i'm so irresponsible.
i went to seattle for the weekend.
it's been great.
more to come.
one update: i received a message from my papa on friday morning. it was very insightful, as he usually is. i'd like to share as it modifys a previous post. recently, i wrote on wanting to be a german shepard when i grow up. papa said he'd been thinking about it and decided i was right, i would make a great german shepard. (thank you). however, i might, more realistically, think about wanting to be a german shepard/chessapeke bay retriever mix instead. why? because you train german shepards with hand signals. you teach chessie's with two by fours. i'm somewhere in between, he said. i fully agree.
like i said, i went to seattle for the weekend.
i'm so irresponsible.
happily your-
LC
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I Know, Alright
Last night I accidentally went on a date to a gay bar with a man I met on Craigslist when I bought his bed and then hung out with drunk UVA law students that wore belts with fish on them.
I promise I can explain.
If you remember a few posts ago, I talked about Jean Pierre, aka Eric, the guy that tied the bed to the top of my car with a speaker wire in the pouring rain. Well, a few days later he asked me out. And then asked me out a few days after that. And a few days after that. When I couldn’t avoid any longer I said yes because, well, for one, I have a hard time saying no sometimes and the guy really did bail me out . What’s one drink and some surfacy conversation for an hour?
So, last night was the night. While I do know that each and every one of my decisions up to this point have been sketchy at best, I do think I deserve some credit for begging my roommate LJ to come on my date with me. We met my/our date in Dupont- us in summer dresses having just come from Friday jazz in the park, him sportin’ the white linen suit. Obviously, he was taking this seriously. I shot LJ the “I so owe you look” while she shot back the “you’re such an idiot” look. Fair enough.
Eric, born in Cameroon and schooled in France, really wanted to go Adams Morgan. We hopped in his car (I know!) and drove up the road about 5 minutes and then in circles for 10 looking for parking. Again, why I agreed to this, I don’t know. Already thinking escape route, I suggested the first bar we saw upon parking the car. In my desperation, I failed to notice the rainbows and multi-colored Christmas lights decorating the patio outside. It actually didn’t even don on me til we’d been in there for at least 10 minutes. I won’t tell you how I figured it out. Again, LJ shot the “you’re such an idiot” my way. (I know, okay!)
Long story short, he talked the whole hour and fifteen we were with him. And he really is a nice guy. Really. Just, not my type. We made our escape right as one of his friends showed up, presumably for LJ. I didn’t realize it until we were on our way to meet my Craigslist prince that while I was making LJ go with me, I would also be repaying her that night by going with her to a party where she only knew this one guy her cousin had introduced her to…begin scene two.
We walked a few blocks to the house bracing ourselves for another would-be good story. The good news about the rest of the night is that there is really no awkwardness to report. The UVA/Baylor crowd in attendance was welcoming and interesting. Conversation flowed. New friends everywhere. At one point, LJ and I were talking to Ben who had had maybe one margarita too many. After demonstrating his knowledge of Darren’s Dance Grooves, somehow, we got on the topic of slavery. (Warning: this is what happens when you invite IJMers to parties.) I really hope he remembers what he learned because I must say that LJ and I gave a very informative and passionate tag-team presentation. I think I even saw a tear forming in his left eye at one point. Maybe he was just tired.
It was about 30 minutes into our slavery speech that I glanced over and realized that there was a guy, my age, with a fish belt and boat shoes, khaki shorts that hit above the knee and a button-down shirt tucked it. But let me reiterate, he had a fish belt. A belt with fish on it. I looked around and started noticing what other guys were wearing. It was more or less the same variation that outfit. A UVA belt. Tan boat shoes, brown boat shoes. Pastels. Khaki shorts, no pleats. Everything tucked in. Maybe you’re used to southern frat boy culture, but I’m telling you, I cannot get used to it. It makes me laugh out lout almost every time I see it. I used to wonder how in the world L.L. Bean stays in business. Now I know. I also know, even more shockingly, that it is those born in the same year as me keeping it in business.
We decided to grab a cab home and the night was officially topped off when the cabbie’s radio blared “It’s Rainin’ Men, Hallelujah!” all the way back to Maryland Ave. Hallelujah, indeed.
