It never ceases to amaze me what a good night's sleep, a good morning run, and a triple latte will do for your general demeanor.
Citizens of Baltimore, be happy, for I shall let you ahead of me in traffic and politely hold doors open for you as I feel like a human being once again after weeks of uproot and disorganization.
I did discover, however, that I have been changing all of my personal information to the wrong address. Apparently "5" and "3" are not the same number, and this makes a significant difference in one's address.
Along that vein, it also never ceases to amaze me what some sauvignon blanc and Valerian root will do for your sleeping patterns. Talk about faceplant.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Seriously Owe A Lot Of People Favors
Dudes.
You are awesome.
Thanks to you, I moved out in four hours, start to finish.
Moving from one row house to another is fraught with ridiculousness like having to lift furniture up through the sky light and lower it down from the roof because one's dresser won't fit down the tiny, 19th century stairwell. I'm telling you, without the small army that so kindly assembled for me on Saturday, it would have taken nothing short of a raging inferno to get my furniture from the 3rd story out to the UHaul outside.
And, let me tell you, I might have been tempted.
But my stuff is moved, much beer and pizza was consumed, and I can finally begin the unpacking/breathing process. You know, breathing- that thing I pretty much forgot to do the last month or so.
Just in time, too. Vegas with Book Club is in T-minus 2 weeks.
You are awesome.
Thanks to you, I moved out in four hours, start to finish.
Moving from one row house to another is fraught with ridiculousness like having to lift furniture up through the sky light and lower it down from the roof because one's dresser won't fit down the tiny, 19th century stairwell. I'm telling you, without the small army that so kindly assembled for me on Saturday, it would have taken nothing short of a raging inferno to get my furniture from the 3rd story out to the UHaul outside.
And, let me tell you, I might have been tempted.
But my stuff is moved, much beer and pizza was consumed, and I can finally begin the unpacking/breathing process. You know, breathing- that thing I pretty much forgot to do the last month or so.
Just in time, too. Vegas with Book Club is in T-minus 2 weeks.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Take Two Vodkas and Wake Me When It's Over
I love change. I embrace change. To not change is to remain stagnant. To not take risks, to avoid rash attempts, is to admit failure before you begin.
That having been said.
I HATE MOVING.
My earthly possessions are split between two locations right now (three, if you count the items my parents are so generously storing for me in their basement) and my life is constant upheaval. I feel as though I am living out of my (overly large and obnoxious, Mary-Poppins-type) handbag and my car. The cats are beside themselves. One moment is pure, unadulterated ecstasy-
-LOOK AT ALL OF THESE BOXES AND CRAP FOR US TO RUN AROUND IN AND BAT AT AND PLAY WITH AND CHEW ON!! IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL!!-
-and the next moment is undiluted panic-
-WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE, WHY IS EVERYTHING DIFFERENT, OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NOT LEAVING US ARE YOU, DON'T LEAVE, THIS IS HORRIFYING, THE WORLD IS ENDING WE WILL NEVER BE FED AGAIN I AM GOING TO PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW YOU HOW UPSET I AM.
I feel similarly.
On one hand, I can't wait to move into my new place. Bigger bedroom, my own bathroom, awesome roommates.
On the other hand, it means I actually have to move. Like...pick up boxes and whatnot.
So, I did the only thing I knew of to do- I emailed all of my friends and begged them to help me, and framed the whole thing as a party with beer and pizza. I cashed in every favor, took on every willing participant.
I did, however, actually experience chest pains when I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday and saw the potential for snow.
Dear God, do not let it snow.
NO SNOW.
I WILL LOSE IT.
AND PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW HOW UPSET I AM.
Change is good.
That having been said.
I HATE MOVING.
My earthly possessions are split between two locations right now (three, if you count the items my parents are so generously storing for me in their basement) and my life is constant upheaval. I feel as though I am living out of my (overly large and obnoxious, Mary-Poppins-type) handbag and my car. The cats are beside themselves. One moment is pure, unadulterated ecstasy-
-LOOK AT ALL OF THESE BOXES AND CRAP FOR US TO RUN AROUND IN AND BAT AT AND PLAY WITH AND CHEW ON!! IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL!!-
-and the next moment is undiluted panic-
-WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE, WHY IS EVERYTHING DIFFERENT, OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NOT LEAVING US ARE YOU, DON'T LEAVE, THIS IS HORRIFYING, THE WORLD IS ENDING WE WILL NEVER BE FED AGAIN I AM GOING TO PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW YOU HOW UPSET I AM.
