Yesterday was just such a Monday. And with my vacation starting in just 48 hours, I'm already over this week. Thus to make the week go more smoothly I made a rash decision: Choose to be happy. Because, yes, sometimes it is a choice. Especially for me. So this week I am just choosing happiness. Choosing to ignore dumb people on the metro. Choosing to deal with silly inconveniences. Choosing to let things go. And, on a hot June Tuesday, choosing to wear an outfit that makes happy. It's the little things!
This is one of a hundred attempts over the years at channeling Audrey. If I could, I'd wear a white dress shirt, skinnies, flats, and pearls every day. They just make me feel pretty. And not just in a physical way, but in a pretty-on-the-inside way, too. (I know, gag me, but it's true!)
I'm grabbing a drink after work with a friend. As in, a friend is coming to Old Town to grab a drink with me. Other than coworkers, no one ever comes to Old Town to drink with me. Granted, my friend lives near Old Town, but still! (And if you are a friend and reading this and think I'm trying to make you feel bad: I'm not. I love drinking in D.C., too, and it is far more convenient for our circumstances.)
Now to just channel Audrey a bit longer and have just one glass of wine. Choosing happiness, not lushness.
It's officially summer in every way and I can't bear to be stuck in my apartment like an adult with a 9:30 to 5:30 job. Thus I keep making plans and the past week or so has been a bit mad. In a good way. Dinner and drinks with friends, book club, a play, two movies, and a concert. A brief recap of the last few items.
I was able to see a fun play at the Kennedy Center last week with a friend: The Reduced Shakespeare Company's: Completely Hollywood (Abridged). I was familiar with the Company's shows in London but had never been and was excited to see this one. From the Kennedy Center: "It's the Greatest Hollywood Blockbuster Never Made! The 'Bad Boys of Abridgment' are back...reducing 187 movies in under two hours, and condensing every cliché from every movie ever made (plus a few new ones they just made up) into an evening of 'stellar shtick.'"
It was just a good two hours of fun.
The AFI Theatre in Silver Spring hosts the SilverDoc documentary film festival each year. This year I was able to see two. (Descriptions from SilverDocs.)
Despicable Dick and Righteous Richard -- Sixty-eight year old chronic rascal Dick Kuchera has spent a lifetime alienating everyone in his path with his rude, dishonest and obnoxious behavior. On a self-proclaimed path to righteousness, Dick is working a 12-step program to finally get his life back on track.
While definitely funny, it wasn't particularly sympathetic or inspiring. Though his goal was to become more of a Richard and less of a Dick, and while he thinks he is now more of a Rick, I still think he was more of a Dick.
The Swell Season -- Starring in the 2007 sleeper hit, ONCE, and winning an Academy Award for best original song ("Falling Slowly") was just the beginning of a profound artistic journey for folk-rock musicians Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. While riding the wave of their new found popularity, and with an onscreen romance blossoming into an off screen reality, Hansard, 35, and Irglova, 18, head out on a two-year world tour with their band, The Swell Season.
This one was really good and inspiring. I love "Once" and listen to "Falling Slowly" and "If You Want Me" over and over all the time. (Which I did all day today.) Their voices are just so powerful and pure that I can't get enough. And their story is so moving and romantic, even though they aren't together any more. But at least they can still pursue their art together, somehow.
Finally, this weekend, I also attended the Citizen Cope concert at the Warner Theatre. His albums have been my go-to summer songs for several years now and, also, other times of the year, too. I think I knew all but two of the songs and it was just a really mellow, really great show. And 10,000 times better than this bad iPhone picture lets on.
Because I know at least a few people not too familiar with his music, here are a few of my favorites, all of which he played.
Sometimes I feel like unless I blog about it, it didn't happen. The list of things from 2011 I've yet to blog about include a discussion I attended with Justic Ruth Bader Ginsberg, my bout with pink eye, and getting a marriage proposal from a stranger at the metro fare card machine. Even though at this point they are as much as five months old, I swear they will be blogged about. But, for now, I'll start with something I've yet to write about, which was my trip to Richmond two weeks ago to spend the day with Mom.
