiring heights. The Wheaton station has the second-longest escalator in the Western Hemisphere (hence why this is not my park-and-ride station of choice). This past weekend when I had a small overnight bag with me to upset my normal sense of balance, we almost had a situation on our hands.

I don't know if it was my over-consumption of Rescue 9-1-1 as a child with William Shatner creeping us out with kids getting their arms sucked off, or just a general dislike of the awareness of heights (different than a fear of heights, in the sense that I'm fine with them until I realize how far off the ground I actually am). Anyone who's been to the Riverpark Square mall in Spokane can't say they've never looked down on the four-story open atrium from the moving staircase and thought "this is a good idea."

So for now, I'm working through the fear. And as far as the Metro goes, I'll take the stairs. At least when I'm moving down, anyway...

just don't ask me how to fix an appliance

It finally hit me this weekend as I was in New York City with some extended family:

23 is the year I'm expected to have my business together.

I thought 22 would be that time, but considering my almost total upheaval of location, lifestyle, job description, most people gave me a break if I didn't know how to read IKEA directions or decide what sort of life insurance policy I wanted.

But as I was walking around the city with my cousin, who is the same age as me, I had to keep reminding myself that I was allowed to take the subway alone, or buy a second piece of cheesecake without someones permission or scolding. It was a weird sensation, to realize that a stranger would consider me responsible just because of my age.

Some goals I have for becoming an even more effective "responsible" adult:
1. Cook from a recipe at least once a month (baby steps).
2. Read a non-fiction book for every 3 pieces of fiction.
3. put my laundry away within 48 hours of its completion.
4. Create and maintain a budget in hard copy, rather than my current system of "oh well I'm sure I can afford these shoes."
5. read at least 2 news sources a day

We'll see if year 23 brings me any more luck at actually following through with goals...

I prefer fugi, sometimes a good gala

I've officially become a cool kid:

I own a mac.

Actually, it's more of a homecoming than it is braving a new frontier. My very first computer experience was with a Mac. Granted it had a green screen and took floppy discs, but I still count it. I played what seemed like hours of Midnight Rescue during free time in my 1st grade Montessori classroom. ADDICTED to that game. I was especially skillful at finding the hidden clues near the ATM.

A few years later when my parents invested in our first home computer (which I'm stoked to have as a story for my grandchildren to be able to say "I remember when we first got a computer," the color TV of our generation), I begged them to get a Mac. Mainly because I didn't think Midnight Rescue or Oregon Trail would run on anything else, and I just couldn't live with a computer that didn't afford me resources for my budding gaming addiction. Luckily my parents ignored me and went the PC route, and I've been a Windows girl ever since.

So my second order of task with my new macbook? That's right, download Midnight Rescue and let the games begin.

why men should love sex and the city

First of all, let me just say that I realize most people don't consider "sex and the city" and "conversation to be taken seriously" to be complimentary terms. But hear me out.

I went to see the sequel this afternoon, despite every review that warned me otherwise. I knew what to expect: shallow dialogue, shameless slow-motion shots of ripped men in speedos, and wildly inappropriate fashion choices. I was not dissapointed.

However, the movie for me did come back to an underlying staple of the franchises' progression since about the 4th season: the stability of the male counterparts. Without having to include a spoiler alert, a conflict arises between Carrie and Big that threatens their relationship. However, the resolution of this conflict proves once again that, more often than their female counterparts, the husbands of satc are the ones to learn the real lessons from.

Take Steve, for example. Despite his one-time marital infidelity, he proves to be a loyal and loving husband who tells Miranda what she needs to hear, even when she's at her most stubborn. He actively fights to live up to his fatherly duty, and is just overall a lovable dude.

Harry, Charlotte's 2nd husband, proves just as admirable. Unlike her first toolbag husband, he treats her infertility as a shared challenge and balances adoption with supporting his wife's dream of a family. He's not afraid to be himself, but when Charlotte pesters him with her sometimes pretentious protection of the perfect park avenue lifestyle, he finds compromises that don't just let her steamroll his personality.

