Eyeliner

I was twelve when my kid sister was born. Due to the difference in ages, our relationship was always warm, cozy, lovey, and easy. I was always cool. And she was always adorable.

I could never count how many times I have done Caroline's makeup. When she was small, before she actually wore makeup, I would do her makeup when I babysat her, or I'd do her nails on the weekends. When she got older I would show her how to do her eyes in different layers of eyeshadow, how to hide a zit, how to use blush to fake better cheekbones (a genetic failure for our family). I did her makeup most recently this past fall for her Homecoming dance, smoky eyes to go with a little black dress.

This Christmas, while the family was lounging post-meal, I leaned against Caroline and asked her to teach me how to do eyeliner the cool way she does. We went up to our bedroom at Grandmother's house, sat on the world's most uncomfortable bed, and Caroline did my eyes. Pale grey, with black eyeliner snaking slightly upwards at the end, Cleopatra-like. I'm not a fan of eye makeup usually. I'm more of a flavored lip gloss girl. But I wanted to see my eyes the way she does her own, and it felt neat to have her do my makeup fo a change. The lesson was brief (symmetry is the key), the results were pretty, and I don't think I'll ever forget it.

There's some silly symbolism there. Some passing of the torch. Some circle of life. Years of teaching her that coloring in her lips with lip liner and covering them with gloss is much more effective at long term color than lipstick. And in the span of 10 minutes in Grandmother's guest room, with my eyes closed, I was happy Caroline was growing up. I've always been rather sad that she stopped being 5, stopped thinking I was eternally cool, started thinking maybe I was a bit boring or square or unexciting. I am glad we are different, glad she is an artist, glad she loves things I never loved. I am glad she has things to teach me, bigger things than eyeliner, glad she dreams things that never crossed my mind. I am grateful that she's brave and strong and beautiful, even though she probably dismisses those things herself. I feel honored to be the girl that sang her to sleep with Les Mis tunes, and I'm excited to see who she becomes. It will be something great, that is all I know. And that's all that's really necessary.

I'm still not a fan of eyeliner. But I will ask her to do my eyes again. Happily.

The First Day of Winter

It is fitting, I suppose, that on the first day of winter I woke up to frozen pipes and a car that would not start. After giving my car a much appreciated jump, my dad snapped my photo with his phone as I scraped the ice off my windshield and said, "it's like a scene out of Fargo." We drove around picking up some winter necessities I'd managed to avoid purchasing thus far, namely jumper cables and a space heater, and as we drove back to my parents' house I was struck by how different my life is now from this time last year, or the year before that, etc. It astonishes me how much can change in a year's time, and makes me excited for the year(s) to come.

Winter is not my favorite season, as everyone is well aware. But the English major in me loves the metaphor. I love the cold death of the season, the house of ice, the hibernation of everything with a heartbeat. And then the promise of Spring.

Backseat Bible

This is, by far, the busiest Christmas season I've ever had. Every weekend evening has been packed with Christmas parties or Christmas baking or Christmas shopping or general Christmas frivolity. It's a happy kind of busy but it's also the kind of busy that makes the season feel less like a religious celebration, more like an opportunity to wear my sassy gold dress and guiltlessly bake too many chocolate goodies. At church today I was struck by the fact that I had been more concerned about which adorable brown boots to wear, what lipstick went with my green dress, than I had been about where I'd misplaced my Bible.

My Bible, as always when I "lose" it, was in the backseat of my car, where I always absent-mindedly toss it when its placement in the passenger seat is no longer convenient. Ah, the metaphor! I toss it there when I pick up a friend on the way to a party, when I need space for newly purchased cookie ingredients, when I'm too lazy to put my gym bag in the trunk. My Bible stays comfortably on that passenger seat for less than 48 hours after every Sunday. And every Sunday morning I wonder where it has escaped to, but that worry is never as intense as what heels make my calves look thinner.

I, like many Christians, have a hard time remembering the "Christ" part of Christmas sometimes. I get as caught up as anybody in the joy of new clothes, fancy parties, yummy food, buying gifts, wishing for mistletoe. And tossing my Bible onto the backseat of my car (which, it goes without saying, means I'm not cracking that Book open very often during the week) is the perfect illustration of how easy it is for me to allow the season to swallow me without giving due reverence to the joy of its importance. And although I've taken note of that frailty before, today was the first time it really made me sad.

I had a lovely, festive, Christmasy weekend, complete with parties, cookie baking, Christmas parading, and hot apple cider drinking. Excellent. But I prayed very little, thanked God less, forgot that He was the reason I was happy (not the existence of those awesome shoes I got on sale at Target). I do not value materialism in others, I will not coddle it in myself. So while I see no harm in finding smiles and a bit of confidence in new things or new crushes or new adventures, I don't ever want to lose sight of who forges my ability to be happy, who creates in me an image of Himself, who loves me enough to die for my salvation. And that is why I love Christmas, for everything God gave the world, for His knowing me in the womb, for His holding me and cherishing me despite my habit of tossing him aside. I am so thankful to know that Grace does not throw me in the backseat to languish between foibles and failures. Seems the least I could do to say a tiny "thank you" would be to bring my Bible in from the cold, warm it up.

The Devil Is Wearing a Scarf and Mittens

It snowed in New Orleans today. And I missed it. This makes me sadder than I would expect, given my general apathy regarding snow. But it would have been lovely to see snow fall on the trees in Audobon, watch the mules pulling the carts in the Quarter blink back a flake. I would love snow more if it was special and unexpected. Unfortunately, I live a few hundred miles too far North for snow to ever be a surprise. Snow is a given here, as is ice, and apple cider, and toasty fireplaces, and salt, and ornery car batteries, and potlucks, and earmuffs, and cozy blankets, and happily, always, a White Christmas. Snow isn't my favorite, but it'll do.

Cousins

I spent the past weekend celebrating Thanksgiving in The Motherland (aka Arkansas), surrounded by too much food and a tribe of cousins I see too infrequently.

Cousins are a strange, beautiful lot. It seems both serendipitous and ill-conceived to throw people of such varying personalities into the same family and expect them to love one another. God, to me, occassionally seems a bit hilarious in his matchmaking.