After three years in D.C., we discovered over Christmas that Richmond was about halfway for both of us, thus the perfect distance for a quick day trip. As mom was "homesick" for me and I desperately needed to both get out of the city, and unashamedly, see my momma, together we descended on the city.
The last time we were here was when we took a few days after I finished summer school in 2004 to visit Charlottesville and Richmond. But our interest this time was less in the city's sights -- of which there are many -- and more in the city's stores.
My bus got into the city station about a half hour early, leaving me time to wander past closed store after closed store before settling by a statue to read. (It was barely 8 a.m.; glad to know there's a good reason I'm not usually up then.)
Once mom arrived we got breakfast and planned the day, starting with the Carytown area to work our credit cards a bit.
The consignment store Clementine was just as good as I'd heard and allowed me to significantly expand my wardrobe for a fairly insignificant cost.
We got a mid-day snack at a diner and strolled the cute streets, shopping and browsing as we went.
Mom really wanted to shop at a Pier One and an Anthropologie so we went out into the suburbs a bit for some more shopping. I almost crashed due to having to wake up in the 4s, but was able to rally to head back into the city for dinner and enjoy a few Richmond sights.
After a recommendation from our parking lot attendant, we got dinner at The Hard Shell. Mom had steak and I had shrimp and we both enjoyed ours immensely.
After we ate I tried to get a picture of just the two of us. I guess it's been awhile since doing the "squeeze together and hold camera out" picture because after several tries a few nice guys offered to take it for us.
And then one slightly tipsy fellow asked if he could be in a picture with us. He was sweet enough, and from Alabama, but drunk people that want to be in pictures just amuse me. One time this happened during college when the drunk son of the governor jumped in my picture. Not sure if this guy is the son of a governor, but he's forever in my digital photo album now.
After dinner it was time for goodbyes as I boarded the bus back to D.C. and mom turned the car toward home. It was a busy but great day and one I'm sure will be repeated in the future.
This handy flowchart was posted on the Twitter of author Karyn Bosnak this morning. (Though she isn't the creator.) It's a nice concept, of course, but another one of those things that looks good in theory, but in practice, I'm just not buying.
The more I stared at and thought about it, the more I wanted to add my own arrows with questions and solutions. To be honest, I don't know why I didn't think of this before, a flowchart for worry! I mean, it's really quite genius. When it's time to freak out about something, just pull the little laminated chart from your purse and follow the steps. It will significantly speed up the freak out process because everyone knows following a plan is way better than just winging it. (What is this "just winging it," anyway, it's like a foreign language to me.) Of course the steps should be customized, not sure everyone freaks out to a soundtrack of U2. (Though you should, it does wonders.)
Basically, all worry roads lead to calming the eff down. (Sorry for the harsh language, but those are the actual words I repeat over and over to myself when worrying; it's a vital step of my process.)
The longer I live in apartments the more I want to make them feel like a home. One way I've tried doing this is with the addition of fake flowers. (Because apparently the corner of my mind reserved for "things that make a home" includes "fake flowers." Alongside "comfortable couch" and "warm.")
A quick apartment tour of fakery. Pink flowers in the entry:
Hydrangeas in the living room:
Calla lilies in the dining room:
Hydrangeas in my bedroom:
Ranunculas in my bathroom:
In my last apartment, I went through a phase where I'd buy a bouquet of carnations for $3.99 from Safeway every few weeks. Though not the most elegant of flowers, one bouquet usually lasted for two weeks, and just brought some cheer to my living room. I haven't done that in awhile but when at the grocery store Sunday morning, decided that I should again. After debating tulips, peonies, and a mixed arrangement, I decided to just go with the old standby carnation.
Entryway. Yes, that is a wine glass. But don't worry, I have others so my wine intake will not be affected.
