Muggles, wizards and Voldemort, oh my!

I fisnished book two in the Harry Potter series today. I finished book one yesterday. While the rest of the world is chattering about the supposedly major plot twists in book six, I am still trying to keep the characters introduced in book one straight. Meanwhile, all of my friends who have read book six (almost everyone I know), are trying so hard not to talk about it around me, so they don't ruin anything. Two weeks' ago, I wouldn't have cared if I found out "the big twist" in book six. Today, I'm hoping that something else in pop-culture will take over the airwaves, e-mail and online forums, so I don't accidentally read something too soon.

I tried to read Harry Potter five years ago, and failed. I was convinced I wouldn't like it. Then my book club announced that it would be reading book six (I don't even know them well enough to remember the titles!) for it's September discussion. That left me exactly six weeks to read six books. Not impossible, since I love reading, but certainly made easier by the fact that they (so far) are an easy read (and that this weekend lent itself well to being lazily curled up in the sun on the love seat, reading).

I love them! I'm not typically one who likes books in the fantasy/sci-fi genre. I prefer realism. But there is something enchanting about the books - I guess because they are realistic, with a touch of magic thrown in. They remind me a lot of one of my all-time favorite children's series, The Great Brain books, where Tom (aka The Great Brain) is a lot like Harry - slightly mysterious, incredibly smart, and always in trouble.

I am itching to read number three - but I have to wait until I can either get to the library or the bookstore, whichever comes first. In the meantime, I'm catching up on other "mindless reading." It's the only thing I miss about being sick - I could read for hours and it didn't matter that I'd accomplished absolutely nothing.

Sadly, I have a feeling work is going to get in the way this week.

Happy Clones

There are two questions which I loathe, when asked together. They are, "where are you from?" and "where did you go to college?" It's not that I don't have a great affinity for the very small town in red rock country, from which I hail. Nor is it that I have an issue with which institution issued my degree. It's that as soon as I answer "Utah" and "BYU" people get a knowing look, nod and say, "ahhhh." From that point on, everyone assumes they know everything about me. They assume (correctly, but still ...) my religion, as well as assuming they know everything about my cultural background, my lifestyle, my likes/dislikes, my philosophies on life and my political leanings. They create a visual image of someone who is more than likely too boring to have fun.

What I want to say, immediately after my answers, is "But I'm not a clone." I feel like one, when someone sizes me up after my answers, and finds a nice label to affix to my persona after assuming I must be like every other person from Utah or who attended BYU. It's the same when anything about anyone remotely connected to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (aka "Mormon Church") is published or aired - I have to drag out the "we're not clones" schpiel. Really. I swear. We're not. So when things like today happen, I feel a need to get my side out.

This morning, a friend sent me a recent article from a local paper. I thought the article was well-written, and obviously the journalist did some research. What sparked a few hours of conversation among friends and colleagues, however, was the attitude of the woman in the article. It bothered me that the woman in the article spent the entire article trying to convince the reader how happy she was. It bothered me she seemed to speak, albeit indirectly, for a larger group, when in reality most of what she said was her interpretation and opinion on life. I got the feeling she is still trying to convince herself she's happy.

To be fair, I am happily married, and have been for the past 2 1/2 years. The difference is, I loved being single. And I strongly suspect that I still would be happy, even if I hadn't gotten married in my mid 20s. Don't get me wrong, I love being married, but I definitely wasn't unhappy when I was single. I loved my life and I was happy. Great job, great friends, great family, a sustaining faith in who I was and where I was going, and a ton of dreams. I hold the opinion that people will only find happiness by being happy themselves. To quote a song lyric still floating around in my head from youth, "Happiness is not a destination, it's just a way to travel down the road."

If you aren't happy with your life, yourself, who you are and where you are going, you will never be happy with someone else. People can sense that about people.They want to be with people that are secure, happy, interesting, and know where they are going. The subject of the article is definitely interesting, but I don't think I could use the words "secure" and "happy" with her. I can't say I'd recommend her to any of my few remaining single male friends. I really hope the reporter got it all wrong and that she really is happy. Life is too short to waste being bitter.

Stars and Stripes Forever

Today I had a meeting downtown. I think I am probably the only sane person who loves having meetings downtown (unless it involves rush-hour traffic, of course). I am fortunate to live in (okay, near, I'm too poor to live in) one of the greatest cities in the world.