After all, what are we supposed to have in common? We are the children of one parent's siblings. We share grandparental DNA. The bulk of us look nothing alike, some graced with height via paternal genes, others doomed shortitude thanks to our maternal roots. A handful of us with red hair (of varying shades), some with glasses and some without.

As the eldest, I always felt somewhat separate from the younger cousins. This was largely by my own choosing, I liked being the old one. I liked being the first to do things (though I've now been surpassed on both the marriage and child-bearing agendas). I liked traveling far away and coming back to share stories, pictures. But this past weekend I didn't want to sit at the grownup table anymore (where I've been sitting for over a decade). I wanted to talk and gossip and laugh and play games and be sad and be happy with the cousins that for so long were "young" and are now simply "younger".

I always knew Brent, Kristin, and Lauren, better than my other cousins. We spent a small segment of our lives together, attended each others' birthday parties. I gave them my dog when we moved away. My other cousins, though loved, were always distant. But it was good to see them growing, becoming the adults they'll be someday. And it made me sad to have missed so much of their lives. I look at Lauren and Kristin and think, you are on the edge of so many wonderful things! Even the shitty things, even the jobs you hate, even the cold, even the decisions you are unsure of, they are all such wonderful things to endure. How excellent to be unaware and confused but with the potential to be fantastic! And I just want to hug them and promise them that everything will happen. Perhaps everything won't work out. But everything will happen, and God carries all of it in his hands. And I am glad my sister looks up to them, the way, perhaps, they once looked up to me. They are women I want my sister to wish to become.

It makes me think of my siblings, Rob and Caroline. Will our children love one another? Will they see each other often or only on holidays? Will they be born in the same state? Will they drift and move away? Will they be short? Redheaded? Who will look up to the eldest? Who will hate being the youngest?

Who will sit at the grownup table too soon?

Cinnamon Toast

I do not remember a time when Mamaw didn’t live in this house. As a child, I remember sick days spent with Mamaw and Papaw while my parents worked. Papaw, a doctor, would check my temperature and give me orange juice. Mamaw would make me cinnamon toast and I would lie on the couch watching cartoons, feeling significantly less sickly with sugar and warm butter melting on my tongue.

The house is stuffed, every inch, with trinkets. Papers. Birth certificates. Birthday cards. National Geographic magazines. Cookbooks. Drawings and letters and pictures of 4 children, of 13 grandchildren. To dig through a drawer is to unearth a lifetime of memory.

My cousin, Lauren, gave me a hug in the kitchen the day of Papaw’s funeral, and she told me I was the “luckiest one” being the eldest, since I knew our Grandfather the longest. She was young, and completely correct.

My youngest cousin, Ian, bruised my left cheek when he repeatedly threw my pink bracelet at my head, a delightful game to a nearly-two-year-old.

I sang my sister, Caroline, to sleep on the couch in the living room with a medley of show tunes.

I read ancient love letters found in the drawers of the trundle room.

I ran to jump on my Papaw’s lap and my mom scolded me. He was fragile. I always forgot.

My great-aunt MaryAnne began to die in the den where I sleep tonight, her lungs tired.

I cried myself to sleep for months in the bedroom down the hall, wishing I could be back in New Orleans, wondering if that would be possible.

And now my Mamaw does not live here anymore. The house is still in the family, the trinkets still explode from beneath couches and secret closets.

But my Mamaw does not live here anymore. And that will always make me sad.

28 Things

So, in honor of the big 2-8 (a milestone birthday for everyone, right?), I will list 28 things I am proud of/happy about/thankful for as of this moment in time. In no particular order:

1. I am 72 lbs lighter than I was for my 25th birthday.

2. I make a mean chocolate cake.

3. I graduated from law school.

4. I passed the bar exam.

5. I finally get to see my kid sister and parents whenever I want, instead of just on holidays.

6. I love my church friends.

7. I have made all my student loan payments on time and I have overpaid (by a teeny, tiny amount) every single time.

8. I am no longer intimidated by butternut squash.

9. Running makes me really happy.

10. The scar on my leg is fading better than I expected.

11. I love my job.

12. I'm going to Dubai in February.

13. I'm proud of my brother and sister.

14. Minneapolis isn't homey, but it feels like it could be eventually.

15. My new mittens are perfect for driving.

16. It's peppermint mocha season at Starbucks.

17. Everyone in my family is healthy and strong and loves God.

18. I no longer have to dial numbers out of the state when I have a bad day. I do have good friends here.

19. I have a small, precious group of ladyfriends who live far away but who I always stay in touch with.

20. I made lasagna and it wasn't awful.

21. I have a dimple in my cheek I never knew about.

22. The Lyn-Lake area is always worth exploring.

23. There are great Ethiopian restaurants here.

24. I've forgiven myself for things.

25. Lake Harriet.

26. I'm heading home to Arkansas tomorrow.

27. Peanut butter on celery.

28. My life makes sense, even on the days it feels a bit wacky.

Christmas Lights

I have officially been bitten by the Christmas bug. I'm typically the sort that doesn't embrace Christmas until Thanksgiving is over, but the snow on the ground yesterday and the tree decorating today have made me anxious for carols, wrapping presents, baking cookies, and seeking mistletoe.

I do wish I had an apartment that was more amenable to Christmas decorations. It would be nice to tuck some lights around my bookcases or something. I'm debating a Christmas tree purchase, just a tiny one to wedge into a corner. I've always had a nerdy love for stringing popcorn.

Christmas tree or not, I will not apologize for humming O Holy Night a little too often.

My Blue Suede Shoes

Happiness is...blue suede stillettos and fishnets. A dress worn in November that's best worn in July. The company of ladyfriends. Duck confit, gruyere fondue, Cosmos, and chocolate cake.

The perfect celebration of the momentous 2-8 birthday, n'est-ce pas?