Side table:
Big bouquet by the TV:
My bathroom:
They aren't much but for $12 I got two bouquets of 12 stems each and they brought a little fresh loveliness to my apartment. Not sure it's a home, but it's trying.
One summer day in Chapel Hill, the month after college graduation, I was on campus (force of habit) browsing in the Bull's Head bookshop. The following book cover and author name caught my eye and I bought it:
Dessen is a Chapel Hill resident, UNC alum, former UNC professor, and a young adult author. Though I'd read her first book, "Someone Like You," some time around freshman year, and seen the movie "How to Deal," I didn't know she had other books, or was a fellow Tar Heel, until "Just Listen."
I read the book in one night, staying up until 3 or 4 in the morning to finish. Though the book is about a girl in high school, and I was a 22-year-old college grad about to move across the pond, something in her story grabbed me. And I hated high school, so it certainly wasn't nostalgia. It was her words, her characters, her story.
Over the course of a year I read all her other books. In the years since, as she has released three more, I bought each on their release date and finished each in a matter of days. So, despite my fear of meeting famous people, when I saw that Dessen was going to be at the Bethesda Library last Thursday, I had to attend.
She read from her latest book, "What Happened to Goodbye," took questions, and then signed books. Not surprisingly, the room was dominated by teenage girls. And their mothers. But there were a few people my age, so I wasn't completely out of place. One mother even asked Dessen about her intended audience, and why she thought her books appealed to more than just teens. She said that everyone went through adolescence, that it's something we all share, and tend to have passionate feelings about. And she's never met anyone who didn't have some thoughts, also usually quite passionate, about high school. I would add that her books represent a range of human emotions and experiences that just about anyone can identify with. Yes, they are presented through the lens of teenagers, but that doesn't make them less true or powerful.
Even though I was super nervous, I am very glad to have gone. She clearly loves what she does and has worked incredibly hard to get where she is. And the fact that she is a Carolina girl just makes it all the more inspiring to me.
As she spoke about her struggles to figure out her life, to write and get published, to go from waitress to professor to writer to mother, she said something that really stood out to me:
"I think you just end up where you're supposed to be, that's what I believe."
Similarly, I believe that everything happens for a reason, so I wholeheartedly agree with this. (Even though it's incredibly difficult to remember and understand in practice.)
It was just a fun night and I look forward to spending a few weeks re-reading some of her earlier books.
I'm a collector of words. There's really no other way to describe it. There are the spiral bound notebooks dating to high school full of movie quotes, bible verses, and miscellaneous quotes. There's the container of index cards full of favorite lines and well-written phrases from books. There are the drafts in my Gmail inbox full of quotes from articles, tv, and real life. And somewhere there has to be a collection of favorite song lyrics, though I can't seem to think of where. All these words that at some time made me stop, sit back, and think, "Wow, that's going to change my life."
But, for the most part, it doesn't. Sure, maybe it sticks with me for the rest of the day, maybe even the week depending on what else grabs my attention, but more often than not I file it, forget it, and continue on my merry(ish) way. Now, there are a few exceptions.
From the "History of Love" by Nicole Krauss, going on six years now: Really, there isn't much to say. He was a great writer. He fell in love. It was his life.
Henry David Thoreau, going on ten years now: Go confidently in the direction of your dreams, live the life you have imagined.
Or a dozen favorite lines from U2 songs (see: this post.) like this one, going on two years now: I found grace inside a sound, I found grace it's all I found.
And this one, from Maya Angelou by way of Oprah, going on a month now: When someone shows you who they are, believe them.
But, the thing is, when real life hits you, none of this matters. At least not in the way you expect it to. When you're faced with an obstacle or a choice, a fun time or an opportunity, you aren't going to be hearing Oprah or Bono in your head. At least I don't. And should I? We have books, magazines, the Internet, friends, family, acquaintances, tv shows, and movies offering us a never-ending barrage of thoughts and advice to sift through, consider, and apply. Or not. Such a steady stream of words that we can't possibly use them all.