Safe, sound and happy-
Your, LC
I promise I can explain.
If you remember a few posts ago, I talked about Jean Pierre, aka Eric, the guy that tied the bed to the top of my car with a speaker wire in the pouring rain. Well, a few days later he asked me out. And then asked me out a few days after that. And a few days after that. When I couldn’t avoid any longer I said yes because, well, for one, I have a hard time saying no sometimes and the guy really did bail me out . What’s one drink and some surfacy conversation for an hour?
So, last night was the night. While I do know that each and every one of my decisions up to this point have been sketchy at best, I do think I deserve some credit for begging my roommate LJ to come on my date with me. We met my/our date in Dupont- us in summer dresses having just come from Friday jazz in the park, him sportin’ the white linen suit. Obviously, he was taking this seriously. I shot LJ the “I so owe you look” while she shot back the “you’re such an idiot” look. Fair enough.
Eric, born in Cameroon and schooled in France, really wanted to go Adams Morgan. We hopped in his car (I know!) and drove up the road about 5 minutes and then in circles for 10 looking for parking. Again, why I agreed to this, I don’t know. Already thinking escape route, I suggested the first bar we saw upon parking the car. In my desperation, I failed to notice the rainbows and multi-colored Christmas lights decorating the patio outside. It actually didn’t even don on me til we’d been in there for at least 10 minutes. I won’t tell you how I figured it out. Again, LJ shot the “you’re such an idiot” my way. (I know, okay!)
Long story short, he talked the whole hour and fifteen we were with him. And he really is a nice guy. Really. Just, not my type. We made our escape right as one of his friends showed up, presumably for LJ. I didn’t realize it until we were on our way to meet my Craigslist prince that while I was making LJ go with me, I would also be repaying her that night by going with her to a party where she only knew this one guy her cousin had introduced her to…begin scene two.
We walked a few blocks to the house bracing ourselves for another would-be good story. The good news about the rest of the night is that there is really no awkwardness to report. The UVA/Baylor crowd in attendance was welcoming and interesting. Conversation flowed. New friends everywhere. At one point, LJ and I were talking to Ben who had had maybe one margarita too many. After demonstrating his knowledge of Darren’s Dance Grooves, somehow, we got on the topic of slavery. (Warning: this is what happens when you invite IJMers to parties.) I really hope he remembers what he learned because I must say that LJ and I gave a very informative and passionate tag-team presentation. I think I even saw a tear forming in his left eye at one point. Maybe he was just tired.
It was about 30 minutes into our slavery speech that I glanced over and realized that there was a guy, my age, with a fish belt and boat shoes, khaki shorts that hit above the knee and a button-down shirt tucked it. But let me reiterate, he had a fish belt. A belt with fish on it. I looked around and started noticing what other guys were wearing. It was more or less the same variation that outfit. A UVA belt. Tan boat shoes, brown boat shoes. Pastels. Khaki shorts, no pleats. Everything tucked in. Maybe you’re used to southern frat boy culture, but I’m telling you, I cannot get used to it. It makes me laugh out lout almost every time I see it. I used to wonder how in the world L.L. Bean stays in business. Now I know. I also know, even more shockingly, that it is those born in the same year as me keeping it in business.
We decided to grab a cab home and the night was officially topped off when the cabbie’s radio blared “It’s Rainin’ Men, Hallelujah!” all the way back to Maryland Ave. Hallelujah, indeed.
Safe, sound and happy-
Your, LC
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
HELP
I’m feeling a lot of pressure right now for a number of reasons. My mom said I have to blog three times a week if I want to keep readers. That’s a lot. My friend started blogging three days ago and has already written more than I have in this whole month. And you guys gave me such great and unexpected feedback (thank you SO much!) after my last post that I don’t quite know how to follow that.
…sigh…
Well, here’s what I’ve been thinking about, take it or leave it.