Favorite Spaces

I asked a friend a couple days ago to tell me his favorite place abroad and his response inspired me to think up my favorite spaces, stateside and in the whole wide world. And here they are, in no particular order, totally subjective and based purely on the company involved, the daydreams had, and the presence of sunny skies on the day(s) visited:

1. Favorite beach: Essaouira in Morocco. The blue and white of the boats sticks with me, as does my first and only camel ride, which occurred on the sand outside the city.

2. Favorite mountain: Roan Mountain, Tennessee. Family is everything.

3. Favorite mountain range: The Atlas in Morocco, specifically, the pass between Marrakech and Ourzazate.

4. Favorite large city: Marrakech, London

5: Favorite middle-sized city: New Orleans, Bath (England), Tours (France)

6: Favorite small town: Elizabethton, Tennessee

7: Favorite place to get lost: the souk in Marrakech

8: Favorite breakfast place: That one cafe in Bath with the crazy good eggs and sausage

9: Favorite lunch place: Reginellis in New Orleans, Hanout to the left of the second street in Youssoufia, Morocco with the hottest bread and freshest sardines, Imos in St. Louis, Sims in Little Rock, The Flying Fish in Little Rock

10: Favorite dinner place: Muriel's in New Orleans, Delachaise in New Orleans, Leila's kitchen in Morocco, Cunetto's in St. Louis

11: Favorite snack: sweet peanuts and fresh steamed chickpeas in Morocco

12: Best shopping: Magazine Street in New Orleans, the section of the souk in Marrakech with the crazy lanterns and yarn, the dye section of the Fes souk

13: Best nightlife (bars/pubs): Bath, New Orleans

14: Best theatre: Fox Theatre in St. Louis

15: Best place to swim: waterfall on the road to Hana, Hawaii

16: Best place to have a great time even though you have no knowledge of the language: Vienna

17: Best cheesey tourist location: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace

18: Best cheese: Tours, France, and the Porter's Cahill at the Delachaise in New Orleans

19: Best wine: Tokaj, Hungary

20: Most terrifying/exciting car ride: cab between Marrakech and Ourzazate

21: Prettiest scenery: Alaska, driving to Denali

22: Best place to breathe deep: Audobon Park in New Orleans in the spring, top of Pinnacle Mountain in Arkansas, square outside the theatre in Tver, Russia, with a bit of snow in the air

23: Most beautiful sounds: "Allah Akbar" prayer call during Ramadan in Marrakech ("God is great" translates for any faith), Caroline singing in the car, when my mom calls me "Honey", morning on the Roan, slap of running shoes on pavement, rain on my window in New Orleans, wind at Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, sound of a bat hitting the ball at Busch Stadium

And there are more favorites tucked away, I'm sure. But this is a good start.

Is This Lameness or Maturity?

When I ride the bus my day is very long. I'm up at 5, on the bus at 6, at work at 7:30, on the bus again at 4, home around 5:40. That's three hours of commuter time. When I get home I usually go running, then make dinner, then read, fall asleep around ten. A lot of my friends go out after work, they do happy hours or they go to a movie or they go out to dinner, etc. I socialize after work very infrequently.

I am not complaining. If anything, I love that pace, and prefer to be a bit secluded and quiet during the work week. Weekends are fun for shopping, movies, dinners, dates, parties, etc. But I feel a bit boring when I know much of 20something singledom is out galavanting, flirting, exploring, and I am at home debating the fate of the butternut squash in my fridge. Is that lame?

All I know is that at the end of the day, I value being by myself. I like the quiet of an empty apartment. I like cooking whatever I want for dinner (even if it's something incredibly boring like oatmeal with baked apples...it was all I could think of tonight). I like rearranging the songs on my iPod and googling weird questions that ran through my mind during the day. I like running. I like reading and rereading paragraphs in books that I've read a dozen times. I like making grand plans. I like testdriving my slow cooker. I like writing letters I know I'll never mail. And I can't do any of those things if I'm at happy hour.

Cozy

I complain about my poor, innocent apartment pretty frequently. It gets too chilly, and then too hot, the kitchen is smaller than my kid sister's bathroom, the patio door squeaks, and it's disastrously far from work.

But in the last month or so I've hosted a couple of different groups of friends for dinner and that makes me happier with the pad. In New Orleans, we always had little dinner soirees (okay, it was really just the three of us) at Katherine's, with her perfect tiny kitchen and warm, fluffy couch and the sound of the gerbils spinning happily on their wheel. And in Kansas City I tried not to ever let friends see where I lived, it was such a horrid place. I hosted a lot of friends in Peace Corps but I suppose when you're going on two weeks without a shower and you're eating sardine omelets you don't much worry about the cute factor of your abode.

My first apartment here in the Cities has begun to grow on me. Although I'm itching to leave and move closer to work, I am starting to love the quirk of the occassionally-working sink and the weird noise the bathroom vent makes (is that a heater? what is that thing in the ceiling? does it have a purpose other than making noises?). My friend and thesis advisor, Dabney, used to tease me for romanticizing everything. He told me I could romanticize a lump of coal. The older I get, the more I agree with him. But I think I just grow into certain things, places, experiences, and begin to love them for their flaws. There's an ownership in loving a place you have to "work" to love. I will not go so far as to say I love the Cities. I don't. The cold makes me so sad. But the "work" of loving what this place has to offer is becoming more enjoyable and that includes my crappy, cozy apartment.

Above are the kind souls that visited for dinner last night. Thank you for your company, friends. And Nate, thank you for helping me duct tape my chair.

Thank You

Grandfather Welch and Papaw,

Thank you for serving our country.

I miss and love you both very much.

Love,

Granddaughter Number One

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I will cast my vote for Barack Obama. He was not my first choice, by any means. And I could still list the many worries and questions I have about this man and how he will run our country. Perhaps I will vote for him, partly, because I am a party loyalist, because his point of view and voting pattern is very closely mirrored by the woman I wish stood in his place. But I think the main reason I will vote for him is far simpler.

My dad tells this story about me when I was three, during the Reagan-Mondale battle. After seeing both men on TV, my dad asked me which I liked better. I said Reagan. When asked why, I said Reagan smiled more. It's a simple answer, of course, but I was three. And now, at nearly 28, I feel very much the same.

