Air and Space

written on a tablet...pardon the errors


I'm sitting in the Airspace Lounge at BWI airport (thanks to The Gentleman's roommate who got us in with some sort of platinum travel points, and so far they haven't noticed that I already spilled my glass of water in a terribly un-classy moment) having the first of what I'm sure will be many, many mimosas over the next five days, and I realized that all I wanted to do was write.

Last night was the big benefit for my work that we've been planning for the last six months, and today I am feeling relieved and completely drained. I've worked in event planning before, but that was when event planning was my entire job. Working for a nonprofit and planning for an event means you're doing a full-time job in addition to your regular full time job, essentially. Needless to say, I feel as though the last few weeks of my life have been consumed with work and anxiety and excitement and all of those things that go along with pulling off something really great. A skeleton staff means pulling on everyone to pitch in, and I am so grateful for everyone's help. The Gentleman and his roommate were in the kitchen with me washing dishes after the reception, and it was simple, helpful gestures like that that got me through.

Needless to say, a vacation to the Dominican Republic for a wedding couldn't have come at a better time. I am burned out, exhausted, and in desperate need of down time. Even the city was getting to me this week - there was construction outside of my office all week, and construction near my neighborhood, and the constant jackhammering and whine of heavy machinery dug its way down into my psyche and wrapped itself around a nerve where it proceeded to itch at me like an uncomfortable tag somewhere in you clothes. I don't know if it was exacerbated by work stress, or the other way around, but I was completely short-tempered, totally strung-out, and woke up every single morning with intense jaw pain from clenching my teeth all night. My dentist will be so thrilled.

Last weekend, I had one blissful evening of calm wherein The Gentleman and I sat up on the roof of his apartment building overlooking the Inner Harbor, drinking a bottle of wine, and somehow the conversation shifted to my writing.

I feel as though, somehow, in the midst of my nonprofit career finally taking off, and in the rest of my life beginning to develop a flow and a currency to support the work load, I've lost a significant part of myself. I fall into bed at 10pm every night and sleep like the dead until my alarm goes off at 6am and I'm at the gym on the treadmill thinking about the ten thousand things I have to do that day (week). I come home from work completely burned out and exhausted and most nights, if I'm not at trivia or book club or some other social event, and mostly flop down on my bed and continue catching up on Mad Men and pretty much just zone out.

What's been lost? Writing, for one thing. And that insatiably curious part of myself that is constantly thirsty for inspiration. It tends to get tamped down when so much of my creativity and intellect is required for me to do my job.

And I'm not complaining. Don't misinterpret my exhaustion for fed up-edness. I have worked hard for a very long time to have a career that allows me to use my creativity and intellect in a field that I find exciting, engaging, and endlessly interesting. I just need to find balance between work-me and not work-me.

The Gentleman is endlessly supportive of my writing, which is only part of the reason he's so awesome, and also fully understanding of having a job you love. He loves his job, it involves his passions and interests, and even when he's not at work, he's still researching and learning every chance he gets. We are both lucky to be employed in fields where we essentially get to do our hobbies for a paycheck. Working in Communications for a nonprofit means that I have to craft an image, sell a product, engage communities, and get buy-in from everyone from clients to law makers to staff. I have to write, I have to create campaigns, I have to research and know my shit. It's endlessly fascinating and very much exactly where I need to be right now.

But the problem, as we were discussing over our wine and harbor view, is that when you do your hobby as a living, it becomes less of a hobby and more just actual work. That's not to say you don't still love it, but you come to view it in a different light and drawing the line between work and downtime becomes harder. There are nights when I come home and I can't stomach the thought of sitting down at the computer to write a blog post or catch up on my Google reader. Because I've spent the entire day writing and researching to fight poverty in Baltimore, and my brain is tapped.

I am starting to feel the clock ticking, however. I am starting to want to write a book the way I imagine some women start to look at children and begin to feel pangs of wanting their own.
And I keep making the same excuses I'm sure many women in those circumstances make: it's a big responsibility, I don't know if I'm ready, I think I should wait until my life is a little more settled, or maybe until I have more space and an office that's quiet where I can devote more time, or maybe next year or maybe in two years. And I really do see book-writing in the same light as baby-making. The analogy might be offensive to some, but it resonates as just as life-changing to me because I don't intend to sit down and write a book and just be done with it. I see bringing a book into this world as an incredible part of my life that will take over to some extent and require time and commitment and, hopefully, some major changes.

Now, maybe I've perhaps built this up a little too much in my head, and I'm just making futher excuses to put off sitting my ass down in my computer chair and putting my mind into writing a book. This is fully possible. But what is clear to me at this point is that I desperately need tofigure out a way to balance my career with my other passions so that nothing gets lost. So that I'm not feeling that emptiness that I'm missing some part of my life. It's as though all the other pieces are finally there, and the thing I had to sacrifice was the one thing that has gotten me through every single day of the rest of my life. The urge becomes so strong that as I'm sitting in the airport lounge, mimosa in hand and two books I can't wait to read beckoningin my carry-on, all I wanted to do was write a blog post.