It all started on Saturday when I finally broke and decided to get a haircut, even though I had told myself I would wait to do it until I had a job. Given that my bangs were down to my shoulders, I clearly didn’t think getting a job would take this long. Anyway, I met Jasmine, my Bubbles Salon stylist. She’s the best kind of hairdresser because she does most of the talking., I’m just not good at making salon conversation. I sat down and once the niceties had been exchanged she cut right to it: “Giiirl. Daang. What is goin’ ON with yo color?” I proceeded to mumble something to the effect of “I didn’t know it was bad” and “I’m kinda really poor right now so I can’t actually do anything about it.” From there the conversation drifted from her own (amazing) story, she is from the British Virgin Islands, to going to church vs watching Joel Osteen, to men and why we love/hate them, to what it’s like to live in DC, and on and on. She gave me the best haircut I’ve had in probably years and as I was at the counter paying, she told the girl to write me down for color on Tuesday at noon (“you’re not doing anything, right?” “right.”). She wanted to do my color, for FREE. Jasmine said she’s been there, she knows that sometimes you need help, and that people actually take joy in helping.
So that’s it, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Help. Looking back over the past 6(!) months in DC I am just so floored by the amount of help I’ve received. I hope it goes without saying that I am incredibly, incredibly grateful. It’s all been one long outpouring of Grace in different ways, shapes, and forms. Maybe that should be whole post in itself. But looking back, I also realize that it’s been hard. Constantly being the one on the receiving end of things is new for me. Because I’ve started from scratch here, all of the roles in which I’ve learned to define myself don’t necessarily exist, which means I don’t know exactly where or how to be needed. I can’t offer any help yet, I just need it.
Does that make sense? This is harder to articulate than I thought.
Basically, I’ve realized that as much as it a gift to receive, it is also a gift to have something to give. I don’t know that I’ve really appreciated this before now, as I've always had something to give, more or less. I still don’t have a job which means that I don’t have an income. Friendships are still new and I don’t know exactly how to best love the people that I’m doing life with. I’m just starting to get involved in a church but still, no one would notice if I missed a Sunday. All of which to say, not a lot to give yet. But I’m close. Closer, at least. Even if it's just directions to tourists. Ha.
This isn’t an incredibly insightful realization. It’s just that it’s allowed me a new perspective. I pray that when I do actually have help to offer, I never forget this season of my life, what it's like to have nothing to give. I hope I remember what a blessing it is to be able to bless others. (Helloooooo, Christianese.)
Well, I went back on Tuesday and Jasmine did my hair free of charge. She said my true color was dark blonde, who knew? And she did a great job, if I do say so myself. Thank you Jasmine, for teaching me that it’s okay to be helped, that it’s a gift to be able to help.
Speaking of asking for help, I still need a J.O.B. Anyone?
Your-
LC
P.S. Fireflies live on my street!
…sigh…
Well, here’s what I’ve been thinking about, take it or leave it.
It all started on Saturday when I finally broke and decided to get a haircut, even though I had told myself I would wait to do it until I had a job. Given that my bangs were down to my shoulders, I clearly didn’t think getting a job would take this long. Anyway, I met Jasmine, my Bubbles Salon stylist. She’s the best kind of hairdresser because she does most of the talking., I’m just not good at making salon conversation. I sat down and once the niceties had been exchanged she cut right to it: “Giiirl. Daang. What is goin’ ON with yo color?” I proceeded to mumble something to the effect of “I didn’t know it was bad” and “I’m kinda really poor right now so I can’t actually do anything about it.” From there the conversation drifted from her own (amazing) story, she is from the British Virgin Islands, to going to church vs watching Joel Osteen, to men and why we love/hate them, to what it’s like to live in DC, and on and on. She gave me the best haircut I’ve had in probably years and as I was at the counter paying, she told the girl to write me down for color on Tuesday at noon (“you’re not doing anything, right?” “right.”). She wanted to do my color, for FREE. Jasmine said she’s been there, she knows that sometimes you need help, and that people actually take joy in helping.
So that’s it, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Help. Looking back over the past 6(!) months in DC I am just so floored by the amount of help I’ve received. I hope it goes without saying that I am incredibly, incredibly grateful. It’s all been one long outpouring of Grace in different ways, shapes, and forms. Maybe that should be whole post in itself. But looking back, I also realize that it’s been hard. Constantly being the one on the receiving end of things is new for me. Because I’ve started from scratch here, all of the roles in which I’ve learned to define myself don’t necessarily exist, which means I don’t know exactly where or how to be needed. I can’t offer any help yet, I just need it.