I'm not voting for Obama because he literally has a grin plastered on his face more often than McCain. But there is something to be said for a candidate who can inspire hope and passion the way he has. After so many years of a president who made Americans often feel embarrassed or foolish, it's very tempting to invision the possibility of a president, once again, who can communicate in a way that will make Americans proud. President Clinton, for all his own faults, had that gift. While he may have been a philanderer and a cheat in many ways, he was never stupid. He was always a brilliant mind trying to fix problems of his and others' creation. I miss having a president who spoke a language the world respected. I'm tired of the office of the President of the United States being deemed a joke in foreign circles.

With that being said, I am not an Obamaphile. I do not think McCain would be bad for this country. I actually think he's a highly competent, truly 'maverick' leader who could do great things for this nation. McCain, before this race, was the renegade Republican. He was the Republican respected by both parties in equal force. This race forced him to embrace a more conservative bent that is not natural to him and I think this discomfort showed. But races do that. McCain is a moderate and he would govern as such and I would be proud to call him my president. I respected McCain long before this election and I will continue to do so whether or not he is my president.

While I am impressed with the sheer magnitude of Obama's forces, I also feel that the Hillary-McCain battle would have been a fairer, better fight. It would have been a fight about issues instead of suits and pranks and plumbers. I don't think this fight was as tough on Obama as it needed to be, and that worries me. But in his last debate, for the first time, I felt that he was sincere. Young, yes. Self-important, yes. Inexperienced, yes. But great presidents have been made of that material before. I think Obama has the guts, I think he exudes a confidence that the country needs right now. His smile looks genuine. And although I'm sure Democrats shudder at the thought of comparing Reagan to Obama, from my 28-or-3 year old eyes, the similarities are worth noting.

Since I feel that both Obama and McCain would make good presidents, I am not an Obama voter who is chewing their fingernails tonite, losing sleep over whether or not Change-with-a-capital-C will arrive. I believe it already has. President Bush will leave office and new, exciting things are around the corner. So I am happy for our country, regardless of the outcome tomorrow. My vote is blue, but for the first time in my voting experience, I do not feel that I am voting for the lesser of evils. I feel lucky to get to choose between two vastly different men with, I believe, identically fervent loves for the country they wish to lead.

My Plant Can Kick Your Plant's Butt

It's time to introduce my friends to the greatest office plant in the world. He's feisty, he's sturdy, he's impossible to kill. He's...

Wait for it...

HERCULEAVES!

Do you get it?

HercuLEAVES.

Haha.

An Accent?

I went to a friend's party last night in celebration of her passing the bar exam. It was a happy, familial affair with champagne, toasts, a cheesily decorated cake, and lots of hugs. I didn't know anyone there besides the lady of the hour so I spent some of the evening talking with her friends, all of whom are from the Minnesota/Iowa/Wisconsin area.

I never think of myself as having a Southern accent. This is largely because I am from the South and so I know what an accent truly sounds like. My mom still has hers, and my extended family members have accents ranging from Texas to Arkansas to Tennessee to the Carolinas (yes, they're all different). I, having moved to Missouri at 10 (and Missouri is NOT a Southern state), lost my accent pretty rapidly and picked up only parts of it upon living in Virginia and Louisiana. I know that it comes out a bit more when I'm around my family and also when I'm sleepy or angry, but I really don't have a strong accent so it surprises me when people pick up on it.

Four times last night people asked where I was from. When I told them I was originally from Arkansas and had moved here from New Orleans, they all shook their heads and said, with varying degrees of self-congratulations, that they knew I was from the South. I am not offended by this in the slightest, mind you. I am, assuredly, a proud Southerner and will always happily recount how I managed to end up in this frozen tundra. And most people love to hear the "y'all" and the sing-song nature of an accent. But it still trips me up a bit, reminds me that I'm not from here, even though I really do not need a reminder.

But I do like having a story to tell, I always have. I like coming from somewhere different, knowing something different. It's hard for me to invision living in one place for all of my life, the way many people here have. In some ways I envy their comfort, the friends they've had since they were in utero, the knowledge and familiarity they have with a specific stretch of space. But I am also glad that I've lived in several states (and even a couple countries), have family in several more, have traveled extensively and called faraway places "home" and not thought it odd. But after years of wandering about with no true desire to be in one place for too long, I can grasp the merit in roots. And I think Minneapolis is a good place for roots.

But I'm still going to say y'all.

Addicted to Connection

I never wanted to be one of those people who felt naked without their phone. But my phone appears to have jumped ship somewhere between the pool and my hotel room so I am, for the time being, unreachable. I can't text people about inane subjects, can't call my Mom with my flight info, can't play and replay the preview game of Tetris.

I'm on my way home, people-I-would-normally-text-with-this-information. So if you would like to connect with me this weekend you will have to utilize such methods as email, blog commenting, knocking on my window, leaving a note on my windshield, etc.

Memorize

I have a friend who knows several Shakespearean sonnets by heart. I memorized one when I was in high school which I still love and recite occassionally (especially on lonely, long car rides). But I've decided I need to memorize more poems. And, seeing as Yeats is my favorite poet, I will begin with this:

No Second Troy, by William Butler Yeats

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Goodbye, My Fellow Southerner

Sandy and I met my first Sunday at Woodale Church. A group went out to lunch after service and I, feeling like a 5th grader, asked if I could sit at her table. We soon stumbled upon the topic of where we grew up and as she's from Lynchburg, Virginia I probably semi-attacked her and begged her to be my friend since she was the first fellow Southerner I'd met.

Over the past year we've shared job woes and dreamed of opening a lovely consulting firm someday in a sweet Georgetown pad that somehow incorporates her public policy degree and my nerdy fascination with energy regulation. We've also simply gotten to be good friends and she never teased me for saying "y'all" and always shared my love of in depth policy discussion (and there aren't many people who actually enjoy that).