Throughout the show the fantastic 4 share horror stories of bad relationships over endless bowls of rice pudding. But Carrie, despite all she did to advance the open dialogue of women's sexuality, too often refuses to give up aspects of her own identity while expecting her leading man to give up his. Ironically, the men who survived this show's entourage of potential partners are the ones who are able to find the balance of ever after and every day. Sure they sit naked on the white furniture or won't let you eat orange slices in bed. But at the end of the day, they're the ones who made it through the gauntlet and we would be better women for having loved them.

As a tangent, I could write pages about the cultural implications of the film on our opinions of Muslim women, but that's for another day...

the f word

If you haven't figured it out yet, I use the f word a lot. In casual conversation, in arguments, even in formal speeches. Yep, that's right, I'm a feminist. This blog is actually something I eventually want to use as more of a focused space to tackle the 21st century issues of feminism. (Stay tuned this summer for a full critique of The Feminist Mystique.)

In a society where someone with ovaries can vote, play football, sit in the Supreme Court, and legally plan their childbirths, I am still surprised when I come across barriers to positions, pay or power simply because I am a woman. Well not surprised really, but more just disappointed. And usually indignant, especially if you try to convince me that's the way things should stay.

But for 2 hours every week, I still have not figured out how to reconcile my passion for women's issues with my surroundings: in my church pew. I've heard all the reasons in the book why women are still limited in the church; we should "submit" to our spiritual husbands, it wasn't culturally acceptable in Biblical times, women have "different gifts", blah blah blah. I even restrained myself once from punching a college peer who told me he just "didn't trust the spiritual guidance of a woman because it would be too emotionally unstable." I combat this deep-seeded spiritual sexism by trying to contribute to communities that actively encourage women's leadership, from the pastoral position on down. The discrimination and exclusion of women and homosexuals in the Christian church seem to be two of the few hot topics that we use snippet verses to defend and ignore the cultural relativism we apply to most all other passages. In a broken world with broken people, I've always taken comfort to know that in heaven we will all be walking the same golden streets and watching the same big-screen tv, regardless of race, gender, class, or self-proclaimed righteousness. We've all fucked up, but are all equally forgiven.

Recently I realized that my new church in Baltimore still works under these old assumptions. In a community focused on racial and socioeconomic reconciliation, it saddened me to learn that "Biblically" women are not intended for leadership. Sure, they have a women's deacon committee and all that jazz to "honor the contributions of women when the men just can't figure it out," (actual quote from the pastor), but at the end of the day, not allowing women access to key leadership roles is just as damaging as banishing us to a separate tent outside town for 7 days out of each month. In fact, one columnist recently suggested that recent abuse within the church could be solved by allowing women into the Catholic diocese.

I haven't decided yet if this is a deal-breaker for me. But it's a heart breaker, to say the least.

a powerful word

In the vein of Alyssa's latest theme of becoming real adults, I had my first "real" adult vocabulary experience:

I said a decision was irresponsible.

Now don't worry, it's not anything my mother would disapprove of. But the word just slipped out, in a normal conversation, in a tone that said I no longer needed an adult to tell me what I should be doing with my time. And I'm even a person that has always prided myself on knowing the "right" thing to do. But there's something about that word, something frumpy almost. It carries a connotation of wasteful selfishness. It drips off your tongue, loathing the unfortunate soul it is uttered upon.

I also have no doubt I have many more irresponsible moments to look forward to.

your mama should've taught you better

I have no patience for bad restaurant etiquette. I've had several friends who've worked as servers, and myself have held the esteemed title of birthday and snack bar hostess:

1. Always tip at least 12%. And that would be for really really bad service. I just realized that most of the time, problems or delays with food are not the fault of the server, but rather the kitchen staff for poor preparation or the manager for not having a good system for placing orders.

2. Order with all your options in mind. If your entree comes with the choice of 2 sides, proudly say you'd like the garden salad and mashed potatoes when asking for the grilled salmon. If you have the choice of fries, chips, or coleslaw, choose your level of diabetes ahead of time. And ESPECIALLY if salad dressings are listed, use your resources and go with the raspberry vinaigrette. Even in fast food, this is a must. If a 7-year-old on rollerblades can order a medium root beer instead of "I want a soda," then you know what size beverage and fries you want.