Does that make sense? This is harder to articulate than I thought.
Basically, I’ve realized that as much as it a gift to receive, it is also a gift to have something to give. I don’t know that I’ve really appreciated this before now, as I've always had something to give, more or less. I still don’t have a job which means that I don’t have an income. Friendships are still new and I don’t know exactly how to best love the people that I’m doing life with. I’m just starting to get involved in a church but still, no one would notice if I missed a Sunday. All of which to say, not a lot to give yet. But I’m close. Closer, at least. Even if it's just directions to tourists. Ha.
This isn’t an incredibly insightful realization. It’s just that it’s allowed me a new perspective. I pray that when I do actually have help to offer, I never forget this season of my life, what it's like to have nothing to give. I hope I remember what a blessing it is to be able to bless others. (Helloooooo, Christianese.)
Well, I went back on Tuesday and Jasmine did my hair free of charge. She said my true color was dark blonde, who knew? And she did a great job, if I do say so myself. Thank you Jasmine, for teaching me that it’s okay to be helped, that it’s a gift to be able to help.
Speaking of asking for help, I still need a J.O.B. Anyone?
Your-
LC
P.S. Fireflies live on my street!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
What I Want To Be When I Grow Up: A Brief History
Go with me, if you will, on a little trip, a little journey through my development from as an innocent and starry-eyed little girl to the mature, well-rounded (ahem) adult I am today. Today’s journey revolves around that question we’ve all been getting since we could talk, a question that for the first time in years, doesn’t make me throw up in my mouth a little bit and break into a cold sweat every time it’s casually thrown my way: “What do YOU wanna be when you grow up?”
I’ve always been, well, different. My brother, for example, is one of those ones that has always just known what he was put on this planet for, more or less. This was obvious when we were kids and it became apparent that he couldn’t do math problems (3+4) unless you posed it to him in terms of money ($3+$4). Seriously, the kid was made to move money around. I, from what I can remember, took a different route right from the beginning when I initially wanted to be a German Shepard when I grew up. Laugh if you will, but I think it takes a pretty smart kid to look around herself, weigh the options, and pick the most desirable lifestyle of the bunch and go for that. Anyway, that didn’t work out in the long run.
So I did a lot of jumping around. For a while, I wanted to do things boys did- be an astronaut, go to the Air Force Academy so I could fly planes, play soccer or street hockey for ever and ever. Then puberty hit and I began to go in a different direction. For a long time, a legitimate long time, I wanted to be a writer/director in Hollywood. I even wrote and produced a series of plays that were performed annually in the underground theater scene, a.k.a. Grandma’s basement every Christmas. I realized I didn’t want to do that anymore when I figured out actors (my cousins) can be so damn demanding and that just stifles the creative process. So then I decided I wanted to be a model. Ha. I did some modeling for RedKard clothing, a line of soccer clothes that never quite got off the ground. Maybe they should have featured more than my BACK in their catalog. Whatever, not bitter.
Then came high school and I honestly can’t tell you what I wanted to be at that point. A youth leader, maybe? That’s what everyone in my circle wanted to be so I’m sure I wanted to be that too. But youth ministry is a lot harder than it looks. No thanks.
I entered college a Soc major with the intention of going into social work. Somehow that morphed into a desire to be a nurse which morphed into a strong desire to be a P.E. teacher, which made me really bored and led to a mid-college crisis. Enter my decision to be a Theology major and the throw up in my mouth, nervous tick phase of life. I mean, I LOVED studying theology. Loved it, don’t get me wrong. I got to read and write on stuff that mattered. You can’t beat that. But when I got the question, I became totally and utterly tongue-tied, completely at a loss. I mean, I knew I didn’t want to do ministry full time. Or counseling. Or teach. With one quick swipe I completely eliminated the most common career paths for us Theo majors. Crap. The only thing I knew is that I wanted to change the world, somehow. And the only thing about that I knew was that it was really hard. And that it didn’t pay well.
So then there was graduation and a phase where I thought I’d be a barista when I grew up because well, after all, I had been a friggin’ Theology major at an obscure Christian college in a quiet Seattle neighborhood. And I was really, really good at it.