Sandy is moving away this week, back home to the Old Dominion. Part of me is incredibly jealous. As much as I love being near my family, love having a job that's actually in the field I'm interested in (I still pinch myself over that), love living in a state that is decidedly Blue, I still miss The South. I miss the warmth and familiarity of the Arkansas/Louisiana territory, and the beauty and old charm of Virginia and the Carolinas. I wish I could drag my family and my job to, say, Charlotte. Or New Orleans. Or Richmond. Or Little Rock. But I know I can't have everything. And if home is where the heart is, and if I'm sick of living thousands of miles from my family, then home is here.

Sandy always felt that she was meant to be somewhere other than here. And I completely relate to that. I will miss having someone around who understands what it feels like to have ended up somewhere that surprises you. I don't think the Minnesota surprise was a bad one, for me, and there are adventures to be had in the snowy North. But I will miss my fellow Southern compatriot. My adventures will be a bit more scary, without Sandy to laughingly encourage my path. There is no doubt in my mind that God brings people into your world when you need them. I needed Sandy this year and I cannot imagine what this year would have felt like, had I not had her smile to look forward to on Sunday mornings. She feels like a special, individual blessing just for me, even though I know she is assuredly a blessing to many other people. She will be dearly, lovingly missed.

Best of luck, friend, and God bless you.

Just Awesome

A New Thing I Love

I ran at night for the first time today. I have a couple workout DVDs that I tend to do when I get home late and it's "too dark" to go running.

Too dark?

Very shortly it will be "too dark" by 4:30. I refuse to relegate myself to that awful, annoying woman on the DVD who tells me to "dig deep" and then tells me if I want abs like hers I have to "grunt and pant" myself through her workout. No. Thank. You.

I don't know why it took me so long to run at night. I suppose there's the safety element, being a woman. But I live in a very well lit, very suburban area and I only ran on the busiest street with ample sidewalks. I suppose the chill scared me off a bit, too, but it was warmer tonite than it has been on a couple afternoons I've hit the trail.

I loved it and I think I ran faster. I don't time myself so I'm really just going by my gut.

I think, with the darkness, I'm forced to focus more. I'm not sidetracked by pretty leaves or other runners or avoiding the barking dog or wondering if my ponytail is lopsided. I concentrate on the sidewalk, concentrate on the cracks and fissures and the curbs and the grates. And I count the headlights rushing towards me, take note of the ones that have a dimming bulb. I wonder who is in the cars and where they are going. It is Friday night, after all, and I can only assume that the bulk of humanity is out socializing instead of waxing poetic on the beauty of night running. I wonder who is getting divorced, who is falling in love, who hates their best friend, who shouldn't have bought those shoes, who misses their Dad, who is late for a first date, who is singing along to songs they don't admit to knowing, who is moving away, who just arrived. I like to think of all the people inside those cars, extraordinary people with ordinary lives, vice versa.

And I'm outside, wrists bared to the wind, concentrating on sidewalks, counting headlights.

Running

I am slow.

I don't even time myself when I run. Sometimes it takes everything I have to run 2 miles. And then yesterday I hit 5 miles and felt I could run forever. Never, ever stop.

I don't look like a runner.

I feel like runners should be tall, lithe, smooth. I see them often around here. They're like statues with moving parts, and I have to force myself not to stare at that amazing slice of leg right above the knee. What muscle is that? I, on the other hand, am not tall, nor lithe, nor smooth. In fact, I am short, roundish, and have the grace God gave a donkey. I trip a lot. My nose runs. I have to remind myself to stand up straighter or my neck starts to hurt. I'm 70 lbs thinner than I used to be, which is lovely. But I still feel rather oafish sometimes when I run, like if I only had a few more inches I'd be better balanced, faster, smoother. And I can't help but hope that when the last 20 lbs is gone I will feel like I fit the road better. I don't care that I don't look like other runners. I'm not going to grow or suddenly have long, long legs. But I would like to feel like the road is meant for me, too, and not just them. And for now, I still feel like a usurper. Just a little more time, just a little more patience, many more miles, and I'll own a stretch of road, too, don't you think?

Slow and non-runneresque though I may be, I do love it. I love that 20 minutes or so into a run I hit some magical, bizarre, perfect stride that makes the ground feel softer and my legs feel like steel. I love that when I'm tired I just have to play a few keys songs on the Ipod ("Bixby Canyon Bridge" by Death Cab for Cutie, "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, or "Mysterious Ways" by U2) to force a grin and another mile. I love that the weather is perfect for a t-shirt and my comfy North Face fleece. I love that my Asics are molded to my feet. I love that feeling right when I stop running, when I'm at the end, when my legs go from tense to sleepy, and my heart skips a bit and calms, I love how it feels to have done something hard. Done it well. I love that my body can do things now that it could never have done 70 lbs ago. I love that I'm strong and that I made myself strong. And I'm grateful God gave me that chance.

I Couldn't Decide Which Blog to Post This On...

I have a food-related blog (http://www.edibleavocation.blogspot.com/) which I started at the beginning of the year to detail some cooking disasters and successes. I post on it infrequently (shocker, I know) but I occassionally become inspired by what I'm eating or trying to cook or hoping to bake.

I am usually a recipe girl. I have several tried-and-true recipes courtesy of my Marmee, Mamaw, Grandmother, etc., and I also stumbled upon a few excellent ones on allrecipes.com. But I always wanted to get to a point where I could simply look at the ingredients in my cupboard and just bake something. And tonight that finally happened. I created a lovely batch of cookies which I have yet to name (Vanilla Cinnamon Kisses? Spicey Sugar Cookies?) and they're now cooling on my counter, the smell of cinnamon and some burnt sugar (just one cookie suffered that fate) still wafting through my apartment.

My apartment is pretty ugly. It's a typical, better-than-a-college-apartment-but-still-too-broke-for-a-decent-place type apartment. And that's fine, I make it as pretty as I can and dream of the day when my loans are more manageable (I can't even fathom paying them off) and I can afford the mortgage on a small brick house with room for a dog. But, daydreams aside, the apartment does not have a ton going for it. The smell of cookies, however, makes me love it more. The tiny kitchen feels snug and warm, the plain white walls feel less clinical, the dirt-colored carpet in my bedroom feels less like a brillo pad, and the window that always sticks seems to slide a bit better (maybe it's the butter in the air).