I think I am also taking stock of my life in this, the last two weeks of my twenties. As dramaticas I've made this whole process out to be, it really has caused me to be more introspective and see where I've been, and where I intend to be and what I intend to do for this next decade of my life. I am too thoughtful to not get all heady about this.

The Gentleman encourages me to write. When I told one of my closest friends about our conversataion and about his take-away statement that is still curled up in my heart where it will remain as a source of inspiration: "There are a lot of people who want to read what you have to write, and I can't wait to read whatever book is going to come out of you," she replied, very matter-of-factly, "We've all been waiting for that. For awhile."

Me too.

So the thing is, I feel like the girl who got the golden ticket only to yawn and say, "My, good fortune is so exhausting!" I don't mean to complain. I am happier than I can remember being. I just don't want to lose "me" in the process of gaining everything else. I need to figure out a way to have my cake, and devour it, and enjoy every single bite too. And maybe that's what 30 will be about. Taking all of these parts of myself and making peace with them, pulling them all in and getting them to work in harmony. Becoming a more complete person. Ideally before any other major life changes because, let's face it,  at some point there will be a whole lot more on my plate than just me to worry about.

And so, I will sign off here and drain the last of my mimosa before boarding the plane to spend five days at a resort in Punta Cana. Try not to feel too sorry for my exhausted self. We are heading down with a group of friends for the wedding of one of The Gentleman's friends. My major plans for the next five days are: nap at the pool, nap at the beach, snorkel, read, eat, drink, have more deep conversations with The Gentleman, and rock the hell out of the LBD (little blue dress - more effect than black in the sprintime) I got for the wedding. And regroup. And read some more. And think about this book I need to write. And stop talking about it and just freaking do it already.

And I will. But first - vacation.

Cheers!

Ottimista

Many more than six months of planning, the big work benefit is finally and successfully over. And I'm boarding a plane to the Dominican Republic tomorrow for five days of much-needed vacation. Peace out, Glitteratis, I'm on vaca.

Roaring Twenties: Ossified, Half Seas Over, Zozzled, Bent, Blotto, Fried - Part I

I don't think it's any real surprise that Glitterati likes to party.

Hey, who doesn't?

(That is, I assume if you are reading this blog - you like to party. I could be wrong, however. Perhaps you read this blog, and shake your head, and say "Now that is a shame...nice young lady like that...wasting away her life to the drink." But then, you'd x out the screen and head back to your picture book of cats, or hand-crafting your own plain yogurt [because what's available in health food stores is just so full of chemicals these days....] and probably hate me anyway for using the pseudonym Glitterati ("Gaudy...tasteless...ostentatious!"), in which case, I probably would not want to party with you. So that's OK.)

(I digress.)

In the roller coaster that was my twenties, there are a few moments that stand out. They shouldn't, because they involved copious amounts of...shall we say...grape juice. Very expensive grape juice that is only sold in adult stores and requires identification to purchase. Shall we say.

To begin with - my twenty first birthday. To this day, my parents express disdain that they were not invited to any of the events involving my twenty first. I allowed them to drive out to my college to visit me and take me to lunch, where I ordered my first legal alcoholic beverage (AHEM), and then kissed them merrily and sent them on their way so that the real party could begin.

Consequently, my parents are invited to and attending my 30th birthday party. And the after-party. Which they are also welcome to attend. But probably won't. And will probably claim that they weren't invited.

Because I am a May baby, my twenty first fell squarely in the middle of the year and thus in the middle of all of my friends in terms of legality. Half of them were still waiting for their twenty first, the other half had already rung in the good news. So we divided my birthday into two major events: the night BEFORE my birthday (house party) and the night OF my birthday (at a bar). I thought it was a particularly brilliant way of dealing with things, mostly because it meant I got to have two parties, and two parties are almost always better than one. 

The second event is a particularly fond memory for me because it was the last time that myself and two of my very best friends, Snickers and Princess, were all in the same room together. Since that time, nine years ago, our lives have taken us to 8 different states (collectively), and none of them at the same time. In fact, the first time we will all be together again is next month, at Snicker's bachelorette party in the Hamptons (more on that later). 

Anyhoodle, Snickers and Princess took it upon themselves to create an after-party. For, you know, when the bars closed. No one wants to go home, right?! But to ensure that we would at least have a decent crowd, they decided to invite...everybody. In the bar. And by everybody, I mean - all of the menfolk. They flirted their way from boy group to boy group, slyly slipping out my address and hinting that they would be the only boys invited to the party. By last call, both girls were ushering me hurriedly out of the bar and into a cab so as not to miss my own after-party. 

I thought they were joking.

Until car after car of menfolk began to pull up to the house.