That brings me up to my stint in Washington DC. If I went into all the things I’ve wanted to be since being here, not even my mom would make it through this whole post. Some of the highlights include documentary photographer, First Lady and screw it all, a barista. But now, now my friends, I know what I want to be when I grow up. Drumroll, please. I want to be a cross between Abraham Lincoln, Samantha Power and “Viva la Vida,” the Coldplay single. A brief explanation:
• Abe: No, I don’t want to be the president. I don’t want a monument. I want to be an abolitionist. Everyday when I run by him sitting there at the far end of the Mall, I throw up the same little prayer: Lord, make me an abolitionist, whatever that means.
• Samantha Power: writer, journalist, Harvard prof and foreign policy analyst extraordinaire. She’s brilliant. If I could have even a fraction of the career and influence and adventures she’s had, especially in the writing department, I would be a happy, happy lady.
• “Viva la Vida:” I know right!? If you’ve heard it, you know what I’m talking about. The melody sounds like hope and sparkles and laughter are about to burst out of it. Its what I want the melody of my life to be. Hope and sparkles and laughter.
So, not a concrete answer, I know. If you skimmed just to see what I think I’m going to be, sorry, I don’t know yet. I have some good ideas and am going to throw my whole self into becoming that. I think, what I’ve come to is this: when I grow up, I want to be brave. And brave not on my own accord. The bravery that I muster up inevitably fails. I’ve learned that the hard way, for sure. I want to be brave like the One who has already won the battle is brave. Brave whatever the cost, whatever the risk, whatever the disappointment.
So that’s it. I want to be brave when I grow up. And, I still want to be a German Shepard. Who doesn’t?
I’ve always been, well, different. My brother, for example, is one of those ones that has always just known what he was put on this planet for, more or less. This was obvious when we were kids and it became apparent that he couldn’t do math problems (3+4) unless you posed it to him in terms of money ($3+$4). Seriously, the kid was made to move money around. I, from what I can remember, took a different route right from the beginning when I initially wanted to be a German Shepard when I grew up. Laugh if you will, but I think it takes a pretty smart kid to look around herself, weigh the options, and pick the most desirable lifestyle of the bunch and go for that. Anyway, that didn’t work out in the long run.
So I did a lot of jumping around. For a while, I wanted to do things boys did- be an astronaut, go to the Air Force Academy so I could fly planes, play soccer or street hockey for ever and ever. Then puberty hit and I began to go in a different direction. For a long time, a legitimate long time, I wanted to be a writer/director in Hollywood. I even wrote and produced a series of plays that were performed annually in the underground theater scene, a.k.a. Grandma’s basement every Christmas. I realized I didn’t want to do that anymore when I figured out actors (my cousins) can be so damn demanding and that just stifles the creative process. So then I decided I wanted to be a model. Ha. I did some modeling for RedKard clothing, a line of soccer clothes that never quite got off the ground. Maybe they should have featured more than my BACK in their catalog. Whatever, not bitter.
Then came high school and I honestly can’t tell you what I wanted to be at that point. A youth leader, maybe? That’s what everyone in my circle wanted to be so I’m sure I wanted to be that too. But youth ministry is a lot harder than it looks. No thanks.
I entered college a Soc major with the intention of going into social work. Somehow that morphed into a desire to be a nurse which morphed into a strong desire to be a P.E. teacher, which made me really bored and led to a mid-college crisis. Enter my decision to be a Theology major and the throw up in my mouth, nervous tick phase of life. I mean, I LOVED studying theology. Loved it, don’t get me wrong. I got to read and write on stuff that mattered. You can’t beat that. But when I got the question, I became totally and utterly tongue-tied, completely at a loss. I mean, I knew I didn’t want to do ministry full time. Or counseling. Or teach. With one quick swipe I completely eliminated the most common career paths for us Theo majors. Crap. The only thing I knew is that I wanted to change the world, somehow. And the only thing about that I knew was that it was really hard. And that it didn’t pay well.
So then there was graduation and a phase where I thought I’d be a barista when I grew up because well, after all, I had been a friggin’ Theology major at an obscure Christian college in a quiet Seattle neighborhood. And I was really, really good at it.