I rarely eat what I bake. I'll have a cookie or I'll taste the batter of a cake, but because I'm pseudo-psycho about my running and weight loss I don't allow myself much. It's the smell I love, and the act of taking a bunch of bits and rolling them into something that makes people smile. I don't create things at work, don't build or design anything. So, occassionally, it's nice to make something and know that it wouldn't exist but for my personal combination of butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, flour, baking soda, more butter...

Another September 11th

I suppose every generation has their moment. Their "where were you when...?" question. I was 20 on this day seven years ago , standing in my room at the sorority house, wearing my new camel-colored sweater and rolling my hair. My roommate, Christina, had already left for class and I was watching a rerun of Designing Women when the program was interrupted for that first message. I thought perhaps the pilot was drunk, and I was angry at him. How could he be so careless, so cruel?

I kept watching, of course, and I remember hearing televisions in other rooms, and knew other girls were watching the same thing. But nobody knocked on my door. I didn't hear any cries of, "hey guys, are you watching this?!" Perhaps we were all waiting for the explanation, the acknowledgment of incompetence or drugs. And then the second plane hit and I heard someone somewhere cry out. Did I cry out, too? I don't remember. I kept watching, and at some point I called my Mom.

I tried to call a dear friend, Francis, who was living in New York at the time. In my mind, all of NYC was burning. Hordes of demon planes were crashing everywhere and surely Francis would be hit. But nobody could get through to New York that day. I wandered across campus to the library to find Christina and by the time I arrived the Pentagon smoke was flying. Or was it the White House? I forget what we thought at first. Was the White House gone? No, that plane crashed. But the Pentagon...

I don't remember much of what followed, besides the candlelight vigil, the prayers, the worry that maybe this changed everything. I didn't realize, of course, that Sept.11 would set in motion the political moves that would eventually lead to my evacuation from Peace Corps. When I left for my service in Morocco months after the 11th, my dad mentioned a concern about Sadaam Hussein, Afghanistan, but I had no sense of the threat. Looking back, my parents must have been more than a little nervous to watch their wholly naive firstborn jaunt off to an Arab country less than a year after the news blasted Arab faces across the screen and called them murderers. I wasn't afraid in that context. And I had no cause to be. My villagers, my host families, my Moroccan friends, they were all some of the kindest, warmest people I've ever met. Some of them were angry, maybe mean, but no more so than any angry American. And I loved Morocco more than I've loved any other place on earth, save one, save New Orleans.

A week or so after the U.S. invaded Iraq, I was riding a taxi, alone, with a police escort, from my village east of Esfi to join my fellow volunteers at a hotel in Marrakech, where we watched the news and waited for the end.

Seven years is a long time. I've heard a million times that Sept. 11 changed America forever. America lost her innocence. America will never be the same. I would agree with that sentiment, but it's fairly obvious and painfully cliche. I don't think America is worse off due to Sept. 11, anymore than she is worse off due to other tragedies, other natural disasters, other wars. Losing innocents, burying those that should not have died, that is a pain that inspires broken hearts and vehemently powerful brotherhood. If there is anything Sept. 11 says about America today, it is that we own our history, we hold it and treasure it, and then we walk on. We build. We grow. We fight. We potentially elect the first black president or the first female vice president. We have things to be proud of and we are not quiet in our pride. And I think that says something about the backbone that was not broken on the 11th. There is something to be said of our blood, of a country built on the shoulders of men and women who largely came here with nothing and built something out of the dirt. Of men and women who were shackled here against their will and who broke free, rose up, and became as much a source of success of this country as the descendants of those who owned them. We, as a country, are used to rising from ashes, we have built and rebuilt a country on the graves of innocents, honoring their lives by building, growing, and building again.

Autumn, Anyone?

I loathe winter. I hate feeling cold, hate shivering, hate the grey of Minnesota from November-April (sometimes May). And I miss the long, lazy autumn in Virginia, Arkansas, and Missouri, where you have three solid months of beautiful colors and above freezing evenings.

But, short as it is, Minnesota's autumn is worth loving. Perhaps people love it here because they know how quick it fades, how fast that first heavy snow can fall. And I think there's something lovely about being able to smell the snow in the air. That snow smell reminds me, vaguely, of that ozone aroma that lingered in New Orleans after hard summer storms, the smell of lightening and non-hurricanes. Completely different smells, different feelings, but echoes of each other in that your nose remembers and acknowledges snowstorms and slanted rains before the rest of your body. Memory is so tied to visuals and sounds, it's nice to give the nose a chance to paint its own picture.

And today, in the middle of a warm, autumn rain, in the three drops that hit my face through the crack in the bus window, I smelled snow.

The Motherland

As soon as I step foot in Arkansas my heart relaxes. Despite the heat, the humidity, my lungs fill up faster. My body was born here and it recognizes Home. I am happy in Minneapolis, as I was happy in Kansas City, and St. Louis, and so happy in New Orleans. But my happiness in Arkansas has a heavier feel. The weight of family and love and barbeque and the hill where I crashed my bike and the vacant lot where I played house and the best dog in the world and the plum trees I laid under and the yellow jackets that made my feet swell and the walk to the bus stop at the top of the hill and the cinnamon toast at Mamaw's when I had the chickenpox and the swing set that tipped too high and...

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

It Isn't A Regret Exactly

Last night I saw The Government Inspector at the Guthrie, a new adaptation of the 19th century Gogol comedy. The play was good, funny and light. But it made me somewhat homesick for the years I spent onstage. I miss the smell and the heaviness of stage makeup, how it erased my own face and gave me a new one. And I miss too-tight shoes and corsets and the sound of my voice and the echoes of an audience.


