Vroom Vroom

In case you hadn't heard, Grand Prix is coming to Baltimore city.

This gem of a city fundraiser has involved nearly a year's worth of road work throughout downtown, causing the worst gridlock traffic I've sat in since moving back to Maryland from Tampa. Seriously, awful.

Not that the roads didn't need vast improvement.

They did.

(And it was partially on someone else's dime, so, really: go Sheila Dixon. Well-played on that decision.)

(SRB is the one who's going to have hell to pay if this thing gets royally screwed up anyway, so that was a win-win for the Dixon House of PR.)

But the problem is that the race course stretches across Lombard and Pratt streets, effectively bifurcating downtown and cutting off Federal Hill and South Baltimore from all points north. Considering that I commute from Federal Hill to Hampden, this is...problematic. At best.

So, faced with the fact that I'm going to have to park my car in Fed Hill on Thursday night, kiss it goodbye, and wish it well until the following Tuesday, I figured I might as well fork over some money for tickets to this MAJOR EVENT. THAT EVERYONE IS GOING TO. I mean, if you have to be in town, might as well BE THERE.

I know nothing about racing, or cars, or race cars. I know they are loud. I know there will be beer. The latter is enough to entice me, in general, to pretty much any event.

So, I bought a ticket. Imma go to the MAJOR EVENT with the loud cars and the beer that will probably cost me a chunk of my retirement. I'm going to watch the cars, marvel at the loud noises, and traipse around downtown Baltimore in typical city-event style; with some sort of defining wrist band identifying me as poor because I bought the cheapest level ticket I could find; and try to get things for free, like extra beer, or admission to VIP areas. Both of which I have been smashingly successful at pulling off in the past (in places like, oh, you know, MARATHONS and LAS VEGAS....) I have a feeling the most competitive aspect of the races, for me, will be the garnering of free things and privileges to which I am not supposed to be entitled.

Start your engines.

Via the Cure-ate

Perspective.

Thanks.

The Cat Might Lose Another Life....

See, Mom?

See how diligent I am being in my posts?!

My mother (the queen of noticing unmade beds, finding crusts of sandwiches hidden under plate rims, and gazing steely-eyed through flimsy statements like, "Of course I am not going to ride around in that Mustang with that boy with the long hair without your explicit permission!") is one of my biggest fans. I get friendly little reminders that she's bored of the content of my blog when I don't update enough. And I listen to her. Because the fans shall have what they want! And, you know, she's my mom. Trump card.

I digress.

So, last night was typical Book Club. 7 pitchers of sangrias, probably thirty plates of tapas, three different desserts. Over the years, we have graduated from the $5 wine tasting to spectacular dinners where we always have to leave exorbitant tips because we (a) are loud, (b) drink so fast the wait staff can't keep up, and (c) due to said drinking, have a tendency to become loud about inappropriate topics.

Yes, we discussed the book last night.

I even made a list of questions prior.

Book Club has SOME structure; a free-for-all it is not.

I digress.

Day Three of training, which meant I was up at 5:45am to go to a weights class at my gym taught by a fabulous fellow writer/bartender/fitness enthusiast. This was especially rough given the aforementioned Book Club Dinner which lasted until about 10pm and throughout which wine flowed freely. But I made it through. My body will most likely revolt tomorrow when I go to strap on Ye Olde Running Shoes and discover I have lost the ability to run. Or, you know, move.

In other news, the cat and I are going to have words. I don't understand his insistence on puking. For years, we coexisted peacefully on this subject with a simple understanding: he puked only on hardwood floors, and only where I could easily locate said puke for ready cleaning. Now, all of the sudden, it seems he wants to puke in secret locations, i.e., wherever my poor roommate Jaunt wishes to set her foot.

This has caused her to become very upset when she's already running late for work and has to wash cat puke off of her foot.

This is not bearing well on her already tentative relationship with the cat, who thinks he is incredibly cute and can do disgusting things willy-nilly and expect no repercussions. He and I have had harsh words before regarding his complete inability to think about others. He will usually behave for a day or two, and then, WHAM, puddle of puke on the table by the front door, or WHAM, hairball on the mail.