Since I first laid eyes on the stunning views of the city as a 10-year-old child, DC has had an unmistakable pull on me. It's expensive, the traffic is terrible, and the hot, humid summers can be almost unbearable at times, and I love it. I absolutely love living here. I especially love being downtown. It is the only city that has felt like "home" since I moved out of my parents' house nine years ago.

Coming in from my office in suburban Virginia, I cross the Roosevelt Bridge. From the Roosevelt bridge, you really can't see much of the famous landmarks of the otherwise unremarkable DC skyline, but I still feel almost giddy about going into the city. My sunroof was open (the first day without oppressive heat and humidity in almost a week) and "God Bless the USA" was blaring from my CD player (Sidenote: this is yet another illustration of being a late adopter. I don't even have satellite radio). It was a particularly good day.

I've heard accusations that "God Bless the USA" is cheesy. But it is one of three songs (the others being "Stars and Stripes Forever," a song I exclusively relate with DC in my mind, and "America the Beautiful") that makes me swell with pride and emotion every time I hear it. It brings back memories of a day, almost four years ago, when I was standing on a pier at Norfolk Naval Base waiting to glimpse the USS Enterprise, returning home in glory as the first battlegroup involved in Operation Enduring Freedom. I was waiting for Himself, who left as my boyfriend and was returning as my fiance. "God Bless the USA" played over the loudspeaker, and the estimated 25,000 on the pier joined, teary-eyed, in singing along. To a group of people who had lived a very personal part of 9/11, the words meant more than most of us could admit without tearing up. To this day, it causes my eyes to water and my heart to beat faster.

Today was no different. Even as I was muttering euphemisms for four-letter words under my breath at the lack of parking and the unusually slow pedestrians eating up my green light ("No Right on Red" may as well be downtown's mantra, for as many signs as it is posted on), I paused to marvel at the grotesque grandeur of the Old Executive Office Building. I prayed for a red light at the corner of 16th and H streets so I could gape at the White House and the brilliant red flowers in Lafayette Park. I reveled in people enjoying lunch in Franklin Park. This is my city.

On the way home, I was forced to take the "scenic" drive, since the direct route is HOV only (2 people per car) during the late afternoon. I gleefully zipped along Whitehurst Freeway to Canal Road, which parallels the C&O canal and the Potomac, to Chain Bridge. It is shrouded in trees and expensive real estate and is one of my favorite drives in the city. I love the breathtaking view of the river as it tumbles over huge rocks below Chain Bridge. It makes for good thinking. I thought about how much I loved that there were sweeping patches of green in the middle of the city. I thought about how much I love the open space feeling of the city as a result of the height limit. I thought about my favorite places, how much I loved to escape my office when I worked downtown and just wander the streets during my lunch hour. I thought about my favorite drives, restaurants, places to visit, stores and interesting pieces of trivia ...

I couldn't think of a place I'd rather live right now, than with the greatest America has to offer only minutes from my backyard. I am truly blessed.

Reflections on Mortality

I got a call a few minutes ago that nearly made my heart stop.

One of my colleagues in Part Deux of the company called to tell me that one of the sales representatives for a vendor we regularly use came through his brain surgery okay, but the tumor the doctors were convinced was benign came back positive for a malignant Stage IV brain tumor.

*SILENCE*

He's thirtysomthing, married, with three small children. Not someone whom I should be getting "the call" about. I don't know him well. In fact, there are people at XYZ who know him much better than I. But it didn't soften the blow any. It didn't stop me from saying, "but he's so young!"

I think, more than anything, it caused me to take a 30-second look at my own mortality. Two weeks ago I was diagnosed with an illness I will have for the rest of my life. It is more inconvenient (with sporadically painful episodes) than anything - it means I can't donate blood, but other than that it doesn't mean much more than the multiple days of sick leave I had to use. But it very well could have been a diagnosis that changed the course of the rest of my (and, by extension, Himself's,) life. It could have been cancer or MS or Parkinson's or any number of medical labels that make someone say, "but (s)he's so young!" It wasn't. But it could have been.

And that's what made "the call" so horrifying. It could have been about me. It could have been about Himself. It could have been about a good friend, my parents, a sibling. It made me think about Life for a few minutes - wondering if I was really spending my life the way I wanted/needed to. There is still so much to do, so much to learn, so much progress to be made.

I believe in life after death. It's the only thing that consoled me after the sudden loss of my beloved grandmother last summer. I know that my marriage to Himself is forever. But I haven't finished what I'm supposed to do in this life yet.