That brings me up to my stint in Washington DC. If I went into all the things I’ve wanted to be since being here, not even my mom would make it through this whole post. Some of the highlights include documentary photographer, First Lady and screw it all, a barista. But now, now my friends, I know what I want to be when I grow up. Drumroll, please. I want to be a cross between Abraham Lincoln, Samantha Power and “Viva la Vida,” the Coldplay single. A brief explanation:
• Abe: No, I don’t want to be the president. I don’t want a monument. I want to be an abolitionist. Everyday when I run by him sitting there at the far end of the Mall, I throw up the same little prayer: Lord, make me an abolitionist, whatever that means.
• Samantha Power: writer, journalist, Harvard prof and foreign policy analyst extraordinaire. She’s brilliant. If I could have even a fraction of the career and influence and adventures she’s had, especially in the writing department, I would be a happy, happy lady.
• “Viva la Vida:” I know right!? If you’ve heard it, you know what I’m talking about. The melody sounds like hope and sparkles and laughter are about to burst out of it. Its what I want the melody of my life to be. Hope and sparkles and laughter.
So, not a concrete answer, I know. If you skimmed just to see what I think I’m going to be, sorry, I don’t know yet. I have some good ideas and am going to throw my whole self into becoming that. I think, what I’ve come to is this: when I grow up, I want to be brave. And brave not on my own accord. The bravery that I muster up inevitably fails. I’ve learned that the hard way, for sure. I want to be brave like the One who has already won the battle is brave. Brave whatever the cost, whatever the risk, whatever the disappointment.
So that’s it. I want to be brave when I grow up. And, I still want to be a German Shepard. Who doesn’t?
Monday, June 9, 2008
Life on Maryland Ave.
My life is so weird right now. Not bad weird. Just, weird weird.
Case in point: I am writing this from my new room on my new bed, only, my new room consists of four walls containing a dresser and my new bed actually belonged to Jean Pierre, my French-Cameroonian craigslist seller and new hero a mere 45 minutes ago. He took pity on me and my too-small SUV and tied the frame to the top of my car with a stereo wire and sent me on my way. Weird, right?
Also weird: I’m a temp right now at IJM. I think it’s kinda like purgatory. I’m not in intern hell, nor am I experiencing the yearly salary, full-benefited promised land of real employment. I’m 9-5 and suited but paid hourly, like working the coffee bar. I have my own desk and phone but my name plate is a sticky note. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m SO thankful for the paycheck coming my way. And I love IJM. It’s just weird, you know, like purgatory.
Our neighbors that live above us are cute little Georgian girls that hang out with southern frat boys. They (the frat boys) wear pink seersucker shorts and boat shoes. The blend of east coast and southern fashion that makes up the District is still and will stay weird to me. Get some creativity and some courage to branch out of the Land’s End catalog people, seriously.
I’m reading Freakonomics. There’s lots of weird stuff in that. If you haven’t read it, you should. I read it on my morning commute, which is also weird. If you ever need the confidence boost, the rush of flattery that comes from being blatantly checked out, ride the metro. I’m not talking about being checked out. I’m talking about the fact that there is something about shiny, clean, pretty men in suits everywhere that just makes me glad I live in DC. Ha.
Humidity is also a weird thing. It’s like a vampire or a leech. You walk outside and it literally sucks the life right our of your soul. You can’t think, you can’t move quickly, your senses are all but turned off. This weekend was the first time it’s been bad. I mean real bad. Like, probably hotter that hell bad. I swear, I walked outside and could actually see the humidity. You feel like you need a machete to hack your way through the air to your car. If anyone knows of a female that needs a great place to live in DC, she can have my spot because I’m leaving. Geez.
It’s weird that I think I finally know what I want to do, finally have a plan. Reread that sentence because it’s a big deal. I didn’t think the day would ever come. It will probably change in the details, but I know what I want. It’s a great feeling, having goals and stuff. I’m not going to tell you here though, you’re gonna have to call and talk to me.