3. If you are with a party of 6 or more and need separate checks, ASK IN ADVANCE. And if you're on the same ticket as someone, for goodness sakes sit next to each other. Servers already get shafted for large parties, so you should also be generous in this tipping department.

4. If you add splenda or other packaged items to your beverage, stack all the wrappers on a napkin or your plate, so someone doesn't have to scoop them all up later (thanks Weakley for this one).

an open letter

Dear Christina Aguilera-

This is one of your loyal fans. First of all, way to rock Ozzie Osbourne's former house. I hope he cleaned all the dog poop stains off the floor in the living room.

I wanted to write to tell you that I'm a little disappointed. Ever since you taught me that boys had to rub me the right way, I've admired your balance of sexuality, confidence, and jaw-dropping vocal talent. In a pop scene of stunted vocal ranges and plastic packaging, I always felt that you were bringing the real thing. I even stood up for you when the big bad media (whoever that is) said you were "too sexual" as a new mother. I always say a mom should have it easy when it comes to that sort of stuff. After all, the baby had to come from somewhere, and it sure wasn't Jesus...

But I have to say, your new aptly-named single "Not Myself Tonight," leaves me a little sad inside. Of anyone on the market today, you're one of the few artists who is respected for pure, raw talent. You can sing, you have lyrics that mean something, you deliver the whole package. But now, you're all about the backing techno tracks and cookie cutter melodies. I couldn't even find a part of the song to put my hand up in the air in the "hallelujah" stance you usually take at one point or the other. You went down the Britney path, as I call it. A song that will be a big hit in the clubs and dance floors (which is wehre the money comes from), but nothing that lasts past the walk of shame. You're better than the Selena Gomez's of the world (correct use of a pluralized z? not sure), even if you both started in Disney.

So for the next single, make me proud. Bust out a sweet line that cracks wine glasses and forces me to stop singing along in my car because I simply can't do it justice. Step it up.

dream from an afternoon nap

My family decided to vacation in the Arctic, somewhere between the literal north pole and Canada. We rented some sort of trailer that was supported by a combination of blades and stilts, which secured into the ice.

My younger sister and I ventured out into our surroundings, a mix of snow, ice, and a sort of old-time ghost town. About 50 feet from our trailer, she found a polar bear carcass. Well, it was more like the skin of a polar bear with the head still attached, like you see in tacky people's living rooms as a sort of rug. She and I both started to cry, because polar bears happen to be one of our favorite animals. But somehow through our tears, we realized that a shark or orca whale could at any time break through the ice to make the carcass a tasty snack. And since apparently I'm just as irrational about whales popping up at any random moment in dreams as I am in real life, we scampered back to the trailer.

But then, we realized the only reason a whale was a possibility was because the ice was starting to thin. Pools of water started appearing, and I quickly feared the trailer was not equipped with flotation capabilities. I ran into the only store open in the ghost town, and met a curious woman cutting up small pieces of rye bread and wrapping them in beige napkins. She started to tell me about the lone family in the ghost own, an Inuit mother with three small children who lived off microwave dinners run by a generator. We carried on a saddening conversation about the current state of the arctic, social media, and some sort of game involving a hamster ball and "hot seat" type questions. She confirmed my fears of the trailer's lack of buoyancy, and I realized by this point my family was lost to the sea.

(Sorry Karen Weakley, this is the spiciest my life has been lately).

granny smith crisp: a review

Task 1: shop for ingredients
-Since I cook pretty infrequently, I didn't have flour, sugar, brown sugar, or cinnamon. I felt so woman-like putting the powder-covered packages in my Safeway cart. Like I was connecting with so many before me who have taken the plunge into actual cooking. Thanks to my Grandma's housing community's cookbook for the assistance with this bonding experience.

Task 2: peel and pare 6 cups of granny smith apples
-First of all, I didn't really know what paring was. I assumed it was some sort of fancy cut, but really it just meant to peel, remove the seeds, and make the apple look like regular apple slices. I did surprisingly well at the peeling part, especially since I didn't have that thing you can use to take out the core. Approximately 40 minutes.

Task 3: prepare the dry mix for the "crisp"
-Done and done. I was always the dry mixer of my sister and I (she was usually in charge of the more lively jobs like beating eggs and such). Approximately 5 minutes, most of which was spent successfully keeping the flour from casdading all over our tiny kitchen.