I feel similarly.
On one hand, I can't wait to move into my new place. Bigger bedroom, my own bathroom, awesome roommates.
On the other hand, it means I actually have to move. Like...pick up boxes and whatnot.
So, I did the only thing I knew of to do- I emailed all of my friends and begged them to help me, and framed the whole thing as a party with beer and pizza. I cashed in every favor, took on every willing participant.
I did, however, actually experience chest pains when I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday and saw the potential for snow.
Dear God, do not let it snow.
NO SNOW.
I WILL LOSE IT.
AND PUKE EVERYWHERE TO SHOW HOW UPSET I AM.
Change is good.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
"Totes Inappropes..." Bachelorette Mayhem
Fifteen years ago, Snap and I were frenemies who dated each others' exboyfriends. After finally realizing in high school that we actually loved one another quite muchly, we stalked each other online through college via now-antiquated LiveJournal. We both attended grad schools in the south and bonded further over Academia and the fish-out-of-water acclimation we both endured moving from the mid-Atlantic. Post grad-school, we shared a lot of heart ache over terrible jobs, terrible boyfriends, terrible bills, and terrible car problems.
Last night, we donned pink furry mustaches and glittery sashes and bar hopped through downtown Annapolis for Snap's bachelorette party. In May, she'll marry the best dude for the job. And, somewhere around 2am in a dark kitchen over some quite-delicious greasy pizza from that place downtown where we both worked at various times in high school/college, we re-enacted the history of our friendship for the entertainment of other old friends and soon-to-be-family members. We recited old diary entries, dredged up first kisses, and acted out the moments that were linchpins in our shared histories.
Fifteen years, and you're still my most favorite bitch, Snap. And you damn well better believe I am bringing middle school diary material into my speech at your wedding.
Last night, we donned pink furry mustaches and glittery sashes and bar hopped through downtown Annapolis for Snap's bachelorette party. In May, she'll marry the best dude for the job. And, somewhere around 2am in a dark kitchen over some quite-delicious greasy pizza from that place downtown where we both worked at various times in high school/college, we re-enacted the history of our friendship for the entertainment of other old friends and soon-to-be-family members. We recited old diary entries, dredged up first kisses, and acted out the moments that were linchpins in our shared histories.
Fifteen years, and you're still my most favorite bitch, Snap. And you damn well better believe I am bringing middle school diary material into my speech at your wedding.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Can I Have Four Beers?
One of the things I love most about running races in Baltimore City (which I'm sure is the case everywhere) is the unification of two of my favorite past times: running and daytime drinking.
Nothing is better than a well-prepped, well-orchestrated, well-hydrated rendition of either. In fact, much of what goes into running also goes into proper daytime drinking. The pre-event hydration, the requisite "carbo-loading" (although sometimes I think we get a little carried away- there's probably no need to "carbo-load" before a 5k....), and the plotting of timing, checkpoints, and meet-ups.
This past Sunday's 5k- the Shamrock- saw 4,500 individuals (most of whom in green) running down Charles Street. From the starting line headed southward, it was quite a sight. A sea of green spanning all lanes, bobbing along. The race curled around Key Highway, and the victorious finish line led runners straight into Power Plant.
And there, the grand clusterf--- began.
4,500 people, herded like cattle towards two 6 foot plastic tables with a beer truck parked behind it.
All 4,500 of them thirsty. Very, very thirsty.
The Shamrock 5k is not one of those races for runners who eschew things like alcohol and daytime drinking.
The Shamrock 5k is for runners who embrace things like alcohol and daytime drinking.
Needless to say, the beer area was a maddening throng of individuals clamoring for their free beer. And the attendants were not regulating the amount of beer you could take. This was no beer ticket operation- this was a mad-scrabble, take-as-much-as-you-can-carry free-for-all. This was on par with loaves of bread being tossed out to crowds post-Armageddon.
Mrs. Spaz, who was running her first race ever, was my companion in this grand knot of thirsty daytime drinkers. We happened upon a group of people we knew, and ascertained that they had somehow managed to rob the beer truck blind.
"How did you get so many beers?!" we exclaimed, ogling the beautiful pyramid of glistening, sweaty, foamy beers piled up in the corner they had somehow managed to stake out.
