Living Among Giants

I found a great blog, written by someone I've never met, that discribes her love affair with becoming a New Yorker. It reminds me of my first year in DC, where I whole-heartedly observed the "rules" in a tongue-in-cheek guidebook I had about not looking like a tourist. Reading her blog, especially her weekend adventures, also reminded me of some of my favorite places in the city where I came of age. Many of them are oddities, I suppose, but all of them paint a picture of the beloved city I've come to think of as my own.

Rock Creek Parkway/Park. Ironic, in a metro area touted as having the third-worst traffic congestion in the nation, that a road tops my list, but it does nonetheless. It is the secret only discovered by stalwart natives not intimidated by the "Do Not Enter" signs with the exceptions posted in microscopic fonts. I have driven through the entire park, and will often detour through it on my way to somewhere else to drive under the majestic Taft Memorial Bridge, to feel I've completely escaped into serenty from the frenetic pace of the city. It feels to me like the city's crown jewel, kept secret from all but the most intrepid.

Eastern Market. Perched on the edge of gentrification, I sometimes wonder if Eastern Market will lose its charm as new money seeps into the surrounding neighborhoods. While the market and breakfast is adored by all, the building is somewhat of an aging monstrosity. It is the last remaining market in the public-market system designed to improve DC's image in the post-Civil War era, and there is no denying the authenticity of the aging red brick structure. For me, it is an urban adventure - a bustling, thriving marketplace that provides a delicious escape on Saturday mornings - bluebucks, pecan french toast, an outdoor farmers' market (the only place I can find reliably green tomatoes) in the summer and a flea market that has produced my adored vegetable peeler, numerous gifts and a favorite hot sauce.

Arlington National Cemetery. Even in the soggy, stifling heat of summer, I've never tired of standing at the Robert E. Lee home and staring at the rows of white headstones standing at eternal attention. Even after hearing the official Arlington tour hundreds of time as a DC tour guide, I never tire of hearing the stories over and over. I never tire watching the precise pomp and circumstance of the changing of the guard. What I love the most, however is wandering among the headstones, silent, wondering of the stories behind each of the names etched in stone. It is a humbling experience every single visit.

FDR Memorial. In my training as a tour guide, one of the first things I learned was that in DC everything has a precise reason for being the way it is. I immediately fell in love with the symbolism of the city - often hidden in plain site. One of the places in which this is most beautifully executed is the FDR Memorial. The rooms, the quotes, the materials - each speak volumes of the man who commanded the Oval Office during some of the nation's bleakest moments. Politics aside, the memorial, perched on the edge of the tidal basin in the shadows of giants, provides a fascinating look into a part of history about which I have an insatiable fascination. The hush of falling water, the bronzed soup line - begging for a Kodak moment, the unfinished fourth room - transfix me every time.

Newseum. I've been an avowed media junkie since I was old enough to join my father in the race to the television at 6 p.m. for the local news or fight my mother over the Sunday paper. My first true career aspiration was political journalism. Discovering I loathed being a journalist did little to diminish my passion (comprising equal parts frustration and fascination) for the media. Never did anything so completely capture my love of all things news-related, however, than did the Newseum. It was a completly delicious sensory overload - a place Himself has vowed never to never accompany me, for fear of being permanently stranded while I wander in a blind stupor. Closed for relocation, it opens downtown mid-fall. I cannot wait. Years have deprivation have left me anxious to explore the promised seven levels of galleries. The timing is just right - it might have to be one of Baby's first outings.

Baby I'm up to Here!

I'm a bit overwhelmed with all things Baby at the moment.