Being the completely classy and utterly mature young women we were at that time (us being 21 and all), we turned off all of the lights and huddled by the front window and laughed in hysterical gasping fits every time a carload of very confused menfolk pulled up. This game could have gone on for hours, but after awhile they seem to catch on that there were no lights on in the house and that they'd been duped.


My friends are so awesome.


College was full of notable moments. And therefore doesn't really count in the list of epic party moments. And so, I fast-forward to grad school.


In Florida, where I went to grad school, you could buy beer and wine practically anywhere. Rite Aid sells it. Gas stations sell it. I'm sure Gymboree Tots sells it. You want liquor? You gotta find an ABC store (Alcohol Board of Creeps or something like that), wait until it's open (for a fleeting number of hours on certain days of the week) for your vodka or gin fix(zz) (see what I did there?!). But beer and wine? Hell, you could set up a card table outside of your house and sell individual bottles of beer and call yourself a distributor. So it seems.


One night, on the way home from the bar after last-call, it was decided that what was imminently needed was more beer. To cap off the night. Alas, the only thing open for miles was a creepily-lit gas station. Hedging our bets, our DD (I assume we had one - we were always very responsible in Florida after discovering it's practically DUI capital of the east coast) pulled into the parking lot, and myself and my old roommate tumbled out and attempted to enter the building part of the station. The door was locked. The attendant was standing behind one of those flippy window things, were you can lay your money in a drawer and push it shut, and then she can pull it from the other end to retrieve your money without having to be exposed to you or any other imminent danger. 


"Can we buy beer?" we asked, knowing full well that we could.


"Sure, but I only have 24-pack. Bottles"


"OK, we'll take it."


"It does not fit through the safety window."


Conundrum. We could see the beer, tantalizingly, on the other side of the window. Also - we were on a time crunch because we'd ordered pizza and cockily believed we could get home, with beer, before Dominoes could deliver. If we debated too long, we'd head home not only beerless but possibly miss the pizza as well. Double failure.


"OK, well, can you hand them to us one at a time?"


The attendant was Not Pleased. I can't imagine why.


In the end, she forced us to fork over the money first (in cash), and then she made a great show of pulling each bottle carefully out of the 24-pack and lining them up on the counter. She then carefully folded the cardboard box they came in, and send that through the window first. When we finally pulled the wretched, torn, shredded piece of cardboard through the safety window she then began handing us the beers. One at a time. Verrrry carefully.


Around this time, a gentleman on a bicycle came up behind us. He looked at us and the beers and sighed, exasperatedly. Apparently we were interrupting his cigarette jones with our charade. But we were paying customers! He made audible signs to indicate how much we were ruining his life. 


Also, around this time, Napoleon Dynamite was still a very notable, and quotable, pop-culture reference. And, seeking to make the gentleman perhaps laugh and enjoy his brief moment in time in our company, I eyed up his bike as we were handing off the beer bottles like batons in a very important relay, and said: 


"Duuuuuuuuuuude, you got pegs?! Luckeeeeyyyyyyyyy!"


He did not find this amusing.


But we did.


Very much.


Which he found even further not-amusing.


It is a known fact that there is nothing funnier than a drunk person - but only to another drunk person. We made four enemies that night: the gas station attendant, the guy on the bike, our DD (my now-ex-boyfriend), and later the Dominoes pizza guy who we couldn't tip because we'd given up all of our cash to the aforementioned pissed-off gas station attendant.


Part II to come soon.

 

The Roaring Twenties - The Fellas

I could write a book about dating in my twenties. And I probably will. (Sorry fellas.) Suffice it to say: I had fun.

Dating in your twenties is an intense, high-impact sport that requires awareness, diligence, and a healthy amount of stupidity. Why? Because if you had any decent wherewithal whatsoever, you wouldn't be doing it. Which defeats the purpose.

There is a steep learning curve with dating. Alas, I clung to the stupidity for probably a few too many years than I should have. If only He's Just Not That Into You had come out in my early twenties...I could have watched it and promptly ignored it, but at least one day when the bells went off and I finally realized "OH! This is completely ridiculous!" I would have had a catch phrase to sum up the entire situation(s).

Allow me to divulge a bit...

THE COLLEGE BOYFRIEND
Oh, he was everything the college boyfriend is supposed to be. We had the nicknames, the little notes, the favorite places on campus...he even made me a mixed CD. Everything was sickly sweet...until I discovered how many other girls he'd made mixed CD's for with the exact same playlist. It ended, crushingly, and I displayed about fourteen months of complete and utter batshit crazy gurrrl drama in many unglamorous attempts to win him back. I'm still not sure why. Those people who are still friends with me after that period are my tried-and-true friends-fo'-life. 