But more than the joys of performance and applause, I miss doing something I knew I excelled at. I've been an attorney for all of 9 months and I don't have much intention of pursuing a traditional legal practice. I haven't truly begun my career so I have no idea if I will be successful. I love to write and have written poems and stories since I was a child, but I also hate my writing 90% of the time and cannot remember the last time I finished a piece I wanted to share with anyone. Writing feels too personal, too important to be enjoyed sometimes. But acting was never like that. I always knew I was good, often excellent. I always knew I had a lovely stage voice, knew I could slip into a character with the ease of a new dress. So even when I felt ugly or sad or stupid or completely lost, I always knew that on stage I would give the impression of assurance and purpose.


I don't regret not trying harder. I flipped a coin after Peace Corps, move to New York and give acting a go (heads) or apply to law school again (tails). And when it landed heads, I flipped again. I knew I didn't want that life and the happiness I found onstage was not enough to carry me through years of waiting tables. But I do miss backstage jitters, the rush to find the lost eyeliner, the heat of the lights, the sound of the audience coughing and sighing into their seats, the momentary forgetfulness of that first damn line, the sadness of the last night's applause. I miss it all.

Books I Should Be Reading

Sons and Lovers: I've read and reread 3/4 of this book at least three times. Why can't I finish it? I love it. It's beautiful. So why do I get tired 45 pages from the end?

The Omnivore's Dilemma: I don't own this yet but I pick it up everytime I'm at the bookstore (which is too often). There's a new one, too, called In Defense of Food (I think) that a couple friends have recommended.

Catch-22: In the past 6 months, several people, randomly, have said that this is their favorite book. People who, by my assessment, seem like intelligent, not-entirely-insane people. But I hated this book when I read it and haven't gone near Heller since. But I've been told he deserves a second go. I'm hesitant but maybe...

Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Volume Two): I haven't read Volume One but I only own Volume Two, and yes, I know it's a cookbook. But it's Julia Child! And my copy is so worn and dusty and wonderfully old, it would be fun to read it. Is it weird to read a cookbook?

Pilgrim's Progress: Isn't this something everyone is supposed to read at some point? Am I missing something?

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men: I've heard tons about this and Southern lit has a special sway in my heart, so the sharecropping angle intrigues me. And I loved Agee's A Death in the Family. So this one is near the top of my "must read" list.

The Magic Mountain: I owned a copy of this for awhile but loaned it to someone before I read it and never got it back. It's time to find it again.

Your Typical Wednesday at 2:12 P.M.

I am craving a glass of spicy red wine and fantastic company.

Corner Stores

It's a simple thing, and perhaps it's silly to love it so much. But my apartment is a tiny walk away from several stores, Trader Joe's, a chocolatier, a handbag store, half-price books. And I just love that tiny walk. I love tucking a shopping bag in my purse, filling it with milk or eggs or magazines or sweets, and then returning home with the heavy weight of it in my hand. It's a small pleasure, but an important one.

Religion and Politics, Sigh

I've had several conversations recently with different people from both political parties re: the place of religion in politics. Some of these conversations have been exasperating and many have been enlightening, so for my own mental exercise I thought I'd say a few things about my own opinion. I generalize a bit, as I know that there are many non-Christian Republicans, or many Christian Republicans that do not vote according to the religious right, but because they are fiscally conservative or more in line with conservative viewpoints on other issues. Also, I have many Christian Republican friends who are fantastically tolerant and respectful of our differing political opinions. My issue lies more with the prevalence of intolerance in the Church for non-Republicans and my discussions have largely been on the issue of religious conservatism mingling with political conservatism so that's the perspective I'm exploring.

I'm a Christian. I believe Christ died on the cross for the sins of man and by his grace we are redeemed. Christianity, my constant struggle to be a woman of faith (when doubt is my more prevalent tendency), colors every aspect of my life. I am a Christian before I am an American, before I am anything else. I am a Christian before I am a Democrat, before I am a voter, before I question which side of the abortion debate I fall on. My faith is first. And it is that hierarchy that most inspires my confusion over why there is a question how I can be BOTH a Christian and a Democrat.

Faith and Party are not mutually exclusive. Loving one's country, serving her, is a blessed thing in the eyes of God but serving one's country is not the realm of a sole political party. One party does not own God. God does not endorse one candidate over another and to imply such an idea is wholly offensive to me. To imply that one party has the direct line to Heaven belittles faith, belittles Christ, and patronizes the millions of Americans who call themselves Christians. There is no doubt in my mind that many of the leaders of the religious right have bought their way to power by the constant patronizing of Christian America. They have made Christians believe that there are only a handful of real issues in America (abortion and gay rights being their favorites) and that those issues trump every other issue at bar. They've pointed a wagging pastoral finger at Christians who found themselves questioning the ideals of the Republican party and have convinced the majority of Christians that part of being a good Christ-follower is to vote with the party that God has blessed. Bullshit.

The Democratic party is no picnic, either. While the Republicans preach their moral imperative, Democrats find it hard to state that something is categorically 'wrong', which can be equally infuriating. But that's the whole point. Neither party is perfect because both parties were created by men. They are inherently fallible and broken. When I look at both parties, as a Christian, the Democratic party is the party that is most in line with my faith in terms of equality, providing support for the impoverished, embracing the 'least of these', protecting God's earth, and championing peace. And so, my vote swings left. However, I have no problem understanding why other Christians would look at the parties and decide the opposite, decide that the Republican party best represents their values. I can respect either determination. For that reason, I do not understand why so many Republicans can not provide the same respect, cannot look at Christian Democrats and acknowledge that there are Biblical values that many people will feel are best represented by the Democratic party.

But chiefly, I simply do not believe politics should ever have a place in the church or vice versa. At its core, the marriage of the two belittles faith. It equates Country with God, turns the American flag into an idol worthy of worship, an idea I find incredibly disturbing. Outside the church, the marriage of the two establishes religious imperatives in a government that should be wholly secular. Decision-making will always be inspired by personal convictions, and for many people those convictions will arise out of religious faith, that is to be expected and championed in a democracy. But the Church and the State should be divided beyond those convictions, so that every leader and every voter has the freedom to pursue those convictions without threat.

Rest in Peace, Diego

Dear furry friend, I happily babysat you while your mommy was away and I never undertood why you hid food all over the place. But your silly little gerbil feet and your oblivious pooping in my hand will be missed. May you enjoy many turns on the great gerbil wheel in the sky.