Monday, I had my regular journey to the doctor's office - only to spend more time in traffic than I actually spent in the office. The good news is, I'm actually gaining weight (I say this with enormous trepidation. To actually see gaining weight as a positive thing has been an imense struggle with my psyche). The bad news is, I really do have bronchitis. Apparently this baby is content to not only consume my waistline and my short-term memory cells, but my immune system as well. The perplexing news is how two doctors in the same practice can have such radically different opinions on something I thought was pretty much black and white - my asthma meds. One, seen while I was still in the "donating blood in great volumes to the lab" stage, had strongly recommended I go off my meds unless I absolutely needed them (i.e. end up with bronchitis). The new one I saw today treated that bit of news with an appalled gasp and a recommendation to start back on the meds immediately, pondering why I had ever gone off. Confusing, much?

Later (after the washing machine episode), I spoke with my sister, comparing the Baby "lists" - what we have (or don't have, in my case) and what we want (my list is still far shorter than hers). I was relieved to find my nonchalance regarding the "necessity" of specialty bassinets must be genetic, because we share the same opinion. Toward the end, right about the time she began talking about her baby shower, it hit me. In 4 months, I'll be in her place - mere weeks from actually having to use things on said list - impending motherhood no longer distant, but in the foreground, immediately within reach.

Lest I escape thinking of Baby, my mom wrote Tuesday to tell me that she has ordered a stroller/infant seat for my sister's baby. I am fortunate enough that my parents are also purchasing for us. She offered to send me the link and information, so I could approve it, "Just in case you had something else in mind."

Wait. I'm supposed to have already thought about things like strollers and carseats!? It matters? (Other than safety, of course). I wrote back and said, "I have three requirements - it's safe, the carseat goes with the stroller and the stroller is easily collapsible." I get the feeling I'm supposed to be picky. Apparently, the fact that I have begun scouring maternity consignment stores (I refuse to buy maternity clothing that cost more than my regular wardrobe), purchased my "you-would-never-know-it's-not-brand-new" glider for 80% off retail at a yard sale and have given virtually no thought to color schemes, nursery themes or necessary product details is alarming.

Ironically, I have pondered childcare options. A lot. Even today. It seems to be the one thing about which I've become "hormonally insane" according to Himself. I can't help it. I have a recurring nightmare that I'm at the end of my 6-week maternity leave (I'm seriously considering relocating to a socialist country for the next birth) and I realize we have no childcare options for the 2-3 days/week both of us work. I've come no closer to figuring out what we want to do, nor have I come any closer to dragging Himself into this corner of my insanity.

The one final "completely overwhelmed" Baby moment came when I realized this morning that in 4 weeks, we will no longer be able to use "well, we don't even know the gender" as an excuse to not sit down and exhuberantly discuss (argue makes it sounds so violent!) names for Baby. I have 4 weeks of being able to look at the baby names book without a smidgen of guilt. Now that alarms me.

Reflections on Mortality, Part II

Yesterday, I got some sobering news. A colleague I mentioned in the original "Reflections on Mortality" post 18 months ago, passed away. The end-stage brain cancer he had been successfully battling crept up again a couple of weeks ago. Friday, he lay down to take a nap and never woke up. He was 36, the father of three.

In the ensuing 18 months since he was diagnosed with a brian tumor, he and I have had many more opportunities to work together. I had suspected the worst recently, as he began to forget things, began to miss more and more days of work, but I continued to believe he'd somehow pull off a miracle this time as well. It seems cancer, miracles and death are on everyone's minds lately, with the announcements Elizabeth Edwards and Tony Snow filling the airwaves.

Death is a very sobering thought. As I re-read my original post, I realized there was only one thing on the list I had accomplished - Baby is on the way. Yet, rather than make me feel better, it just makes the thought of my own mortality that much more horrifying. Already I have someone who is completely dependent on me - what I eat, how well I can breathe (a big deal at the moment, since I have bronchitis), what I do, everything. It will be years before the physical dependency is relinquished, longer still until the emotional bond is such that one feels like they can navigate the perils of life without having the parents on speed dial.

I paused to mourn the loss of my colleague - to celebrate his release from the horrible disease that had so dramatically altered his life, and to mourn the loss for his family. May they always have the good memories and a strong understanding of the kind of person their husband and father was.