I have tried to make excuses for the cat. It's spring, he is shedding his winter coat, this causes him to puke more. He dislikes the new food I bought. He is having mental distress due to the federal deficit. I am running out of explanations.

Soon, I'll have to tell him: Jaunt grew up on a farm where animals were not pets; they were working, contributing members of a whole. If he doesn't get his act together, there will be consequences.

That sounds like Jaunt is going to sell and/or consume the cat. I know she would do neither. There is, however, a risk that she might sell and/or consume me, and I am not risking this for the damn cat.

Straighten up and fly right, cat, or we're both going to suffer the consequences. Maybe no more tuna juice for you, hmmm? Or butt slaps. (Show me a cat who doesn't live for a good slap on the butt, and I'll show you a dead one. Seriously. They love it.)

In other news, the big debate this week is whether to go to AVAM's Flicks on the Hill tomorrow night or to see Harry Potter. I am excruciatingly divided. I love FOTH, and it's the closest to camping I'm gonna get this summer. But I'm also jonesing to see the final HP. I've read all the books, seen every movie, and must admit that I am looking forward to this with not a slight bit of trepidation only because when those final credits roll...that's it. Then there's nothing to look forward to until Twilight craps out another glittery sensation or Hunger Games finally releases a trailer. (And both, believe me, will be high points for me and my affinity for young-adult-literature-turned-film-sensation.)

In other news, there's a call out for a short story contest for the Boston Review. I'm tempted. We shall see. Earlier attempts at stunted fiction (as I began to see the short story genre) were not so successful. Then again, a contest creates accountability and a deadline. We shall see.

In other news, 35 days until vacation. I totally purchased the Living Social deal ($27 for a limo ride to BWI from the city - WHAT A STEAL) and so have already raised the bar on the expectations for said vacation. After all, if you can't party with class...I don't know where I was headed with that turn of phrase, but WHATEVER, A LIMO IS SUPER CLASSY. And it sure beats bargaining with friends for a ride to the airport. Oh, the promises I've made in exchange for such...

How To Eat An Elephant

So, somewhere in my complex and ever-so-slightly warped sense of taking on challenges, I decided that I would sign up for - and ostensibly run - a half-marathon this fall.

It's something I started spouting the second I finished the marathon relay last year; six miles to hand off a velcro "baton" to my teammate in the middle of Druid Hill Park. The relay was so much fun, and six miles - why that's nearly halfway there! If I can pull off six miles, I can certainly pull off 13.1. They're practically the same, really.

Except...not.

But, here's the thing: if I say I'm going to do something, and I mean really say it - not like that whole "I'M MOVING TO NEW YORK" half-decade of my life, or the time I was going to move to a writer's camp in Vermont for a summer and cut off all communication with everyone, or the time I thought I might convert to Judaism, or that one fall when I realized that my entire life's work was wrapped up in writing a screen play (and all of this is making me re-think my frequent announcements of Things I Am Going To Do!) - I'mma do it. Mostly. All ostentatious claims aside.

I think the biggest step was plunking down that $85 for an entry fee. Nothing like the greater part of a hundred bucks to say, "Yep, I'm in. Let's do this thing."

The next biggest step was the procurement of a decent training plan. I have many friends who've dared the half before (and some, like Legs, who have gone full-tilt batshit crazy and done an entire marathon), and so I asked for their plans. Everyone's got one, most are cobbled together from racing sites, running groups, even some books and training manuals. Putting together your own plan, however, is a delicate and personal thing.

I'm 11 weeks to the big event, and already running 4-6 miles on a regular basis. My minimal runs (maintenance runs) are about 3-4 miles, and once a week I'll try to log 5-6 as a long run. I ran the Survivor 7-Miler in June with a bit of aplomb, so I like to think that somewhere in my muscle memory I could dredge up 10 miles if I had to. In two weeks, I have a 6-mile run (at night...on the NCR trail...no lights...just moon...). Somewhere in the next two months, however, I have to find 13.1 miles in me. 12 tops to train, then 13.1 for the big day.