"Carried 'em," they proudly proclaimed.
"Can we have one?!" we asked, excited. We had cheated the system. We weren't going to have to brave the mean, jostling crowd for a sip of delicious Michelob Ultra (the beer choice of champion racers- because you can drink 47 of them and still solve complex math problems.) We were going to get FREE BEER FOR EVEN MORE FREE because we wouldn't have to wait in line!
"Nope. Get your own," came the response.
Crushed.
Deflated.
Heat-stroked.
Thirsty.
Angry at the sudden institution of fair-play when it worked against us, Mrs. Spaz and I braved the crowds for all the beer we could carry (which amounted to three, slightly-squashed Solo cups apiece, each only halfway full after sloshing the precious Ultra every couple of steps when someone elbowed us mightily) and, approximately forty five rib-crushing minutes later, made our way back to the corner staked by my friends.
They eyed our beers thirstily. I felt instantly protective of my beers as they circled around us.
"Hey, guys! You're back!" they asked, all smiles and cheer. I was wary. Jackals, they appeared to be, licking their fangs. "Ummmm, can we have one of your beers?" Casually. As if they hadn't previously quashed our hopes and dreams of avoiding the soul-crushing beer line. AS IF THAT HAD NEVER HAPPENED.
Mrs. Spaz and I looked at what had been a glorious, glistening tower of beer. It was sitting in direct sunlight. Some thirsty flies had discovered the cache and were blissfully drinking away at 64 calories of light beer, one drop at a time. The beer pyramid appeared to be melting.
"You still have a beer tower," we replied, haughtily.
"But it got warm! We couldn't drink it fast enough!" they cried.
My, how the tables turned.
Mrs. Spaz and I, ever beacons of charity, willingly donated one of our half-cups of beer to be doled out to the thirsty. We allowed each of them a delicious sip of our ice-cold (ok, slightly-less-than-lukewarm, but still frigid in comparison to the loaves of bread now baking in the beer pyramid) beer and felt as though we had earned our spots in heaven for doing so.
And thus, running season in Baltimore hath begun.
Nothing is better than a well-prepped, well-orchestrated, well-hydrated rendition of either. In fact, much of what goes into running also goes into proper daytime drinking. The pre-event hydration, the requisite "carbo-loading" (although sometimes I think we get a little carried away- there's probably no need to "carbo-load" before a 5k....), and the plotting of timing, checkpoints, and meet-ups.
This past Sunday's 5k- the Shamrock- saw 4,500 individuals (most of whom in green) running down Charles Street. From the starting line headed southward, it was quite a sight. A sea of green spanning all lanes, bobbing along. The race curled around Key Highway, and the victorious finish line led runners straight into Power Plant.
And there, the grand clusterf--- began.
4,500 people, herded like cattle towards two 6 foot plastic tables with a beer truck parked behind it.
All 4,500 of them thirsty. Very, very thirsty.
The Shamrock 5k is not one of those races for runners who eschew things like alcohol and daytime drinking.
The Shamrock 5k is for runners who embrace things like alcohol and daytime drinking.
Needless to say, the beer area was a maddening throng of individuals clamoring for their free beer. And the attendants were not regulating the amount of beer you could take. This was no beer ticket operation- this was a mad-scrabble, take-as-much-as-you-can-carry free-for-all. This was on par with loaves of bread being tossed out to crowds post-Armageddon.
Mrs. Spaz, who was running her first race ever, was my companion in this grand knot of thirsty daytime drinkers. We happened upon a group of people we knew, and ascertained that they had somehow managed to rob the beer truck blind.
"How did you get so many beers?!" we exclaimed, ogling the beautiful pyramid of glistening, sweaty, foamy beers piled up in the corner they had somehow managed to stake out.
"Carried 'em," they proudly proclaimed.
"Can we have one?!" we asked, excited. We had cheated the system. We weren't going to have to brave the mean, jostling crowd for a sip of delicious Michelob Ultra (the beer choice of champion racers- because you can drink 47 of them and still solve complex math problems.) We were going to get FREE BEER FOR EVEN MORE FREE because we wouldn't have to wait in line!
"Nope. Get your own," came the response.
Crushed.
Deflated.
Heat-stroked.
Thirsty.
Angry at the sudden institution of fair-play when it worked against us, Mrs. Spaz and I braved the crowds for all the beer we could carry (which amounted to three, slightly-squashed Solo cups apiece, each only halfway full after sloshing the precious Ultra every couple of steps when someone elbowed us mightily) and, approximately forty five rib-crushing minutes later, made our way back to the corner staked by my friends.