I've been thinking that this is a failure of the power of the written word, which is something I believe in like oxygen or gravity. A failure because I take in all these pearls of wisdom, all these bits of advice, and then can't remember them.
But maybe it's more a "failure" of the human spirit or experience to condense our lives to quippy soundbites, platitudes, or lyrics. It doesn't mean we don't learn from others or listen to their advice, just that we don't think or access it verbatim as we go about our day. I think it's all there in the background influencing -- maybe too much or too little -- what we do.
Maybe the goal is to find that which can be summed up in one word, one elusive word that I fail at so miserably both literally and figuratively in my life: Balance. Balance between what we want and what others want, between our own advice and the advice of others, and between our head and our heart.
I still believe in the power of words though. My journalism professor for my features writing course said that the mark of a good piece of writing, particularly in journalism, was if a reader was still thinking about at least a piece of it a week, a month, a year later. Even if I'm awful at applying the thoughts of others to my life, I still do remember a lot. And, to be frank, that's what I want for my words, too. If at the end of my days someone can say, "she was a great writer, she fell in love, it was her life," I will be ok. No one can say that yet, though, so I'll just keep on my merry(ish) way for right now until they can. And keep seeking balance along the way.
I feel like I use my journalism degree all the time, but my history degree less often. I chose it as my major in high school and never wavered from it. Always a passion, it was also going to help me get into law school, but in the end just made me happy. Now, on occasion, and maybe only just for me, I want to use it.
In the course of my history education, from grade school through college, more time was always spent on America's role in, and the general impact of, World War II than on World War I. In my experience it was just never discussed and analyzed as much. And by comparison's sake, I don't really think we were impacted the same way in terms of resources and personnel. Why we were fighting WWII was also more clear: in the simplest form, it was because of Pearl Harbor. While WWI, in its simplest form, began with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. And in 1914, and even today, not sure how much effect the death of an Austrian has on America.
The memorial to the residents of D.C. who fought in WWI.
The only WWI memorial on the Mall.
I began thinking of all this because the last British combat veteran of WWI recently died. Just several months after the last American veteran died. My knowledge of WWI finally went beyond what I learned from "All Quiet on the Western Front" and that awful scene in "Legends of the Fall," when I took a British history course my junior year of college. (Which was actually not a good class in large part due to a sub par professor, who happened to be a Duke grad. I'm not saying that was the reason he wasn't a good professor.)
But the one thing -- literally the one thing -- I remember from the course textbook was the effect the Great War had on Great Britain. They gave so many of their young men to The Cause that they effectively lost the equivalent of a generation's worth of leaders. Potential leaders in science, industry, literature, business, and politics -- gone. That still astounds me. Now, they've managed to do pretty well since then and not to be obvious, but it did let some females step up to the plate, too. (Hello, Margaret Thatcher.) But who knows what may have been achieved. What disease cured? What groundbreaking business formed? What literary masterpiece written? What world leader launched?
The summer after taking the course I went to London for summer school. The scars of the Second World War are everywhere, from the singed dome of St. Paul's to a plaque on a building explaining how it was rebuilt after the Blitz. But WWI and its effects are still seen, too, like in the Imperial War Museum.
I loved this museum not just because I love history, but because it was the first museum I visited where "home front" wasn't in reference to America. It presented the view of wars I thought I knew so much about, from a completely different perspective. And through each floor of exhibits, my earth shifted a little each time I saw the word "home," and knew it wasn't the home I knew. At one point you can step through a mock up of a trench. (Trench warfare is one of the most lasting legacies of the conflict.) While I'm sure the mock trench was nothing like the real thing, it still made its point: dark, tight, loud, and even smelly. An entire generation lost in these trenches, so far from their own home fronts? It is still unfathomable.