Task 4: cut in the butter
-Epic fail. I didn't know if this instruction meant to literally cut the 1/2 cup of butter into small pieces and just toss it in, or if I should break it up so it was evenly distrubted in my beautiful dry mixture. I went with the first option.

Task 5: bake and pray
-I probably could've let it "crisp" more on the 35 minute side of the 30-35 min instructions. And because of the butter situation, parts of the dry topping were left uncrisped and untouched. But once you mixed it in, no harm done.

All in all, a delightful way to end our Easter courtyard feast.

it's a good thing I hate hospitals

Well, it's official: I don't count as a person in these United States of America. Or at least that was the way I interpreted this government's rude but probably not intentional oversight of my entire apartment building in the 2010 Census. And I love surveys more than ANYONE I know. Customer service, website satisfaction, whether I'm a fall or spring, I love them all.

So, in the interest of making sure Baltimore includes a hospital bed and locker at the nearest community center for me:

1. How many people were living or staying in this house, apartment, or mobile home on April 1, 2010? 2

2. Were there any additional people staying here on April 1, 2010 that you didn't include in question 1? No additional people

3. Is this house, apartment, or mobile home... Rented

4. What is your telephone number? Hmm, not for the fake internet version.

5-10: We're both white and not of Hispanic origin females who don't sometimes live in prison or a nursing home.

And for those of you who missed it, our own Gary Locke discussing the census with Jon Stewart:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Gary Locke Pt. 1
http://www.thedailyshow.com/
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care Reform

spring cleaning results

Found: A never-worn top purchased in December, Erin Cooley's Christmas present (sorry, it's on its way to you soon), an overdue parking ticket, 3 stray socks, 8 bus tickets confiscated from a student after he stole them from another student, my left black Bandolio heel, India Arie's "Voyage to India" album.

Cleaned: 4 loads of laundry, my bedroom floor, the short upstairs hallway, the mud off my black flats, splotches of laundry detergent that dripped down the front of the washing machine, three piles in the downstairs entryway, my dishes from last night's dinner, my split ends (thank you new haircut).

Assembled: the black-out curtain on my skylight

Organized: my spring wardrobe, from right to left: blazer, cardigans/other light outerwear, work pants, skirts, work tops, going out/not appropriate for work tops, dresses.

Realizations: 1.) I really do not need to ever go shopping again. 2.) My bedroom looks a lot bigger when you can see the floor. 3.) Clorox disinfecting wipes are the ultimate cleaning tool. 4.) I should listen to India Arie more often. 5.) If I put my clothes away right after I wash them, I eliminate the need to iron (not like I iron anyway, so really just eliminates wrinkles). 6.) I've been using entirely too many parenthetical statements in recent blog posts. Use your words, not your punctuation.

put that away

As part of my rehabilitation into the civilized world (I've been pretty much comatose at home for the past week and a half), I hit the mall with some friends yesterday. I figure if I have to walk around, might as well do it somewhere that offers new shoes and built-in snack stops (thank you almond pretzels). On the wanted list was a spring/summer dress, preferably that could be tamed down for work and required little to no thought (aka special cleaning instructions, ironing, etc). I've blogged before about frustrations with clothing, and while shopping always on some level creates self-loathing and detriment to your psyche, this particular trip highlighted the latest annoyance on my fashion radar:

Clothing should cover your tush.

Now I realize that this is the 4th or 5th season now of dresses/tops that are made with leggings in mind. But I've just never been able to get behind the concept of buying a piece of clothing that automatically requires buying yet another piece of clothing. I do not own leggings, and God willing I never will have to. First of all, leggings are another trend that only flatters the 1% of the female population who do not have to worry about junk in their trunks. But for the rest of us who decide that chocolate cake is just a necessary part of life, we're faced with a bit of a challenge.

Second of all, I think I wore through my leggings phase during my childhood. And not just any leggings; we're talking full-on stirrup pants in every color made. I wore them to church, to school, to skating practice, you name it. Under skirts, under T-shirts, even under jeans as a sort of long-underwear effect for sledding or snow-involved outings.