THE POST-COLLEGE BOYFRIEND
It was perfect...until every single little thing he did started to annoy me. He breathed wrong. He walked wrong. He tilted his head when he laughed at a joke wrong. He put the milk back on the wrong side of the top shelf of the refrigerator. I, on the other hand, was perfect. Except for that whole being a heinous bitch part, but that was only because everything he did was SO. ANNOYING. And probably on purpose.

THE RAGING ALCOHOLIC
At first, he was a good time. The life of the party. And then he was the life of the after-party. And the after-after-party. He didn't get out of bed before 3pm (on a good day), and he never went to bed before 4am (on a good day). That short-lived union fizzled out when I caught him relieving himself in public. On a busy city street. At 7:30pm. On a Sunday. 

THE JERKFACE
Not one of my friends liked him, but they tried. He was good-looking, well-mannered, and a total jerk. He also had very few friends (red flag), an obsession with dissecting his relationship with his ex (red flag), and a compulsion to use fifty-cent vocabulary words at inappropriate times (hurricane warning). Like in his break-up email to me. It contained the words "in aggregate." That became quite the family joke.  In aggregate, you are a complete and total jerkface, and also you are very boring.


And there were more. Oh yes, many more. There was Captain Hook, The Guy Who Never Talked, The Guy Who Was Too Eager, The Guy Who I Could Never Figure Out If We Were Actually Dating Or Just Friends (oh wait, there were two of those...), The Guy I Lived With For Four Years, The Guy in a Band, The German, The Hockey Player (oh wait, there were three of those....) to name a few. And then there were the legions of First Date Only guys. 


Ahhh, the First Date Only guys...the short stories as opposed to novels. And possibly more interesting, because what they lacked in depth and longevity, they more than made up for in amusement. Like the deaf guy who was a total bigot and tried to preach to me the evils of homosexuality over appetizers and beers. Or the guy who was an engineer of some kind and said that he didn't understand how writing could be so hard: "It's just a piece of paper and a pen!" 


I think the richest and most rewarding relationships I had in my twenties were with my friends. Learning what friendship means, how to respect it, how to view compromises as worthy and learning when to let go when someone turns out to be not the lifelong friend you had thought they'd be...these were valuable lessons. And who else could I turn to when The Raging Alcoholic was pissing in the street, or The Jerkface was expressing disdain at the fact that I am prone to spilling and breaking things? They were the ultimate sources of comfort and, in years later, they are the ones who find so much humor in these situations with me. Because, in the end, anything you escape from even marginally unscathed has to become funny. At least for me it does. Otherwise, what was the point?

I shall not bring the Gentleman into this post, although to be fair, I was 28 when we first started dating. His story is for a different time. I will say only this: had I known that he was what would be waiting after all of these others, I might have been more forgiving. More willing to let go. More content with not settling. But I couldn't have known that, and I had lessons to learn and patterns to break before he came along.


In summation, I'd like to point out that to all of these fine fellas, I firmly believe that I was "the one that got away." I am, of course, the Mary Poppins of exes ("perfect in every way") and things didn't work out largely because they were just so utterly unworthy of me. Clearly, nothing I did could have possibly brought out the worst sides of these people, and obviously every one of them to this day regrets how things turned out. But, c'est la vie, friends. You shall have to live with the knowledge that I was obviously that best you'll ever have.


Obviously.

Roaring Twenties: Get The Rubes...

 ...or "How I Paid My Way Through A Haphazard Existence"

Rubes (n.) - money or dollars

Here are some of the things I did for money in my twenties (in very loose chronological order):

nanny

dog sitter

Ritz camera sales associate/photo processor

SPCA animal caretaker

short-order cook and pizza delivery girl at Italian restaurant

bartender

server

radio station marketing manager

insurance claim investigator/researcher in Florida

Teacher's Assistant

taught 2 semesters of college public speaking

costume designer in Maine for a summer, made costumes for camp theater program

camp counselor at arts camp in Maryland for 2 weeks for 2 summers

marketing associate

corporate event planner

trivia host/writer

freelance writer/photographer

freelance marketing associate

retail at a vintage clothing store

I really have no idea how many jobs I've had in the past ten years. The above is merely an outline; a mere suggestion. 

There are two things I am really, really good at: making money, and spending it.

There have been jobs I absolutely loved (camp counseling, trivia hosting, freelance writing); jobs I hated so much I contemplated permanent bodily damage to get out of them (corporate event planning, animal caretaker, retail); and jobs that weren't titilating but afforded me some luxuries I might not otherwise have had (bartending, serving, teaching).

I was really and truly horrible at some things. Retail, for one. I hope to God I never have to work retail again. It was the most boring job I have ever had, and I am simply not a good enough sales person to foist merchandise off onto people. I HATE pushy sales associates, and therefore I stuck by the ideology that I should be as hands-off as possible. Note: owners of retail establishments do not hire people to be "hands-off." This did not go over well.