It would not be outrageous of me to say that this is one of the bigger challenges I've faced. Writing a thesis, getting a job, running 7 miles...all of those things required diligence and patience and work. Sure. But 13.1 miles is not 7 miles. And this is not something you half-ass.

My goal: I will not walk. I can slow down, I can jog, but I Will. Not. Walk.

What both complicates and makes things easier at the same time is that I have partners in crime. Catalano, my dad, and my boyfriend have all signed up for this adventure too. I will have running friends, we will all push one another, and while we may not cross the finish line all together, we will finish just the same. However solo I've wanted to be in my tasking in the past, having a group of people taking on the same challenge is pretty encouraging.

And then we will drink gallons upon gallons of free beer. It will be glorious.

So, I'm two days into the "eat the elephant one bite at a time" training. That saying, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time," reverberates. How am I gonna run a half marathon? One mile at a time. I did three last night. Four this morning. Good start.

One bite at a time.

Daniel Craig In Chaps

So, I did it. I went to see Cowboys & Aliens. And while I framed it primarily as a gracious act performed for the boyfriend (retribution for which I shall reserve until such a point in time I find something truly and deliciously girly), truth be told I was a little bit curious.

Ok. A lot curious.

Ok, I actually really wanted to see it.

I secretly have a penchant for action, shoot-em-up films, but only in movie theaters. I have a fatally short attention span for these kinds of movies on a standard television, but I get readily sucked into them if seen as they're meant to be seen: on the big screen. Special effects, loud noises, things exploding...sign me up. I normally draw the line at gratuitous violence (and have been known to cover my face in the presence of such), but there's something about action films that somehow makes it so over-the-top ridiculous, I can go with it.

Cowboys & Aliens was exactly what I'd expected: completely camp dialogue, horribly predictable plot line, ridiculously archetypal characters, amazing special effects, and some very nice views of Daniel Craig in chaps. It was entertaining, to say the least, though I hesitate to say engaging.

Tomorrow night is Book Club, where we will be discussing Sweet Valley Confidential and heading to Catalano's after dinner and drinks to watch some of the series that came out in the late 1990's. Coupled with last night's action movie viewing, I feel that I may have to do something vastly intellectual quite soon.

Then again, it's also Shark Week....hosted by Andy Samberg....I may just retire any lofty ambitions to be deep and meaningful until the fall.

Summer Burn Out

IS IT VACATION TIME YET??

42 days until I jet outta Baltimore City for five days in Key West. Yes, I am counting.

Words and Things

I am currently reading three books. This is not uncommon.

The first is the current Book Club book, which happens to be "Sweet Valley Confidential." Say what you will; those of us who grew up on Francine Pascal's fairytale stories of blonde twins in Southern California were chomping at the bit for this latest incarnation which sees both girls in their late twenties, Jessica already married and divorced, Elizabeth living in New York City and working as an off-Broadway reviewer. The writing is absolutely, undeniably horrible. Jessica prefaces every sentence with "Like," and Pascal seems to have schooled herself in the Harlequin School of Literature when it comes to cliches and descriptions. The story is predictable, the characters laughable. But it's perfect summer reading because it plays on nostalgia and, well, it's completely brainless. The kind of thing you can easily process after a three-martini happy hour.

The second is Junot Diaz's "The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." And it is utterly fantastic; hands-down one of the best books I've read all year. This book has been following me around for years- literally. I was gifted a paperback copy, and it sat on my nightstand from 2008-2010. I finally donated it in a fit of ridding my life of things that made me feel like a failure: unread literature being chief among them. Almost immediately afterwards, Joel gifted me a second-hand hard copy of the book, and I decided that the Universe really wanted me to read it. It had come highly recommended, but for some reason it was just one of those books (like my copy of "A Moveable Feast" - another potential life failure on my part, unless I get cracking soon) that sat around and never got opened. Eschewed for a new Jane Green or the Book Club book I was supposed to begin three weeks ago.