But especially in this spring's fashion, the problem is now becoming that leggings are viewed as old news, or out of style. However, the garments usually made with leggings in mind are just as short, just as capable of creating a nice breeze through your legs. But girls and women just choose to go without, creating the all-t00-common exclamation from me of "you should wear your lady business on the inside of your clothes." I don't want to become the modesty police, but you've all seen it. The walk that, if just a bit more swagger was added, could easily resemble a Rielle Hunter photo shoot.

So ladies, if you're one of my friends who can rock the leggings look, rock on. And if not, just make sure we don't get to a place of reinstating the "but it's as long as my fingers" test for your next purchase. I finally convinced my dad a year ago that this wasn't necessary...

surrey with the fringe on top. in front of Ira.

Today, I got a delightful surprise. Instead of the usual 1-3 p.m. lull in my daytime TV lineup, I was delighted to find the classic "When Harry Met Sally" had just started. In addition to being a huge Meg Ryan fan, this movie is a STAPLE in any movie lover's repertoire. The movie is famous for two things on the surface: the idea that men and women can't be friends, and the fake orgasm over a turkey sandwich (on my bucket list, btw). But the film contains many subtle, but just as poignant, lessons:

1. "I never wanted someone to say, 'why don't you take me to the airport anymore?'" - Not quite as melancholy as Barbara's power ballod, but still gets on the list of dissapointments in a relationship. While Harry spends the whole movie justifying decisions that aim to save future pain, I think taking people to the airport is a true sign of friendship/love/whatever. No one wants to take a cab to an airport.

2. "If you want your taxes done, go for it. But when it comes to humpin and bumpin, Sheldon is not your guy." - We judge people by their names. Let's stop lying to ourselves.

3. "Do me a favor, for your own good, put your name in your books right now before they get mixed up and you won't know whose is whose." - The hardest part about breaking up is getting back your stuff. Especially when that stuff is your books.

4. "You were going to be a gymnast? Journalist. Right that's what I said." - I give Harry credit for this one, even though he's billed as a shallow chump for a lot of the movie. But I think when you haven't seen someone for 5 years, or even maybe 5 months, it's the effort to reconnect that counts. Let's stop getting caught up in all the damn details.

5. "He's never going to leave her." - NEVER. I'm just starting to have married friends, so I haven't had to deal with a friend dating a married person. But the mistress never gets the man. (Side note: I couldn't come up with a term for a man dating a married woman. I was trying to e gender neutral and not imply that it's only women who date married men. Chalk another one up for sexist language, ladies).

And, just in case you've never seen it:

call me old school

Last week, I reached the peak of a book-lover's adventure: a full-fledged, all-access day in the Library of Congress. Even though I've been in and around D.C. on several occasions, the Library of Congress was one of two places still left on my tourist to-do list (the other being the White House tour).

I was floored.

It's rooms and rooms and rooms and rooms of books. About everything. From everywhere. I didn't go in with a game plan, because I wanted to just emmerse myself in the experience of wandering the shelves and letting my nose lead me, if you will. Some of my finds:

-The Handbook to nonsexist writing: on my to-order list (be looking for an addition to the newsroom, Whitworthian folks). One nugget for you to move one step closer to gender-neutral language: don't ask someone to man the sails.

-Thomas Jefferson: the collected writings: this reference book, part of a series on presidential writings, offered letters, memos, official documents, and even annotated copies of Jefferson's life as told through his own recorded words. Bad ass.

-A biographical history of Morocco: Didn't really open this one, but intrigued.

-Dance! A handbook: fun fact - Fred Astaire died on my birthday. As one great dancer left the world, another one was born. Or at least another one with flare.

-Contemporary Women Poets- I read this one almost cover to cover. Shout outs to Margaret Atwood, Mary Oliver, Adrienne Rich, Paulette Jiles, Jennifer Maiden, and Carolyn Forches.

The visit was also an interesting exhibit of the greatest strengths, and weaknesses, of technological advances. While the Kindle is absolutely an asset to society, you really can't replace the smell of the largest library in the world with a 6-inch digital screen. You can't really grasp the vastness of our government's collected printed works by the size of the scroll bar. The collected Microsoft Word tracked changes on a state law just aren't as interesting as hand-scribbled frustrations. Who knows, maybe in 10 years my all-access library card will be nothing more than an Internet password...