Revenge of the Washing Machine

I'm going camping this weekend. I am over-the-moon ecstatic. Or was. Until I realized the sleeping bags needed washing.

I only have a top-loading washer, which meant I had to find a laundromat (who knew it would be so difficult - there's not even one in my zip code!), lug the two sleeping bags into said laundromat, wash them in a large-capacity front load washer and "fluff" them (with a shoe - mom's secret way to "re-fluff" sleeping bags) in a commercial dryer (yes, the label really says "commercial dryer").

I went in, straight from work, task timed to the minute. I came out looking to all the laundromat like the biggest idiot on the planet. To be fair, the last time I set foot in a laundromat was three years ago, and it was only once. My ego is still bruised.

With complete confidence, I shoved one sleeping bag in the washer, appearing to all the world like I had done this a thousand times. After several minutes of casually appearing as if I were contemplating the eternities, I finally realized that the detergent goes in on TOP of the washer. I easily programmed the settings - extra-long wash, extra gentle cycle and extra "squeeze all the water out" time (the technical term escapes me).

The number 22 flashed up. Great! 22 minutes - much shorter than I anticipated. I spend several more minutes mastering my "contemplating the eternities" look before I finally decide there is no price posted, so I'll just shove quarters into the machine and see how many it takes.

One goes in. The number goes to 21. Odd. I put another in. The number falls to 20. This cannot be! I wrack all eight years of my Spanish education to ask the attendant how many quarters this thing takes (praying I am wrong). My memory fails me. Her English fails her. Finally, she conveys that the number 20 on the washer means it wants 20 more quarters.

TWENTY MORE? That brings the grand total to $5.50 for a load of wash. I only have $10 in quarters (well, only $8.50, since I forgot detergent and had to buy some - remember, it's been three years since the last excursion to a laundromat). I look around, desperate to see if anyone is noticing the fact I've been in the laundromat for 20 minutes and have yet to start the washer, which has been full for 19 of those minutes. I open the washer, contemplate the size and ... quickly shove the other sleeping bag in. After all, it says, "Washer does best when full." It's definitely full all right.

I then procede to close my eyes and shove 20 more quarters in. That is when the 37 shows up. As in 37 minutes until my most expensive batch of laundry ever is done.

I try to spend the time the sleeping bags are washing scoping out the dryer operation, without looking too obvious, but they're all full. I don't want to seem like the creepy chick who is stalking someone's laundry, so I settle down with my book.

37 minutes later, I manage to snag an open dryer. Desperate that it too will cost the GDP of a small, severely impoverished country, I shove both sleeping bags into the dryer from the outset. That is when I realize I forgot a sneaker (I was not about to use the dress shoes I had on as a substitute). Oh well. Then I notice there is no "fluff" (i.e. very low heat) cycle on the dryer. Ack! I cannot possibly lug two, slimy (and now very heavy) wet sleeping bags all the way home in the Hoopty Mobile to fluff at home.

Feeling sheepish, I shut the dryer door. Again, no sign of the cost. I put a quarter in. Nothing. I add another one. The same attendant comes over and says something I take to be 50 cents. Score one for Sara! She leaves. I again contemplate the eternities while I figure out how to set the dryer to the lowest setting it does have (I'm not stupid, really - I've been doing my laundry for 14+ years, I promise). The attendant points to a button that looks nothing like a button. I push it. Voila! The dryer starts.

10 minutes later, I take out the now clumpy (no sneaker for "fluffing" remember?) but only sort-of-damp sleeping bags out of the dryer and throw them over my shoulder. They completely bury me. That's when I remember that, somewhere below the blue damp mass, my car keys lie safely in my purse. I shift, balance the load on one shoulder and rummage in my unseen purse for the keys. The guy next to me raises his eyebrow. I smile ... and then I bolt out as fast as I can, hardly caring the strings on the sleeping bag are dragging behind me.