I was also pretty terrible at teaching, at least my first semester. I went the route of "23-year-old-teaching-college-and-trying-to-seem-qualified-when-she's-not." I refused to accept late assignments for ANY reason (Grandmother in the hospital? What, do they not allow text books at the bedside?), I graded on what I thought was the least arbitrary scale possible (which meant numbers, which, when you're grading qualitative assignments like written essays, does not go over well), and I refused to take any questions until the end of the class. Which meant most of the time, students had forgotten their questions by then. Which meant I was safe from having to answer questions I didn't know the answers to.

I got better my second semester. I relaxed the rules a bit, and learned what battles to fight.  I discovered the joys of conversational teaching, that is, to treat learning like a conversation with everyone participating. I stopped taking things personally. I even want to say I would have actually grown to LIKE teaching,  but I wasn't interested in pursuing a PhD, and so my academic career ended with a mere Masters. (In that field - you might as well not have a degree at all.) 

And then there were the jobs at which I was merely "ok." Nannying, for one. I was responsible, marginally mature, and did a very good job of making sure that none of my charges ever caught on fire, maimed themselves or anyone else, or watched pornography under my charge. I was not a very good nanny in the sense that I am innately lacking in the gene that makes one comfortable enough around children to actually be "fun." I'm far too self-conscious and creeped out by the fact that children are so...INTUITIVE. THEY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING. THEY KNOW YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE DOING. I also lacked the creativity to come up with anything remotely constructive for children to do, beyond building forts or making elaborate grilled cheese sandwiches. Those were basically the only tricks in my arsenal. 

One thing I was good at - playing beauty shop. As cliche and gendered as it may be, I was always a hit with little girls because I let them slather me with make up, dress me up in "princess" costumes, and do my hair however they pleased. What? I know what makes girls happy - I was one.

Pretty much every weekend of my teenage life was spent heading off to suggest good fort-building material or try not to flinch while someone pulled my hair into thirty tiny little pigtails.

There were the jobs I loved - freelance writing, short-order cooking, costume designing. I loved working with my hands, I loved the stress of a busy kitchen on a busy night with orders coming in, my hands flying to create subs and sandwiches as fast as I could. The rhythm was nearly Zen, and I considered each creation a craft. Perfectly-sautéed onions atop perfectly browned bread, with the lettuce sprinkled evenly and tomatoes spaced neatly. Costume designing for the children was fun too - children in big theater productions are far more gung-ho to wear loud, crazy, colorful costumes. The don't worry about looking fat, or being self-conscious. They are enthusiastic critics, however, but most of the time it is much easier to tell a little bitty actor "no" than it is to say "no" to an adult actor. No, your costume may not be made to catch on fire for effect. No, you may not be a blue frog, although I appreciate and applaud your creativity.

And writing...how I loved it. Picking each word, being forced to let go of flawless paragraphs for the sake of space, anguishing over whether to use "a" or "the." I went to amazing restaurants when I was a freelancer, I attended events and clubs I never would have otherwise. And the food...oh, the food....here's a little sampling of the delicious things I was forced to eat during my tenure as a freelance food writer. (And photographer.)

Yes, these are pancakes with bacon cooked in, smothered in bananas and peanut butter. The Elvis-special.

Bacon-wrapped scallops. Mmmm.

Chicken 'n Waffles - a Baltimore specialty.

Fish baked in a banana leaf.

Ohhh, the food.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics did a study and discovered that Baby Boomers, on average, have held about 10.5 jobs in their lifetimes. This seems implausible today when people seem to start working as young as 12 (I was a Mother's Helper!) and will be working probably until their late 80's (Social Security, hmmmmm?). I count 19 jobs here, and that's just in my twenties and doesn't include my current job. There were many more jobs I had in high school (summer researcher for Board of Education, library page, Renaissance wench, to name a few). And there will probably be many more. In my current life, I juggle my career with trivia, bartending gigs, and a fervent desire to add "book writing" to that list. (We'll see how that goes.)

But I learned something from every job, and I'm pretty sure I'm the better for it. I find, in my current career path, that all the useless bits of knowledge I've picked up along the way come into play. Especially in a nonprofit, where one is forced to wear many hats. Building a community kitchen and need to know ordering, layout, procedure, and safety protocol of a commercial kitchen? I gotcha. I worked in them for years. Photo editing? The basics are down. Quick, we need a gimmick for this presentation - ok, I'll make props.

Oh, the jobs; the jobs.

Coming up next on The Roaring Twenties: Dating. You know you've been waiting for this one.

The Roaring Twenties - The Beginning

In the last month and a half before my 30th birthday, I am paying homage to my twenties with a series of posts called "The Roaring Twenties." Enjoy the ride!

I came across a notebook I took with me when I traveled abroad for a second time in the spring of 2002. I was coming out of a very tough sophomore year of college, and a month-long trip to Italy and Germany had been an eye-opening breath of air that allowed me some space from my troubles back at school. On the return flight, I apparently made a list and, at the very top of the page, scribbled I'd like to share this with the world....but maybe not yet.