The third is my lunch break book, "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin. It's a delightful piece of nonfiction that I nibble away at in thirty-minute increments, when I don't have errands to run or have to work through lunch, that is. I embarked on my own Happiness Project a year or so ago, and now find clean delight in principles I'd come up with on my own that I see reflected in Rubin's research. Reading this book now is a reminder to return to the constant practice of those principals, for which I'm grateful. If I had tried to read this book in the past, I fear it would have struck me as preachy or, worse, unrealistic. But having carved my own path to some steady flow of happiness in my life has opened my mind to other peoples' journeys as well. Sure, I might have thought, Rubin has the resources to go about studying her own happiness: she's not a twenty-something bartender laid off from her freelance job due to the media outlet's pending bankruptcy. She probably even has luxuries like "health insurance" and a retirement plan. What audacious wealth! Those years are, blissfully, part of my past now. It's a little easier to contemplate happiness when you're involved in a job that brings you fulfillment, and living a lifestyle that blends much better with your personality.

I go back and forth on the subject of writing my own book. Part of me wholly believes that I lack the life skills and determination to come out with a solid body of work at this point, and part of me sees this as procrastination. The things I learned in my twenties could certainly fill a book, and a funny one at that, but humor requires a certain amount of distance from life experience. I am just now coming around to the idea that decisions I made at 22, 23, 24 are downright comical in how uninformed and dramatic they seem now. But to parse through all of that and come up with a solid plot line requires a little more tying together of loose ends; something that I'm still dealing with.

I will say, I am no fiction writer. Real life is too rich, too amazing, too eerily coincidental for me to make things up. Certainly, I see a definitive value in dressing up the truth as fiction (because, let's face it, I'm also a consummate over-exaggerator-slash-storyteller), and I have a feeling that at some point whatever work I come up with will be a curious blend of the two, if that's possible. I fiddle around with word choices, with story ideas, but nothing yet has compelled me to sit down and churn out a solid book.

I've been told multiple times to just compile all the emails I write for trivia and turn them into a book, but I fear that my audience would be...two hundred individuals living in or around Baltimore City. Which is nothing to sneeze at, but in terms of royalties...not ideal.

Rewind

There are days, like today, when I wake up, and suddenly realize that I have been living here for four years.

This may not sound like a legendary announcement.

Allow me to explain.

Routine. Alarm, gym, coffee, shower, throwing lunch in a bag, out the door, traffic, parking, rushing, booting, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, meeting, eating, re-booting, reading, reading, reading, answering, answering, calling, meeting, meeting, reading, reading, traffic, parking, snack, cleaning, errands, dinner, reading, bed, STOP. REPEAT. You get caught up in this cycle.

Of course there are breaks. There are dinners, luxurious mornings of sleeping in, long runs, delicious treats, family, friends, boyfriend, cats, breakfasts, lunches, happy hours, films, books, festivals, travel. These are the things you remember the most, however, and the other days just seemed to get sucked into the tornado of routine, if it can be described as such.

The things I remember most are high highs and low lows. The everyday mundane tends to get swept under the rug, and it is moments like these that I am eternally grateful that I keep journals diligently. If not for this compulsion, we would all be devoid of gems such as this:

July 23, 2003
Denmark, Maine
Summer Job - camp counselor
2011 comments in italics

7:56am- Wake up.
8:00am - Breakfast. (Remember the days when you could wake up and be somewhere in four minutes? Like college. Strong prerequisite: not giving a shit what you look like when you roll in somewhere.)
9:00am - Stables, watched K8 (my nickname for one of my British friends, who is still a good friend of mine, and whom I still refer to as K8) ride new horse.
9:30am - Bunk inspections. Hadn't done them in over a week, but higher powers finally caught on and confronted me at breakfast. Foiled.
10:00am- Cleaned our room. Discovered beds are slightly more bearable with only one mattress instead of two. (Ahhhh, camp beds. For an entire summer, we lived on squishy, tissue-thin mattresses on military cots. With no air conditioning.) Got clean sheets for once - am tired of sleeping in own filth. (I went through a Bridget Jones-phase of writing in my journals. This lasted approximately four and a half years, and immensely entertained me.)
10:30am - Nap. Hungover from drinking in the C______ House (a run-down shack further down in the woods where all of the counselors snuck off to after the kids were asleep to drink Natty Lite and listen to music on someone's shitty boombox. Totally the stuff of horror movies.) Must make 34 costumes. Am very stressed. Solution - nap. I miss the cat. (I was in charge of costumes and set design for the camp's theater program. Sushi, who was only about a year old at the time, lived with my parents that summer. I think they still miss him.)