If only I had a blogger app

Over the past 5 months, a new relationship has started to consume my life: the blackberry. For years, I refused to get a phone that would cost me more than $19.99, mainly because I knew I would be constantly dropping or losing it. Ironically, my current phone is only my 4th since I went cellular (props to the kyocera that lasted through about 6 flights of stairs and two major bodies of water).

But since I was changing everything else in my life, I figured it was time to make the plunge into what I refer to as dataland. And slowly, I started to see my own autonomy be consumed by my partner. I fell asleep to the fading backlight of my screen. I wouldn't buy any purses that didn't lend themselves to the increased bulk.

I'm to the point now where I use my crackberry (as weakley named it) to avoid awkward social situations. Only one person in your group heads to the bathroom at the movie? Time to sqeeze in a Gail Collins Op-Ed. First one to arrive at a happy hour destination? Catch up on the latest snowpocalypse forecast. Even if I'm sitting with people, in public or otherwise, I find myself constanly checking, in the off chance I got an update from Kayak in my email about useless one-way flights to Nebraska. (And according to the Washington Post, I'm not the only one to sometimes find my smartphone more stimulating than the real world).

I considered for a hot second giving up my data plan for Lent. One of the only successful Lent abstentions, after all, was all non-academic computer or internet use my freshman year of college. But then realized that I just love Gail Collins (don't miss Feb. 13, or Jan. 20) too much to be separated from her just because I'm getting a pedicure. Even my dad, the antithesis of technology, stole my phone for like 2 hours over Christmas break to read the Wall Street Journal, even though he had the print edition sitting right next to the couch.

And actually, my lack of motor skills have risen to the occasion. I've only dropped it twice, and once was actually useful because it jolted my speaker's function back into operation. Now if only I could figure out how to text with two hands while driving...

reel it in

As I was sitting in the movie theater earlier at Valentine's Day (a solid choice), tolerating 20 minutes of pointless ads for Sprite and "don't add your own soundtrack" warnings, I found myself in quite a familiar place.

Since moving to Baltimore, I believe I've averaged about 2 movies a month, give or take. This is quite the increase in my movie-going habit (and subsequently quite the increase of my butter popcorn intake). In honor of the pending Academy Awards season, I thought I'd pass along some of my top favorites (in no particular order):

1. Brothers - One of the most powerful films I've seen since "The Constant Gardener". A husband is thought to have died in Afghanistan in the war, and his brother helps out with the wife and two daughters he left behind. (No real spoiler alert that he is, in fact, alive). Particularly moving in the film is the performance of the two daughters (Taylor Geare, Bailee Madison). I saw the film just days after Obama had announced the increase of troops to Afghanistan, but refreshingly the film wasn't making a political statement about war; it made a statement about the human condition, at its best and its worst. (So take that, A.O. Scott). Also PHENOMENAL performances from the small but mighty cast.

2. Fame - A guilty pleasure for sure, but so worth it, if nothing else then for the opening cover of John Legend's "Ordinary People". I tend to be weary of re-makes, but the film took a different tone and angle than the 1980 original that made it quite refreshing. And who doesn't like dancing around a movie theater on a Friday night during the credits...

3. Couples Retreat - A suprisingly not superficial waste of $8.25. Although the previews make this out to be just another relationship-bashing comedy that uses tastless sexual humor as a crutch for poor writing, take a closer look. I found the movie both funny and full of "mmm hmm" moments.

4. It's Complicated - HILARIOUS. HILARIOUS. HILARIOUS.

5. The Blind Side - Sandra Bullock deserves the best-actress nod. I actually saw it the first time with my students, which was quite the outing.

Flicks that didn't quite make the top 5, but were still enjoyable: "The Time Traveler's Wife", "Invictus", "Sherlock Holmes", and "Precious". Still on the need to see list are "Nine" and "Up in the Air".

And no, I have not seen "Avatar". I waited almost 10 years to see James Cameron's other big hit, so I figure I can at least wait for this one on DVD.

a little later, but not never

Well, it's been about 9 months, so naturally the next fetus of sex education controversy is on its way out of the oven. After all, teen pregnancy is on the rise.