Well, that time is now.

I wrote this list just a week or two after my twentieth birthday. And, reading it now, ten years later, I realize that perhaps all the lessons I learned in my twenties were acknowledged in the very beginning. Just possibly not paid any attention to....

[29-year-old me's commentary]

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED

June, 2002

(A perpetual work-in-progress...with progress being the operative word....)

• Friendship is so important
• People love me. [What? It's true.]
• I have the ability to make people, including myself, laugh
• I am beautiful [Wayyyy ahead of you, Xtina....]
• I am a drama queen, and I love that
• No matter how hard it is, I will get through it
• I have the power to disentangle myself and step outside the situation for a little while to observe it...
• ...but I always must go back eventually; running away solves nothing
•  I can be whole and complete by myself
• Follow urges whenever possible [My definitions of 'possible' and even what constitutes an 'urge' have certainly changed, but my outlook on urges in life has not.]
• Friendships take effort, but the pay off is unbelievable
• You can trust anyone as long as you trust yourself enough to have the strength to deal with their faults
• Differences in opinion can be beautiful
• Sometimes you need a day or two to just be sad....
• ....but eventually, you have to get out of bed and face the world
• Hiding can be a form of procrastination
• Everything happens for a reason
• My superstitions make sense only to me, and I like it that way
• Sometimes there really is no one to blame
• I can be a glutton for punishment
• There are things I do not like about myself, but I've found they're mostly things no one else notices anyway [I disagree with the latter at this point in my life - people damn well do notice them. But the ones who will stick around will love you anyway.]
• "I no longer fear the storms because I am learning to sail my own ship," -Louisa May Alcott [still a favorite quote]
• I have an incredible family [still very true]
• I am in infinitely interesting person [everyone is...if you take the time to listen]
• I prefer white wine but sometimes red is necessary [in my ripe old age, this adage is flipped]
• I speak another language excellently [At the time, I damn well did. Now...it's pretty rusty. I am forever embarrassed when people tell native German-speaking friends and relatives that I speak German because beyond telling someone my name, the time of day, and asking for the restroom, I am pretty much lost.]
• My gifts are many and I don't have to narrow them down [It's a blessing and a curse, my jack-of-all-trades tendencies]
• My inner-strength is much stronger than I give it credit for
• My body has the most beautiful curves and angles
• There is no one thing that defines me
• I still get scared by a lot of things, but I am learning to live with thunderstorms [they still freak me out sometimes]
• My friends' individual strengths and weaknesses all help me grow
• I love cities and places with water [good thing I live in Baltimore....]
• Everyone has a story
• Don't knock it unless you've tried it

Hence, the wisdom of my barely-20-year-old self. I haven't yet devised a list of all the things I learned in my twenties, but I imagine it doesn't veer too far from this core outline. Which leads me to believe that the thirties are about this: taking the core "you", your most basic values and structure, and becoming the best core-in-motion you can be. Actually learning from your mistakes, and taking your altruisms to heart while being open-minded enough to know you still have a lot to learn.

I can only hope my 39-year-old self will be as impressed with my 29-year-old inherent wisdom.

Next installation of the Roaring Twenties: The Jobs, or How I Paid My Way Through A Haphazard Existence.

Long Story Short

Long story short, life has gotten busy again. What else is new?


I don't normally discuss my career life here (because blogging about work = major no no) except from time to time to talk about some of the issues that plague Baltimore City, such as poverty, educational disparities, etc. Working for a nonprofit that serves some of the city's most marginalized populations opens you up to things you wish you could ignore; things that sometimes creep into other parts of your life. And should, for that matter. Nonprofit work is not one that stays in the office - it becomes part of your outlook on the world. 


But, given that I used to use this space as a vehicle to further a career in writing, I should say that two years ago I stumbled into an amazing opportunity to work for a nonprofit after months of job searching once the DAILY BALTIMORE PAPER (that I won't mention here) put the kabosh on its freelance budget. And since then, it's just been a whirlwind of learning, working, and getting my hands into all kinds of amazing stuff. Like graphic and web design, marketing, grant writing, editing, brainstorming, collaborating, advocating, policy writing, and a slew of other hats that I've gotten to wear. And finally, as reward for my two years of building a foundation in my career, I'm happy to say that I've been promoted in my organization and taken on a whole new set of duties that are all totally awesome and challenging. Phew!


Life is changing. In the last two months of my twenties, I want to attempt to slow down, even for just a minute, to reflect on all of these changes. To celebrate accomplishments, to go see Snap's baby bump at her shower in two weeks, to read a passage at Lee and Hot Curry's wedding in three weeks, to enjoy my vacation in the Dominican Republic (that'll be a tough one), to enjoy the company of the best guy I have ever met, and to celebrate promotions and raises and new dreams and unions of my friends. 