Today in Britain, veterans of all conflicts are remembered each November with remembrance poppies, which began as a way to honor the Great War's fallen. When I moved back to England after college, I was there for Remembrance Day and felt like the city was awash in paper poppies, including these outside Westminster Abbey. Resiliency, recovery, and remembrance, that's the British way.
One of my most favorite scenese from an episode of "Doctor Who" covers a lot of these points. (What could be more British than that?) It beautifully shows the sacrifices asked of the young men of Britain at that time, the hell they went through, and how they came out on the other side. (And the young man happens to be Sam from "Love Actually.")
It was to be "the war to end all wars." Oh how we all wish that were the case, that the 20th and 21st centuries weren't riddled with conflict after conflict after conflict. Especially as we've been fighting our own wars for a decade now. When all is said and done we don't yet know the final death toll, the final footprint on history. 100 years from now there will be an obituary on the last surviving member of Operation Iraqi Freedom, and who knows what his or her legacy will entail.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Not that I learned that this Friday, but maybe next?
Sometimes you just have to give in and sleep.
I slept outrageously late on Saturday due to not sleeping well Friday night and several other nights in the week because...
Allergies truly are awful.
As I've whined about before, after moving to D.C. I developed spring allergies. This year they appeared to have cured themselves as I didn't have any trouble. Until this week, however, when in the middle of three record-breaking hot days, I was all sore throat and runny nose.
X Men: First Class is a really good movie.
Despite the allergies, I made myself leave the apartment and decided to see any random movie that was playing, which happened to be the new X Men. I loved the first one, not so much the next two, so I was worried about this one but saw it anyway. I'm glad I did because it was a great distraction and just good fun.
There was no new episode of Friday Night Lights.
At almost midnight on Saturday I finally settled in front of my DVR to watch my beloved FNL. But, gasp! Apparently there wasn't one played due to hockey. (So it wasn't just an NC thing, Mom.) I'm still a very angry Panther/Lion.
Naps in a cool, air conditioned room with hair wet from the pool are the best naps.
Sunday morning/afternoon was spent again by the apartment pool soaking up the sun. I also got in the pool and floated around for a bit, just perfectly content. I had a light lunch of tomatoes soaked in Italian dressing and then took a short nap. Happy summer day.
I'm including this here because, in my opinion, geysers are nature's fountains. And this one was a beauty. The geyser is amongst the Montañas del Fuego in Timanfaya National Park. The Park is both beautiful and desolate and so completely foreign that it feels like another planet. This was my first time watching a geyser erupt and it was stunning to see.
I was sorting though all my skirts and dresses this week to see if buying more can be justified. (Jury's still out on that verdict.) There were two skirts that used to be favorites but are never worn anymore because the lengths aren't flattering, so I decided to shorten them. One of them is from my senior year of high school:
(Hello, highlighted hair.)
I haven't worn it since but somehow it has managed to travel with me for 9 years and 14 moves. But I wore it to a lot of events senior year and suppose I have kept it as one of the few things I have sentiment for from high school. (Perhaps because it's from the best part of high school -- the end!)
It still fits so I took about six inches off and am now in love. It makes me want to go swing dancing. And I neither swing nor dance.
I also came across some capri pants I wore to my first job the summer after high school. They also fit but I think leopard pants on an 18-year-old are different from leopard pants on a 27-year-old. I'm considering making them leopard shorts. Would that be better or worse?
The margaritas at Lauriol Plaza are just as strong as I remember. Friday night I went to dinner with B and K at an old favorite, Lauriol Plaza. Though always loud and busy, the ambiance is great, as is the food and the drinks. I'd vote their margaritas top 3, maybe top top, in D.C. And trust me, I know my margaritas.
Sometimes D.C. is just good fun. After our margarita and other Dupont adventures we went to a 24-hour diner a few blocks from our apartment to get hot fudge sundaes.
It's not officially summer until you're in your bathing suit by the pool. The best part of living in a cookie cutter apartment building: the pool. Saturday morning was spent with trashy magazines in the sun by the water.