I want to grow old with Himself and our furture children. I want to learn to paint, play the guitar, throw wonderful dinner parties, understand the Book of Isaiah. I want to write a book, travel Europe, sail into port at Palma de Majorca, visit all 50 states, own a home, drive cross-country, get a Master's degree ... I could go on forever.

I am sure that our vendor is thinking thoughts like that , regardless of the end prognosis. I don't think it is the life that you've lived that flashes before your eyes, as much as the life you haven't lived. There is too much of my life ahead of me for calls like that.

Facing your own mortality is a very sobering thing.

Snooze Button

For the past three weeks Himself has been "working" nights. I use the term loosely, because what he is really doing is working 3 12-hour shifts a week at one of the big hospitals in Northern Virginia for free. Even my internships paid me SOMETHING. But - alas, even with critical nursing shortages, nursing students in their final clinical rotation are free labor.

What matters most is the destruction of the idealism we had when he started on the night shift in the ICU.

"This will be great!" We said. "It will mean:..."

"We only have to use one car (my last fill-up cost me $37 for a car that has relatively good gas mileage!)!" This, by the way is true ONLY when he works daily, back-to-back, as otherwise our schedules overlap (I leave around 8 a.m., he gets home around 8 :45 a.m.; He leaves at 5:45 p.m., I get home around 6:15).

"I'll get the bed to myself!" (This was fine while I was sick, in pain, and couldn't handle Himself's constant wiggling - even in sleep. Now, I can hardly sleep. The bed is too big, the room is too dark, and even though I'm rappidly approaching 30, there is still a monster in my closet).

"Himself could do this when he starts full-time employment, and it would mean more money, more flexibility when we have kids, and we could pay off our debt faster." (Except, we neglected to realize that, in order to stay awake all night, Himself must sleep all day - every day, even when he's not working).

The worst part however, is the mornings he isn't working. About half an hour before my alarm goes off, Himself decides to come to bed. He spends a half hour tossing and turning and "getting comfortable," and I spend half hour wondering if he would have died by staying up 30 more minutes. Then, as I struggle to pull myself out of bed, Himself inveriably gives a little contented sigh and snuggles up with my pillow.

I'm starting to become a snooze button addict.

Counting Beans

I should have paid more attention in Norm's accounting class in college. Admittedly, with something over 900 students crammed into an auditorium, paying attention required a lot more effort than I was willing to put in some days, but I have a sneaky suspicion it would have paid off.

I balked at having to take accounting to work in public relations. My theory, in my "I know everything I'm a college student" phase, was that was what accounting departments were for, right? Wrong. I failed to realize the number of accounting-related tasks I'd be required to do, and do well, in my future endeavors. I don't think I gave Norm enough credit. He was a fabulous professor, but I was a knot-headed student. If there were 30 people in the class instead of 900, I would have been the one sullenly slumped in the back - only there because someone told me I had to be to get out.

Today I had to do a budget reconcilliation. I've successfully put it off for months, and now, I can no longer come up with any excuses for procrastinating any longer. To do my reconcilliation I had to enlist the help of the accountant, the ad agency and the systems manager for our accounting software. It is ridiculously humorous that it would take four people for me to figure out how much money I've spent. It's like balancing a million-dollar checkbook, only your errors could run $50,000 instead of 50 cents.

I don't like dealing with numbers. I can do an excellent budget - but reconcilling it is another story. Detailing it in revenue vs. expense style of classic accounting is something I rank right up there with mopping the floor and paying bills - I do it because I have to, not because I find any particular enjoyment in it.

I think I have to admit my academic counselor knew what she was talking about. Accounting is something I should have left college knowing.

I've succumbed

I've gone and done it. I've succumbed to the "blogging" phenomenon. I'm one who resists being an early adopter because I am naturally averse to risk. Then I risk doing it because I've waited too long, and I don't want to be "just like everyone else."

For months the creative half of my brain has been shouting, "Yes! You should blog - you love to write, you love to give your opinion, you THINK in journal entries and blogs." and the rational half screams, "Really, Sara, do you want to hang all of your dirty laundry out? Do you REALLY want people reading your thoughts? And it isn't cool any more - you waited too long, now you're just jumping on the bandwagon because everyone is expected to do it."

It's how I ended up with a DVD player - because I waited too long, and everyone had one, and I no longer could function without one. It's why I still have a discman instead of an iPod.

And to think that I consider myself very tech savvy, and I was one of the first people I knew to have Internet access and e-mail. It's almost too painful to admit. I can sense my fellow Gen-Xers laughing at me.

So ... here I am. I'm blogging.

*Gulp*