Yea, my life is weird. So completely and utterly different that it was a few short months ago. I’ve almost been in DC for 6 months now. Still, not a day goes by that I don’t miss my Seattle life and to be honest, I hope I keep missing it. Missing something means you’ve loved deeply and I’m okay with that. Though I am starting to feel settled here, I know that it is a temporary sort of settled. I know that this is where I’m supposed to be right now but not where I’m meant to stay. It’s, you guessed it, a weird sort of limbo to live in.
Finally, I think I should let you all know about my new goal. On the Metro each morning I, along with thousands of other District commuters, grab our free daily copy of the Express- a condensed version of the newspaper. The best part of this little morning addiction is on the second to last page. It’s called the “Blog Log.” It’s someone’s job to scan the likes of DC bloggers and pull out something quotable: something stupid or hilarious or just plain “we’ve totally been there too.” My goal, before I leave this city, is to be quoted in the “Blog Log.” What more could an obscure blogger ask for, really? It would be the pinnacle of my .blogspot career. Plus, wouldn’t that be weird?
Case in point: I am writing this from my new room on my new bed, only, my new room consists of four walls containing a dresser and my new bed actually belonged to Jean Pierre, my French-Cameroonian craigslist seller and new hero a mere 45 minutes ago. He took pity on me and my too-small SUV and tied the frame to the top of my car with a stereo wire and sent me on my way. Weird, right?
Also weird: I’m a temp right now at IJM. I think it’s kinda like purgatory. I’m not in intern hell, nor am I experiencing the yearly salary, full-benefited promised land of real employment. I’m 9-5 and suited but paid hourly, like working the coffee bar. I have my own desk and phone but my name plate is a sticky note. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m SO thankful for the paycheck coming my way. And I love IJM. It’s just weird, you know, like purgatory.
Our neighbors that live above us are cute little Georgian girls that hang out with southern frat boys. They (the frat boys) wear pink seersucker shorts and boat shoes. The blend of east coast and southern fashion that makes up the District is still and will stay weird to me. Get some creativity and some courage to branch out of the Land’s End catalog people, seriously.
I’m reading Freakonomics. There’s lots of weird stuff in that. If you haven’t read it, you should. I read it on my morning commute, which is also weird. If you ever need the confidence boost, the rush of flattery that comes from being blatantly checked out, ride the metro. I’m not talking about being checked out. I’m talking about the fact that there is something about shiny, clean, pretty men in suits everywhere that just makes me glad I live in DC. Ha.
Humidity is also a weird thing. It’s like a vampire or a leech. You walk outside and it literally sucks the life right our of your soul. You can’t think, you can’t move quickly, your senses are all but turned off. This weekend was the first time it’s been bad. I mean real bad. Like, probably hotter that hell bad. I swear, I walked outside and could actually see the humidity. You feel like you need a machete to hack your way through the air to your car. If anyone knows of a female that needs a great place to live in DC, she can have my spot because I’m leaving. Geez.
It’s weird that I think I finally know what I want to do, finally have a plan. Reread that sentence because it’s a big deal. I didn’t think the day would ever come. It will probably change in the details, but I know what I want. It’s a great feeling, having goals and stuff. I’m not going to tell you here though, you’re gonna have to call and talk to me.
Yea, my life is weird. So completely and utterly different that it was a few short months ago. I’ve almost been in DC for 6 months now. Still, not a day goes by that I don’t miss my Seattle life and to be honest, I hope I keep missing it. Missing something means you’ve loved deeply and I’m okay with that. Though I am starting to feel settled here, I know that it is a temporary sort of settled. I know that this is where I’m supposed to be right now but not where I’m meant to stay. It’s, you guessed it, a weird sort of limbo to live in.
Finally, I think I should let you all know about my new goal. On the Metro each morning I, along with thousands of other District commuters, grab our free daily copy of the Express- a condensed version of the newspaper. The best part of this little morning addiction is on the second to last page. It’s called the “Blog Log.” It’s someone’s job to scan the likes of DC bloggers and pull out something quotable: something stupid or hilarious or just plain “we’ve totally been there too.” My goal, before I leave this city, is to be quoted in the “Blog Log.” What more could an obscure blogger ask for, really? It would be the pinnacle of my .blogspot career. Plus, wouldn’t that be weird?
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