As I drove home, I decided the next time I want to wash my sleeping bags, I'll deposit the $12 (what it should have cost me, were I not so cheap I shoved everything in one washer and one dryer) into a jar. I figure that after enough instances of longing for a clean sleeping bag, I'll have enough money to buy my own front-loading washer.

Take that!

Postscript. My home dryer, while not commercial, has a "fluff" (air dry) cycle. Guess what is in there now with a sneaker? The other sleeping bag is hanging on my balcony, patiently waiting its turn to have its stuffing fluffed. My mother was right. The shoe makes a difference. And my "fluff" cycle is free.

Birdies, Blossoms and Bluebucks

Today was the first full day of spring. Strange how the birds in the scraggly trees outside my window seemed to realize it and immediately began to crank up the full chirping volume at oh-dark-hundred. Given the ashen skys, the deep chill and the general lethargy of the rest of the world, I'm not sure I would have remembered it was the first full day of spring had the overly cheerful meteorologists on NBC not reminded me at least 50 times this morning. They seemed almost as enthusiastic as the birds outside my window - possibly becuase it's easier to predict "sunny and hot" more easily than "it's going to snow - sometime this winter."

While I typically think of March as the one seasonless month of the year (how else do you explain an 80-degree, sun-filled day and a snowstorm in the same week?) and I don't start celebrating spring until April, I felt today deserved some sort of spring-like tribute.

For me, spring means an escape from the cold, damp clasp of winter, a celebration of color after a season of monocromatic days that leach slowly into each other, until one can hardly differentiate one day from the next. The sapphire skies and chartreuse leaves, red-breasted robins and golden daffodils of the new season mark a pointed contrast from the pasty vanilla skies and stark skeletal trees waving their naked limbs at passers-by.

In the early days of college, spring meant fleeing Cache Valley at the first hint of green on the horizon. After months trapped and tortured by the brutal canyon winds, the dense morning fogs and the months-long snowpack in the hollowed-out bottom of the great Lake Bonneville, one could hardly wait to breathe spring air on the other side of the mountains. Today, spring means a whole new set of adventures - the palest pink landscape and soft blossomy scents of early morning weekends spent in the shadows of giants along the Tidal Basin, the rich homemade taste of Bluebucks and Pecan french toast at Eastern Market and tangy, sweet stickiness of fresh strawberries, sun-kissed and blessed by the salty mist rolling in from Back Bay.

Spring isn't my favorite season, but after months of being trapped in the colorless void of winter, it's hard to keep that in mind.

Things My Parents Should Have Worried About

Since I will be a parent myself in rather short order (remind me again this was on purpose, please!), I've been thinking a lot about things my parents let me do that no sane parent should EVER let their child do (or should at least think about for a good long time before they acquiesce). To my credit, I survived. To my parents' credit, they must have been either completely insane or completely trusting. I suspect it was more of the former. They have, over the years, provided a great deal of "what were they thinking" conversations amongst my friends ... perhaps, 16 years down the road, I'll make the same decisions, but I have the hardest time believing that at the moment.

Things My Parents Should Have Worried About ... And Apparently Didn't:

• Overnight in Vegas. When I was 15, my parents let me, a handful of my teenage friends, and my best friend's 21-year-old brother and his 20-year-old girlfriend (we needed someone to drive!) go to Las Vegas the last night of school my sophomore year. Just for the night. In a horrible rainstorm. We didn't actually stay anywhere, we just wandered the Strip all night, had breakfast (back in the days of $2 breakfasts on the Strip) and came home. There is nothing to do if you are under 21 in Vegas in the middle of the night other than get into trouble, which, somehow, we managed not to do. How my parents managed to be psychic enough to realize that, I'm not sure.
• 11 p.m. Wilderness Excursions. Go night hiking with complete strangers. I was managing the night shift at an Imax theater a couple of nights a week. A trio of LDS "almost missionaries" from Canada came through for one of the shows. They were going night hiking - flirted, asked for a good night hiking recommendation, and then asked if I wanted to go. With all of my 17 years of wisdom, I said yes. I did have the good sense to bring along a male co-worker (who maybe weighed 110 lbs soaking wet, but that's beside the point). My parents didn't bat an eye when I told them why I would be late. I'm still baffled. We went night hiking. With strangers. In a National Park in the middle of nowhere. Legal, but sane? Hardly. I had the time of my life, of course.
• Jeff Who? A good friend was spending the night. We went to the store to rent a video (when, pray tell is the last time you did that?). We ran into one of the baggers, a guy friend from Chemistry. He invited us over. We said yes. I ran into the house, told my dad we were "Going to Jeff's house," He said "okay" and we left. Never asked Jeff who. Never asked where. Never asked for a phone number, when I'd be home or what I was doing. (Caveat: My mother wasn't home - when she got home, my father got a lecture about saying yes without all the info).
• 36 Teens. 2 Adults. 1 Trip to CA. As part of my duties in student gov't in high school my junior year, I was invited to participate in a nationwide teen service drive, Teens Across America. Our portion involved massive service projects in four cities and a caravan across the dessert to our ultimate destination - a 3-day stay in L.A. Sounds perfectly respectable right? It was ... If you forget about the fact my parents went on vacation (in the wilderness, pre-cell phone days) during the time the teens were in my hometown, we used my empty house as home base and there were 36 teens from all over the U.S. and (gasp) only 2 adult chaperones. I don't even know how I managed to pull that one off unscathed.
• 17. Blind Date. 1:30 a.m. Curfew. I don't even have to explain that one. Never mind the blind date became my on-again, off-again romantic interest most of the way through college. Never mind my mother ended up adoring him. Never mind I was with two girlfriends who were as close as sisters. The three guys were totally anonymous to my parents. I still wonder what they were (or weren't) thinking!

I could go on. There are more, but I'm already alarming myself (it didn't stop, even in college, though I stopped asking for permission. I moved 2,500 miles away with no job and no place to live and no one uttered a single, "have you really thought about this?!"). My adult friends think I must have been ridiculously brainwashed to manage to get my parents to agree to these things. I'm not sure what I was, but they are now as big a source of bafflement for my parents as they are for me.

Please tell me that I didn't inherit this insanity gene - or that I will be blessed with whatever failsafe wisdom my parents had when making these decisions - the wisdom to know their kid would come home in one piece and turn out okay.

Chastisement = Self Discovery

Last Sunday, I was chastised. Seems there is a small requirement relating to my church-going self that I wasn't fulfilling, and I'm not talking about one of those self-imposed "I'm going to be perfect" requirements. I failed. On purpose. I didn't want to do it and then I got overwhelmed, so I felt justified. Then I was chastised for not doing it. Okay, as chastised as one can get by a near-saint, but still.

To all outside parties, it appeared as if the world had come crumbling down. I seemed to spout an emotional response akin to the one that developed after arriving home the day I was laid off (I won't blog about that, it's still a sore subject). I'm sure it was the hormones, but it didn't help my pride. It did, however, help my case (which also didn't help my pride). As a result, I spent much of the rest of the day avoiding everything and thinking about why I didn't want to fulfill this particular task - why, in fact, for the past 11 years I have dilligently managed to fail repeatedly at this requirement.

Epiphany (once in awhile, even with my "the baby is sucking all of my brain cells mind" I still have one of those).

I don't like strangers.

Okay, I know - it's part of the child-conditioning. "Don't take candy from a stranger." "Don't give a stranger directions." (On this one you have to remember I grew up in a very small town designed in a grid system - NO ONE legitimatly ever needed directions) "Don't accept a ride from a stranger." "Don't go night hiking with a group of strange college-age guys you barely know when you are 17." (Oh wait. That was one my parents SHOULD have told me, but didn't - it turned out okay, but good grief, what was I thinking?!)