Because, honestly, it has not been an easy ride. The twenties were...well, roaring. There wasn't a dull moment to be found. My twentieth birthday, in fact, was in Rome, Italy, and the bartender asked me to marry him. Nice gentleman from...Albania, I believe it was. And that was just the roller coaster beginning to pick up speed.


As my job is about to totally take over my life in a very wonderful and unprecedented way, I'd like to spend the next few posts of this blog reliving some highlights from my twenties. It's only fair to usher out the decade that got me a bachelors, masters, no fewer than 20 jobs, more boyfriends than I'd care to admit, 10 homes, four cities, 10 countries, and enough vodka to sustain Russia through a particularly harsh winter.


Stay tuned for: The Roaring Twenties.


PS: I know I was supposed to write a post about running/puking, but my mom reads my blog on her lunch break, and I decided that in my thirties I will be more considerate of others. I'm starting early!

Runnin' on (Too Much) Empty

So, apparently I have a little problem with running.

First off - I am happy to report that I took six minutes off of my half-marathon time. Somewhere on my #dirtythirtylist that I started (and never finished, because I realized it was rather unrealistic to imagine that I would somehow learn lion taming and Mandarin Chinese between now and May 31) I wrote "run a half marathon in under 2 hours." I can scratch that off the list. I came in at 1:56, which is entirely awesome. Go me.

The problem - I celebrated my victory with another round of public vomiting. Not so awesome.

I know that gastrointestinal problems plague runners. And I keep experimenting with different means of trying to combat the issue. Eat less, eat further in advance, drink more water before and after, drink Gatorade, wait longer after running before eating anything. This time I waited too long and nearly passed out in a Wendy's on New York Avenue in DC.

Which is an interesting story in itself:

We were standing in line at the Wendy's on Saturday afternoon, a good four hours after we'd crossed the finish line. Somehow in that time, I had managed to only eat half a banana and some dried fruit. I just wasn't hungry after the race, and rather than force myself to eat, I chose instead to drink water and Gatorade. Stupid. (I also blame the incredibly packed Metro bringing scads of runners from the Armory back into the city, I blame Switchfoot for playing some awesome cover songs in the beer garden at the post-race celebration, and I blame Catalano for creepily finding me in a crowd of 30,000 and hanging out with us after the race. Side note: at any event of considerable size, Catalano has a very lucky and/or creepy habit of somehow finding me. She says it's due to the height of The Gentleman, because not many in a large crowd are 6'4", and he is usually to be found following me around. But it's downright freaky. I turn around - and THERE SHE IS. It's like she planted a homing device on me at some point. I wouldn't doubt this. I blame Vegas. I digress.)

If you've ever passed out from low blood sugar, you know how it feels: you suddenly get really, really hot. Your legs become rubber. The tunnel vision sets in, and you feel yourself start to sway. Every part of you is covered with a slick of sweat, and then you feel the floor begin to move uncomfortably close to the rest of you. I don't really remember everything that happened except that I ducked out of line at the Wendy's right after I informed The Gentleman I wanted a #1 with cheese and a DIET COKE (for health) and collapsed into a chair with my arms sprawled across a sticky table. And then the uncontrollable heaving began, and the next thing I knew, I was draped over a trash can next to the ketchup station, wretching nothing but Gatorade and banana bits.

You're welcome for that.

The interesting part - no one batted an eye. 

The Gentleman was desperately trying to get me something to eat and drink (he is not so great with the puking, but he is certainly a man of action when it comes to emergencies - when I got sick in the Middle East he went on a pilgrimage for Pepto on Christmas morning, and when I puked at the Baltimore half marathon he went out to hunt and gather as much Gatorade and water as he could find). I lay there, draped over the can, and dry heaving absolutely nothing. After what seemed like an eternity, an off-duty nurse who was enjoying lunch with her boyfriend came over to me and tore open a salt packet, shook some into my hand and instructed me to put it on my tongue. She gave me a cup of ice water and told me to drink as much as I could. By that time, The Gentleman had our food and a small Frosty for me. 

That Frosty was the best fricking thing I have ever tasted. I was exhausted, still sort of dry heaving, and still on the verge of passing out. The freezing ice creamy deliciousness was impossible to swallow at first, but after a minute or so of sitting there and sipping it, I became absolutely ravenous. I immediately housed a cheeseburger and an order of fries and promptly felt like a million bucks. 

Half an hour later, I was doubled over with cramps and I spent the next three hours in bed wondering if this was what it felt like to die.

Miraculously - by 7pm that night, I was completely healed. I scarfed a plate of nachos, some sweet potato fries, and the better part of a pizza that night. You know, because after months of training and eating right the best way to celebrate an athletic accomplishment is to stuff your face.

And, lest ye judge, I'll just go ahead and tell you that I spent the entire next day on the couch with The Gentleman eating Easter cookies and Pirate's Booty, drinking mimosas, and watching horror movies. It was pretty much the best day ever.