The latest study, however, takes us on a somewhat different genetic path than the previous siblings in this family. Just as Obama reduced/eliminated funding for abstinence-focused education, research is now suggesting that abstinence education actually worked to curb sexual activity in a group of middle schoolers in Philly.

No, that's not a typo. I said abstinence education was effective.

In the past, I've been pretty clear that I take major issue with a lot of these "just say no" approaches to sex ed. A product of this attitude myself, I especially take issue with many of the religious groups and guilt-laden misinformation that gets infused into many of these programs.

But there's a key difference with these new findings. As pointed out by a New York Times article, and again by their staff editorial today, the program urged students to delay sexual activity until the student felt more mature. This is quite the departure from many program's "if you pop the balloon the angels will cry" approach. As Quinn clearly demonstrates on "Glee", this is not the way to go.

I've always believed that sex ed HAS to be more than either of the two extremes, neither "jesus is watching" nor "take a handful of condoms and here's some pictures of clamydia." As a newcomer to the education scene, I'm constantly told to not just spoonfeed my students the answers, but to teach them how to think. It's not always about the right answer; it's how you get to that answer that really has any consequence.

I'm still not ready to throw all my tax dollars back into the abstinence bucket (although it might be a better choice than spending them on a Superbowl commercial. Grrr.). But I think the conversation is finally headed in the right direction.

"stick around if you want to see some real idiots"

This was muttered to us by a man as his other friend and their two lady friends decided it would be ok to try and just drive out of the snow. On a street that hadn't been touched by footprints, let alone a shovel or plow. So that meant an solid 25ish inches.

I can't speak for the whole city, but my neighborhood is less than accessible. Of the about 8-12 streets we walked by on our morning adventure today, only about 3 had been actually "plowed," another half had been intermitently driven down by large trucks but still not passable by anything smaller than a Hummer, and the rest sat in silence. And these are streets that go by a major hospital and one of the wealthiest universities in the country. It's actually not that cold out, so it was a nice trot around town. Here's just a sampling of the scenery:

-A dude in a T-shirt and jeans walking BAREFOOT down the street. News flash: no one thinks you're a big deal.

-Not 1, not 2, but 4 people going for a run. I was waiting for them to slip and fall, so I could laugh at their foolishness.

-A woman pushing 80 years old, trying to diligently dig out her car. She wasn't really making any sort of useful progress, but it gave her something to do at least.

This is Lola, for those of you who haven't met her yet. Needless to say, she's staying put for a while.

This would be one of the "not touched by man or machine" roads, about .75 miles away from my apartment building. The guy looking confused is trying to decide if it was worth the 8+hours of shoveling to get out his car, to take his crappy one-night stand lady friend back to her house across town.

And we could get up to 10 more inches in another storm coming through Tuesday. Good thing I splurged on the value box of corn dog nuggets.

theory of relativity. and bad karma.

As some of you probably have heard, it's "snowmageddon" in this neck of the woods (Obama's words, not mine). As our property manager said they're not going to even attempt to start clearing our parking situation until Sunday afternoon at the earliest, I'm not going anywhere for quite some time.

Current snowfall: approx. 26.3 inches, as of 11:45 a.m.

I'm having to learn to be patient with these Mid-Atlantic pansies. After last January's record snow in Spokane, the fact that I can still see out my windows is considered a victory. At first, I scoffed. "2 feet? Back in my day, I had to dig my HOUSE out of the snow, not just my car."

So far, I still have power, plenty of food, and 1 and a half seasons of "Will and Grace" left to keep me occupied before I decide to do work. Really the only productive things I've done are shower and make some tacos for lunch, but at some point I'll go just bat crazy enough to get out the gradebook.

I might try to trudge outside tomorrow and take some pictures, to do some side-by-side comparisons of the ones I have from last January. Stay tuned.

Look at the tight end on that one

For years, the Super Bowl for me has always meant one thing: an excuse to eat tons of junk food and audibly judge commercials without getting weird looks from people. In fact, on a copy editing test for an internship in college, one of the only current affairs questions I missed was which team had won the previous year's championship. (Don't worry, I got the Beyonce and Ryan Seacrest questions no problem).