So it's one of THOSE apartments

I recently moved into a new apartment. It's a sweet, small space in an area I love and I'm quite happy to be on my own again. My description of its location usually goes something like this:

Inquiring Friend: Where are you living now?

Me: Do you know the Excelsior & Grand area?

Friend: Sure, that's an awesome location!

Me: It is. Do you know those gorgeous condos right at the intersection?

Friend: Yeah, wow, way to go! Those places are beautiful.

Me: *laughing* I live in the ghetto apartments behind those gorgeous condos.

Friend: Oh. Cool. I didn't know there were apartments back there.

Me: Yeah, they like to hide us away, we po' folk.

Anywho, I love my somewhat ghetto place, warts and all. I called my landlord a few days ago because for the life of me I could not get my windows to lock. I pushed and sweated and cussed and still, no locking. I live on the first floor and I watch too much Law & Order SVU so, really, locking windows is kinda high on my priority list. The landlord explained to me, very sweetly, that the windows DO lock but everytime you open the windows you have to realign the panes. You have to pull the lower pane out, push the upper pane up, and finally slide the lower pane back into place.

Ah. It's one of those apartments. One of those lovely little places where every moving part has a system. My bedroom door in New Orleans had a similar process that involved having to reattach the doorknob every 5th opening. And 4th step in the hallway had a dip in it that, despite living there for 3 years, I could never master the height of and I always half stumbled my way upstairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm happy I have one of those apartments. Who needs perfection when you can have a slightly contrary, slightly annoying, but totally individual place? Perfection is overrated. I have my own idiosyncracies (applying condiments alphabetically, being moderately intimidated by escalators), so it only makes sense that my new home should be equally eccentric.

My thoughts exactly

Rocko, looking none too pleased that his trip outside involved a snowy backside and frozen whiskers. I feel ya, little buddy, March 31st is WAY too late to be getting 8 inches of snow. Where, oh where, is spring?

Why I'm Voting For Her

I do not fall for it. I am an eternal optimist but I do not believe that gives me license to ignore reality. Obama's incessant talk of change does not convince me of anything beyond his ability to speak in pretty, inspiring tones. He holds himself well. He smiles and exudes warmth in ways that Hillary does not. But I am not electing a buddy. I am not electing someone I want to go have a beer with. I'm electing the next Commander-in-Chief. I'm electing the individual who will get us out of Iraq, who will effectively maneuver the halls of Congress, who will do what it takes to clean up the mess Bush leaves behind.

Regardless of the nominee, 'change' is imminent. After eight years of Bush incompetence, a Democrat in the White House will mean a restoration of good sense, good choices, and hope for all Americans. So this constant harping on 'change' by the Obama camp frustrates me. 'Change' is the buzzword used by candidates who lack the credentials to support their plans for the future. I should hope any candidate would be working for change, otherwise what the hell is the point? Obama assumes his ideas are enough, that what he lacks in experience he can make up for in heart. How sweet. Cute, almost. And I don't consider myself to be a cynic. But I will take experience over eloquence any day, especially when the fate of the country is involved. Hillary supports our military, our health, our environment, our position in world politics, in ways bolstered by years of experience and inspired by a lifetime of public service. Obama has convinced me that he wants the job. Hillary has convinced me that she can do the job. Period.

Whoa Nelly!

My car, a 2003 blue VW Golf, has been through a lot. Her name is Nell (a shortened form of Dub-Yuh-Nell, which is the nickname for my undergrad, Washington and Lee...I couldn't name her 'Dubyuh' for obvious reasons). She was purchased in St. Louis after I returned from Peace Corps in Morocco. She then traveled highway 70 between St. Louie and Kansas City routinely for a year while I was living in KC and visiting family in St. Louis.

Then I decided to move to New Orleans for law school. This meant three round trips between Kansas City and Nola as I looked for an apartment, moved my belongings, and visited friends. Living in Nola also meant multiple hurricane evacuations to Little Rock, trips that resulted in 1 flat tire, 1 busted headlight bulb, a handful of bad mix CDs, and the murder of one unfortunate turtle crossing highway 55N. Evacuations aside, Nola was not a good place for a car. A sinking city means a city of potholes. And in New Orleans these are not your average potholes. These are not tire-sized potholes. These are large cow-sized. These are VW Golf-sized. I saw an 18 wheeler get stuck on a city street because its front tire sank into the road. And still, despite the potholes, heat, and humidity, by dear Nelly survived. Not unscathed, of course. A couple of teenage hooligans stole two of my hubcaps right in front of me. And I lost a third due to a faulty U-turn. But she's alive and kicking.

And now. Now I bring her to Minneapolis. I cover her in so much salt and gook and mess, she doesn't even look blue anymore. I freeze her senseless so that half the time I come back to the bus station after work I say a little prayer for her to start. I can't blame her orneryness, I wouldn't want to wake up either if I'd been hanging out in a -5 degree garage all day. So today, I gave her a bath. I never spend money on car washes, they were a waste in New Orleans since it rained so much. And here it seems silly since she'll just get salty again with one trip downtown. But she looked so sad and grey, I had to perk her up a bit.

Nelly, in her clean and hubcapless glory, says hello.

Cry for Help

I miss the jazz on Frenchman's Street. Someone find me some jazz.

I Miss the Sidewalk

Well, I don't really miss the sidewalks in New Orleans. They're the most awful, ankle-twisting sidewalks in America, ripped apart by oak roots and the constant sinking of the streets. But I do miss walking up and down my street, State Street, to and from school. I miss seeing houses I'd never noticed before, in colors I'd forgotten about, with flowers I could never describe.

This was my favorite house. On the corner, the yard always smelled like clay and jasmine. It was beautiful.

A New Day

For the last few years, ever since the Cardinals were defeated by the Red Sox, my family has burned a Red Sox cap in the fireplace to welcome the new year, bring good luck. We're a rabid Cardinals family, and watching the Red Sox cap melt and pop and disintegrate in open flames is a welcome sight. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

May the New Year bring similarly bizarre joys to you and yours.