A 27-year-old can can sometimes be mistaken for a less than 18-year-old. I went to see "The Hangover 2," got carded, and then was told that I am "way older than you look." More on this at a later date.
Sometimes laundry is better than sleep. Woke up early Sunday to do laundry, which made me feel very productive. And then very sleepy.
Cuban ballet > all other ballet? Also on Sunday I went to the Kennedy Center to see the visiting Cuban Ballet's production of "Don Quixote." I believe this makes my sixth ballet and it definitely had some of the most powerful and beautiful dancing I've seen. After each solo the dancer would bow to the audience and the audience clapped and cheered each time.
Warning: This post is very shallow and dramatic. There are also a lot of pictures of me. But if you make it to the end, it may have some redeeming qualities.
Confession: Sometimes I am really, really vain.
Like, checked myself out in a reflective window and fell down a flight of stairs once, vain. (In my defense, it was at my job in London where I climbed four flights of stairs a hundred times of day. Going more than a week without at least tripping would have been statistically impossible.)
One of the things I am most vain about is my hair. I have four different types of shampoos and conditioners, a conditioning mask, serum, and a nice hair dryer. My cabinet is full of ponytail holders, clips, headbands, barrettes, and spin pins. I brush it constantly and obsess over keeping it shiny and smooth. I just love my hair, particularly when it's long. I swear it makes me bolder and more powerful, truly.
But no stranger to changing my style, there was also the time I did this in 2006:
And most recently, there was just a lot of this:
Now, there is just this:
It's all gone. It's hard to show in the photos but it's short, with the majority of it just above my shoulders. It's just an all around crappy and sloppy cutting job, and if I don't arrange it just right it looks like I have a mullet or a rat tail. (But for fear of losing more length, I don't want to have anyone try to fix it.) Oh, and did I mention the salon charged me an extra $10 because of the length of my hair? Well done, salon, well done.
This wasn't me growing it out specifically to donate. This wasn't because I had graduated college and all my friends were gone and the only thing I could control was my hair. This was me stupidly trusting a cheap hair salon and stylist to understand what I meant by "long layers" and "keep as much of the length as possible." To be fair, I did want more of a shape and I did want it lighter for the summer, but that is not what I had in mind.
To quote our dear president, let me be clear, I know all of this to be true: It's just hair! It will grow back! Some people don't have hair or can't have hair! It's just hair!
But because this is my blog and I'm selfish I'm going to keep writing.
As soon as I walked out of the salon I started panicked breathing. A block later at the grocery store I was crying. I cried some more when I talked to my mom and then when I examined it in the mirror. And then I lost sleep over it. No joke, I lost sleep over a haircut! I am not that woman. (Well, I am that woman who loses sleep over things, just not usually hair. So maybe I am sort of that woman.)
It's just hair.
But hair is important! It was power for Samson, convenience for Lady Godiva, and love for Della.
For me, it usually means control. And as you very well know, I'm a control freak. (I've been harping on this but it's been more aggressively infiltrating my life lately.) When my world gets too heavy my ability to control something lessens the weight. I latch on to completing a work assignment, planning a trip, buying the perfect outfit, or, maybe, styling my hair. My world's not especially heavy right now, just a little whirly, and I really did want just a few layers, but there's still a lesson for me to learn and then promptly forget.
No matter how much I plan and think and worry and panic sometimes it's just not going to work out.I can't pick the bits of my hair off that salon floor. I can't control everything. Sometimes there is just nothing I can do. And it really, really sucks.
And it really is just hair; it will grow back.
In conclusion, I'll turn to India.Arie. I first heard this song on Good Morning America in a segment on Robin Roberts losing her hair during her battle with breast cancer. (Perspective much, Bonnie?) It's such a beautiful song and I've been singing it in my head all day today. (My head with all my hair secured in a ponytail that I only let three people see down.)
I am not my hair/I am not this skin/I am just the soul that lives within
(Until it grows out again -- then I am totally my hair. Kidding!)