They eyed our beers thirstily. I felt instantly protective of my beers as they circled around us.
"Hey, guys! You're back!" they asked, all smiles and cheer. I was wary. Jackals, they appeared to be, licking their fangs. "Ummmm, can we have one of your beers?" Casually. As if they hadn't previously quashed our hopes and dreams of avoiding the soul-crushing beer line. AS IF THAT HAD NEVER HAPPENED.
Mrs. Spaz and I looked at what had been a glorious, glistening tower of beer. It was sitting in direct sunlight. Some thirsty flies had discovered the cache and were blissfully drinking away at 64 calories of light beer, one drop at a time. The beer pyramid appeared to be melting.
"You still have a beer tower," we replied, haughtily.
"But it got warm! We couldn't drink it fast enough!" they cried.
My, how the tables turned.
Mrs. Spaz and I, ever beacons of charity, willingly donated one of our half-cups of beer to be doled out to the thirsty. We allowed each of them a delicious sip of our ice-cold (ok, slightly-less-than-lukewarm, but still frigid in comparison to the loaves of bread now baking in the beer pyramid) beer and felt as though we had earned our spots in heaven for doing so.
And thus, running season in Baltimore hath begun.
One Year Ago....
....crawfish etouffe, zydecho, beads, Abita, jazz, second lines, mold, flood water, vacant homes, hammering, sawing, caulking, sweating, sticky cups of Hurricanes, pickled watermelon, scaffolding, Drive-Thru Daquiris, Habitat, volunteering, non-profit, cajun spice, change, change, change, shift, change, grow, run.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Breathing Space
Contrary to evidence here, I've been doing a lot of writing lately.
But it's mostly of the research, policy-minded, quantitative type of writing I thought I'd left back in grad school. Thankfully, because I believe in the causes and (mostly) love what I do, the intensive and sometimes mind-numbing work is ultimately rewarding. So I keep telling myself as I down triple lattes and log miles out on the Baltimore streets after work trying to expel all the contained energy.
In moving, I stumbled across a book of clippings from my freelancing days. While there are things I miss (the illusion of grandeur, mostly) what I've found these days is that the harder I work, and the more I commit myself to what I do, the easier it is for me to breathe.
Everything is just so different now, years later. Stumbling into something that fits seems so accidental and so deliciously gratifying, but is it really some freak alignment or a series of choices that line up and suddenly doors swing open at the right times? After so many years of running against the wind, you finally crash land against the right door and find it unlocked. And open it to find a whole world of doors you didn't know existed. And maybe it's not the door you thought you wanted, or even in a hallway you wanted to go down. But it's there, and it works, and it fits, and suddenly it all just makes sense, somehow.
Ran outside in short-sleeves the other evening. Spring is on its way. And I've got races coming up, final stages of moving into my new place, Vegas in April with Book Club, Snap's wedding in May, and the on-set of kayaking season!
Plus, you know, all that policy that needs writing. That, too.
But it's mostly of the research, policy-minded, quantitative type of writing I thought I'd left back in grad school. Thankfully, because I believe in the causes and (mostly) love what I do, the intensive and sometimes mind-numbing work is ultimately rewarding. So I keep telling myself as I down triple lattes and log miles out on the Baltimore streets after work trying to expel all the contained energy.
In moving, I stumbled across a book of clippings from my freelancing days. While there are things I miss (the illusion of grandeur, mostly) what I've found these days is that the harder I work, and the more I commit myself to what I do, the easier it is for me to breathe.
Everything is just so different now, years later. Stumbling into something that fits seems so accidental and so deliciously gratifying, but is it really some freak alignment or a series of choices that line up and suddenly doors swing open at the right times? After so many years of running against the wind, you finally crash land against the right door and find it unlocked. And open it to find a whole world of doors you didn't know existed. And maybe it's not the door you thought you wanted, or even in a hallway you wanted to go down. But it's there, and it works, and it fits, and suddenly it all just makes sense, somehow.
Ran outside in short-sleeves the other evening. Spring is on its way. And I've got races coming up, final stages of moving into my new place, Vegas in April with Book Club, Snap's wedding in May, and the on-set of kayaking season!
Plus, you know, all that policy that needs writing. That, too.
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