So, I've consulted a nurse/runner friend of mine who sent me some incredibly helpful advice about eating/training. I am going to attempt to either isolate the problem or figure out a way around it, whether that means eliminating foods from my diet pre-race, working out an eating plan ahead of time post-race, or something crazy I haven't even thought of yet.

I think a big problem is the post-race high. The adrenaline rush and the incredible feeling of accomplishment that floods through you when you cross the finish line sort of puts you in a stupor, and you forget about your immediate bodily needs. Blisters might bleed, your knee might be swollen, your head pounding, but you don't feel any of it with that amount of seratonin (or something) coursing through your veins. And, for me, it translates into not feeling hunger or the onset of cramping, and it's not until I am on the verge of passing out that I do something about it, which is too late.

Long story short - I am new to this game. My body is still getting used to the incredible things I am forcing it to do. To put all of this in perspective - two and a half years ago, I had a broken foot. The cast came off, and I probably couldn't have run a mile. And now? I know I can peel another five minutes off of my half-marathon time, and my dream is to do so without puking in a fast food establishment. Or anywhere, really.

But seriously- go me. And go Catalano, and Catalano's husband, and The Gentleman. We all ran hard, worked hard, and played hard afterwards. And some of us (me) puked afterwards. We are awesome.

Maybe next time, no puking. Live the dream!

Weekly Goals

So I have another blog post almost ready to go that features disgusting bodily processes and also a toot of my own half-marathon horn (WHADDUP, TAKING SIX MINUTES OFF MY PREVIOUS TIME BRINGING MY PR TO UNDER TWO HOURS?!) but first, it seems that one of my brilliant ideas is about to go viral so I'd like to take some credit where credit is due.

A couple of years ago, a group of us (including Legs and Joel) started a weekly email circulating. It usually went out on Mondays, and contained our goal for that week. It started out because some of us (mainly me) had found ourselves (myself) in a bit of a funk and needed to find ways to make life just a little bit better. And sometimes, just doing one small thing, getting one tiny victory, can change your outlook on a whole lot of bigger things that you feel like you can't control.

The idea was simple: pick something, anything, that's totally do-able, and DO IT. You're telling everyone on the email list that you intend to do this thing in this given period of time. There are no consequences for failing to make your weekly goal, except the sheepishness of having to tell x number of people on the thread that you suck at life. Which is pretty good motivation right there.

The goals ranged from "make my bed every morning" to "eating vegetarian all week." They were intangible ("be optimistic") and tangible ("work out for 45 minutes per day"); simple ("tell one person each day that I love him/her") and complex ("clean out my closet: donate clothes I no longer wear, reorganize my shoes, put away winter clothes, etc.").

Lemme tell you, even an accomplishment as small as just making your bed everyday can feel like a victory when you get to report, a week later, that you did it.

Recently, a friend of mine has been in a bit of a funk and so we decided to resurrect this practice. We are back on the weekly goals email and it's actually kind of exciting. Even though most of us are in far better places in our lives, I've found there's always room to say, "What can I do this week that will make my life look/feel/act better?"

For example: this week it was going to the post office. I frigging hate the post office. Joel has a joke, his "one Libertarian joke," as he refers to it:
Guy goes to the store the week before Christmas to buy his mother a gift. The store is mobbed, the lines are long. He finds a gift, waits in line, finally gets to the register, and says to the sales associate, "Wow, you guys are busy!" The sales associate says, "I know, it's been our best week ever!" Guy then goes to the post office to mail the gift.The post office is mobbed, the lines are long. He waits in line, finally gets to the front, and says to the postal worker, "Wow, you guys are busy!" The postal worker grumbles, "I know, worst week ever."

Ha.Thanks, Joel.

So I went to the post office to mail off some stuff that had been sitting around my room, just waiting to be mailed, and let me tell you what a relief it was. Just this one act - this one chore crossed off my list made me feel like I could take on the world. Vacuum my room? DONE! Dust my shoe rack? FINITO. The completion of one annoying, nagging chore can open gateways to cleaning up other areas of your life.

Or it can be a goal like: drink more water. Don't even get me started on health benefits of being well-hydrated, whether you're a runner or not.

I know, aren't I just a bastion of fun these days, all well-hydrated and going to the post office. Fear not, Glitteratis; April and May are already booked to the hilt with batshit crazy fun, including a baby shower, a Broadway play, two weddings, some family events, and (LET US NOT FORGET) my impending #dirtythirty birthday.

But anyway, I just wanted to take full credit for my awesome Weekly Email Update idea before Kid and Lee went off running and making money off of my brilliance.

Next post will be about how I puked again after last weekend's (otherwise totally awesome) half marathon. I know you're excited.

Kid is Back!

My good friend Kid is back on the writing scene. You can find him here.

You're welcome.