You get the point. But it's more than that. I don't like strangers. I don't like meeting new people one-on-one, and I especially don't like going to the home of someone I don't know. Especially by myself. Especially when it's dark and there might be a man involved. Because, in addition to my fear of strangers, I have an IRRATIONAL fear of men. Not men my own age (see the above comment about the night hiking - oy!), but older men, especially ones with facial hair. It's not a new thing - as a kid, older men with facial hair would send me into hysterics (case in point - ask me about the day my pre-school was supposed to go to the police station and the policeman involved - I remember the terror vividly - and I was 4 years old).

I didn't like the stranger my grandma dragged home from church for our Christmas celebration when I was 10. I remember being uncomfortable the entire day - and there was NOTHING WRONG with the person. My parents used to let a friend of theirs who was a traveling salesman stay over occassionally. I hated those days. All through college, I never went to a professor's office hours, except one time when I was crusading over an issue, and I didn't have a choice if I didn't want to fail my Ethics class. I nearly died when my Freshman Orientation class had to have dinner at our professor/mentor's home after only four days of class. And in 11 years, I've never willingly completed this requirement if it involved a stranger. Etc.

If it's in a group, on neutral ground, or I've been introduced by someone I know, it's not so harrowing. If it involves the telephone, it ranks up there with having an anxiety attack.

Himself says he now knows I am certifiably nuts. I think I am. Boderline OCD as a kid. Anxiety attacks as a result of a medical trauma as a teen, stranger phobia - I'm a nutty woman trapped in a reasonably sane woman's body (one that looks as if I've eaten too many desserts lately). This self-discovery thing is a little freaky (especially considering I chose to pass on my genes!).

But ... it turns out I hate being chastised worse. I wrote an apology e-mail and vowed I would make amends within the week. I still couldn't bring myself to involve the telephone, but I did manage to make an in-person contact. I venture over to the stranger's house on Wednesday.

Wish me luck.

Formal Protest

The Girl Scouts have failed me.

First, some background. I grew up in "land-without-any-girlscouts." Seriously. I didn't know a single one growing up. I was not bombarded by eager tween girls in brown and green uniforms every time I went to the store. No one showed up at my door with an order form sometime in February/March.

And yet, somehow, we always ended up with Thin Mints, Samoas and Do-si-dos. To this day, I'm not sure how.

Anyway, as an adult, February and March have always brought a box or two of contraband Girl Scout Cookies, which take up residence in the freezer and last until summer (Weird, I realize. Otherwise the Thin Mints disappear at an alarming rate). It has always meant one box of Thin Mints and one box of Lemon Coolers.

Until 2007. I went to place my order with this year's random Girl Scout only to be told, "Sorry. They don't make Lemon Coolers any more!" WHAT?! Sure enough, the official "cookie" site no longer lists Lemon Coolers as an option.

Then, I found this on the Cookie FAQ site:

Licensed bakers can offer up to eight varieties of Girl
Scout Cookies; only three types are mandatory: Thin Mints, Peanut Butter
Sandwich/Do-si-dos™ and Shortbread/Trefoils. The national Girl Scout
organization reviews and approves all varieties proposed by the bakers. Any of
the five optional cookies can be changed every year. Each bakery names its own
cookies, so Girl Scout Cookies that are quite similar may have different names.
Suggestions for new cookies are welcome, but the national Girl Scout
organization can make no promise to use them.

So the Lemon Coolers were an "optional" cookie, and obviously were booted out by some cookie more fashionable at the moment. That means my beloved Thin Mints (the only chocolate cookie I actually really like) are safe, but almost anything else could go on the chopping block from year to year.

I'm lodging a formal protest. I didn't buy any cookies this year. Instead, I'm eating someone else's Thin Mints (with her permission). I don't have enough will power to give them up completely, just enough to not buy them directly, but don't tell anyone.