Someday...I shall post more journal entries. There is a statute of limitations in what I feel is appropriate to post, but I will admit that the Bridget Jones years are points of hilarity in a long history of melodramatic journal entries that read like Danielle Steele novels. (My mother once pointed out that my writing - MY EARLIER WRITING, I WOULD LIKE TO CLARIFY - was reminiscent of Danielle Steele. I am still not over this comment. I may need therapy.)

Journalling has been my constant compulsion. I once made Snap promise that, in the event of my untimely death, she was to immediately round up any and all journals in my estate (as if I have anything that would constitute an "estate" beyond a car lacking working shocks and two fairly brain-damaged cats) and lock them away. She - and only she - had full permission to weed through, decide what would be too humiliating for public visage, and post the remaining entries online. If she could find any that aren't too humiliating, that is. I have a tendency to...well...have literary diarrhea in my journals. Probably about that caliber of writing, too.

The Conversation

Oh, Artscape.

Headed up for a few hours on Saturday, dropping out of the party every now and then to get some respite from the sun. And by "dropping out of the party," I mean "dropping into the bar/restaurant scene." Brewer's Art, City Cafe, Joss. A trifecta of Mt. Vernon perfection.

Honestly, though I know it pains thousands of hard-working artists to hear, the best part of Artscape has got to be the people. It is a coalition of every single archetype of character in Baltimore City, and I'd wager to throw in an "AND BEYOND!" there too. I spent the entire afternoon rubbernecking the attendees.

But, in what can only be described as 'freakish luck,' we happened upon a Puerto Rican gentleman who had been imbibing for the better part of the day (if not the better part of 2011, sounded like) who proceeded to explain to us why his (white and half-his-age) girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) tried to run him over with her car.

It was suggested without the slightest hint of braggadocio, without exaggeration, and just plain and straightforward: "My girlfriend, who I love with all my heart, tried to run me over with her car."

"Why?"

"She found a Russian in my shower."

This was most certainly a story we wanted to hear.

It turns out that said attempted vehicular manslaughter was the result of the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) coming home and chancing upon a scenario that involved the makings of a romantic dinner and a girl (who was not, in fact, herself) taking a shower. Upon said discovery, the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) stormed out of the apartment to the garage and attempted to peel away in a fit of (rightly attributed) anger, whereupon the gentleman (who was, at this point, being refused drinks by the clearly-perturbed bartender) inserted himself between the automobile and his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart)'s escape route and nearly found himself pancaked by the grief of the cheated-upon.

But why, we asked, was there a Russian girl in his shower?

Naturally, clearly, plainly, we did not understand the needs of this man. We could not conceive of the idea that he could love his girlfriend with all of his heart and still feel the need to stash away a Russian chick in his shower. And cook her dinner.

The two, he insisted, are separate issues.

Apparently it was common sense to him. Perhaps not to us. Or to his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart).

But even better than this story was the company he was keeping at the bar: a young, fete'd-out paaaaaarty boiiiii with the brightest blue color contacts I'd ever seen in my life, who was cruising the bartenders in between telling us stories of growing up in New York City proper ("Whatever, I have so shanked a bitch before and I'll do it again!") and his dog (who is, apparently a "ghetto Jack Russel terrier" with "his own wine tasting").

You cannot make these things up.

Oh, and there was some art and stuff. Culture and whatnot.

Artscape Weekend