But this year, I'm taking a new approach. Mainly because if my students are going to be arguing for 3 months at a time about football, I'd like to at least know how to cleverly interject to get them on task. A couple weeks ago, I ended up watching almost every division semi-final playoff game. (Granted, I was sick as a dog and immobilized on a couch in Atlanta, but what can you do.)

I watched the "beloved" Ravens go down hard to the Colts, while finally learning the name of the Baltimore quarterback. The Saints slaughtered Arizona, and I even got to educate the boys when they asked "who is the random chick jumping around in the private box?" Silly boys, anyone knows Kim and Reggie are back together. At least anyone who overdoses on E! reality shows.

It's a nice feeling to be connected to the one sport I've never really gotten jazzed about. My house was never one of the "but the game's on, honey" kind of Saturdays, so I didn't even really know how the game was played until college, when I had the "privilege" of living with a college football fanatic and also dating one. I even voluntarily watched Ohio State games this fall, including the Rose Bowl.

And even though my favorite cheer is still "just sit on him!" I feel like I can actually make educated comments about good/bad plays, the level of suckiness for a given quarterback, and mock a kicker for losing the game. Good going, Nate Kaeding.

So next Sunday, I'm bringing my A-game. Just make sure there's some nachos and terrible Doritos commericals, too.

6 miles under

Yesterday, I had an epiphany as I was trying to get to the Best Buy in the Inner Harbor. Well, 1 epiphany, 1 just organization of thoughts.

Epiphany: I hate Best Buy.
Organization of thoughts: I'm a passive driver

Trying to park in the Inner Harbor is a nightmare. It's the cool-kid tourist zone, so everything funnels into overpriced parking garages that I try to avoid whenever possible. So I circled, and circled, and circled, looking for street parking that wouldn't leave my car without a window or stereo system. No luck.

But as I sucked it up and shelled out the $7 for an hour, I realized that it wasn't just today that left me high and dry. It's all the time. I'm not the girl who guns it up at a changing light, or crosses 3 lanes at the last minute to make an exit. I only speed on straighaways with more than 2 lanes, and have never to date honked at another driver unless my literal life was in danger from being squished up against a median (and that was only that one time).

Especially on Baltimore's less-than-ideal roadways, this leaves me in quite the predicament. Around here, it's speed up/swerve lanes/avoid turn signals/ignore yellow lights, or die. Well I guess not die, but be considered a serious pansy and embarrasment to the state of Maryland. But I don't care. I would rather be the person whose passengers say "really, is my grandma driving this car?" than the one with who they grip their seats in terror. And I'm ok with that.

start with the spring rolls

I was looking back over previous year end/beginning posts, and realized I don't have any. Seems that every year I take a sort of hiatus for 3-5 weeks, and apparently this decade followed suit. My apologies to those of you who sat at work and had 1 less non-work web reading to complete.

I've been thinking a lot over the past week about resolutions. One of my friends created a trick resolution for herself, and since she is much better at goal setting than I am, maybe I should follow her lead and trick myself into losing weight or becoming a better cook.

Or maybe I should take the approach of things to NOT do, rather than positives. Sometimes I feel like avoiding things is easier then taking initiative to add something to your life. For example, it's easier to turn off the television after watching two hours, rather than telling yourself to replace tv altogether with a theoretically more life-enriching activity that doesn't involve the Kardashian family. Needless to say, this probably won't happen as long as I'm in my current job situation.

But alas, it seems that this year my resolution comes not so much in a list, but from an unexpected source. I was out to dinner New Year's Eve at a Chinese restaurant, helping a new friend forget her very recent tool of an ex-boyfriend. When it came time to crack our fortunes, I wasn't expecting much. Usually I open gems like "you will meet new people" or "riches lay ahead." Bland and not specific. And on first read, I thought this day's was another dud:

"Reach for your dreams. Start with the spring rolls."

But after the laughter wore off, I got to thinking that this was actually an interesting philosophy for such a little cookie. Lately, I've been having a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, whether that's my job or my personal life. But this slip of paper reminded me that maybe this year, instead of just complaining about the big picture, I need to take a step back and get the little things done first. After all, no good adventure starts on an empty stomach.

Although I will have to replace spring rolls with something like mozzarella sticks, as I'm not really a spring rolls fan. Small detail