Sometimes God just gives you signs. Like when you're sitting in a long-overdue staff meeting, where the boss is trying to explain why no one's getting raises any time soon...two years after the salary freeze went into effect. And he begins his talk with what amounts to, "you're lucky to still have jobs." Then he goes on to detail how he is single-handedly keeping the organization afloat, and what a great and rewarding boss he is, because even though we haven't even gotten cost-of-living raises in two years, he lets us leave an hour early before each holiday. Which, in his mind, makes up for it.

So naturally I go back to my office and go straight to Craigslist to peruse the job postings. There's the usual tech writer stuff, the occasional "help me write my thesis and I'll pay you in Starbucks cards," etc. And then I come across a gem titled "Writer Wanted For Ex North Idaho Drug Kingpin."

This piques my interest, because EVERYONE knows of the notorious North Idaho drug trade, right? Truly Pulitzer Prize-worthy material. The ad begins:

Writer Wanted For Ex North Idaho Drug Kingpin: Looking for someone to write life story, unique story, unique Individual. Story consists of dealings with Colombians,Cubans, Mexican Federallies, 16 years in prison hanging out with mafia members from the Phildelphia Scarfo gang, Charlie Iannache, Anthony Pungitore, Gene Gotti-brother of John Gotti of the New York Mafia, being successful jail house lawyer.

Now first off, forget the whole mafia/John Gotti angle--the real story here is clearly that he "dealt" with both Colombians AND Cubans. I'm intrigued. The ad continues:

Story begins with the consequences for a boy with a gifted IQ who deals with uniagnosed ADHD and the path he takes in life through taking over the underbelly of the drug world,prison,self inflicted extrodinary rehabilitation efforts to his succesfull entrance back into society. This isnt some run of the mill drug dealer story! I SHOULD BE DEAD A HUNDRED TIMES OVER. GOD HAD HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER TO GET THROUGH IT.

He's totally right--this is a unique story. My brother probably had undiagnosed ADHD, but he did not take over the "underbelly" of the North Idaho drug world. Plus, dude has cahones enough to write in ALL CAPS. MAJOR PROPS, DUDE.

ps: All Statue of Limitations are finished and all prison time completed. The story just needs to be told by a gifted writer.

What's this?? A "ps" in the middle of a paragraph? Genius. Why isn't this guy writing the story himself?

If interested, please submit writing proposal/compensation plans. I would prefer to give the writer a portion of proceeds, but would pay the right writer to do the story. Follow up to the book would be self help videos/books for children-parents-educators-inmates to not go down the path I took, or to change an inmates life through education.

Two things are very clear here: 1) I'd want to take a percentage of the proceeds, as this is obviously a money-maker; and 2) if anything was tailor-made for children's videos, it would be the story of a hyperactive, mafia-tied drug dealer from the coldest part of the Potato State.

So, who says there aren't jobs out there in this economy? You're on notice, current employer: I've got options. And they've got connections.

P.S. (conventionally at the end of a note, unfortunately): If said North Idaho drug kingpin should somehow come across this blog entry, and I suddenly disappear, come to the seedy underworld of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho (AKA "Your Lakeside Playground") to look for me.

I think every teenager thinks that their group of friends is special--it's that youthful, hopeful narcissism. I watch the kids in the youth group that Yoda and I work with, and remember what it's like to be that age...that you're going through something profound, that you're just on the cusp of an adulthood filled with greatness. I remember in high school, going places with my friends and thinking, we are so great. We're the best friends ever. Everyone must see it.

In college, everyone always seemed so shocked that I was really close with my high school friends after the first year. And I got the sense that they weren't always impressed in a good way. Those college years were strange. There's so much adjustment. You don't see your friends every single day. You don't know every single, mundane detail of their lives (since this was pre-Facebook, anyway). It was this weird time where everyone was pretty much done dating intra-group. We had other close friends. We lived in different states. We came out about our sexuality, our religious beliefs, our life and career goals (or lack thereof). We came out of our "we-ness" and became individuals.

Watching the graduating seniors in the youth group is bittersweet for me. I know there's so much good stuff coming down the pike for them, but I also know that things will never be quite the same. There's a closeness, a naivete you lose when you're separated from those childhood friends. I'll admit, I've not had much tragedy in my life--a good and healthy family, etc., etc. The night before I left for college, when Ms. Wish to See walked me to my front door for the last time, and I went inside and cried so hard I thought I was going to throw up--that was, to date, the worst day of my life. I was crying about everything ending--and in a way, I was right. Things were ending. But at the time, I didn't think there was anything better to replace what I was losing.

We're almost 31 now. Almost all of us have found partners that we love more than each other--and that's OK. That's healthy. But I have to admit that I love that, while our partners will know us in ways that others never could, there will always be stories we can tell about each other that our partners won't have heard yet (although I'm sure they think they've heard them all over and over!). I love that our weddings are events that are not to be missed, and that we can spend the weekend together and I can still get an inkling of the pure, unadulterated, giddy joy I got from spending time with them when I was 17. I love that we're at the point where we pretty much have an unspoken agreement that, no matter how annoyed we may get at each other, we're family. We're stuck.

I know this is cheesy. I can't help it. It's fantastic that I can still have days with my friends that make me giddy. That I can play in the pool, rock on a front porch drinking wine, watch someone I've know for well over half my life marry the perfect guy...all with people for whom I think it means as much as it means to me...whether they'll admit it or not.

So to my adopted brothers and sisters--I love you. Let's do lunch sometime soon, OK? ;)

I’m back down south, enjoying an Arnold Palmer at the local café – but more importantly, enjoying their free wireless access. Trying to get online through my parent’s dial-up system is like trying to get down 95 South on a Friday afternoon – tortuously slow, leaving you wondering if it could possibly be worth it.

Saturday night Yoda and I tagged along with my parents to their square dance—purportedly they needed help with the refreshments, but really I think my mom just wanted us to see them in action. It was…bizarre. My parents were the young ones of the group. Ever see an eighty-year old in petticoats and bloomers (outside of the antebellum South, that is?)? Disturbing. Thankfully my parents didn’t go the matching outfits/petticoat route. I think my inner adolescent would explode at the mere thought.

Yesterday was Sunday supper at MawMaw’s. I was once again reminded how silly family politics are. My aunt doesn’t want to talk about my cousin who’s having some psychiatric problems; my mom doesn’t want to tell my aunt she’s annoyed at her for not taking care of their mother; when we returned home my mom announced that she was “sad,” but wouldn’t say why. I decided to go to my room and take a 2.5 hour nap. Everything seemed to have settled down by the time I woke up, but still. You’d think that two people who spent so many years as social workers would open up and share a little more readily, but no dice. The irony here is that my mom and dad were talking about how my cousin always bottled things up, which has precipitated his current mental state. Sigh. Parents! What can you do?

Another “mother” moment—Yoda and I were looking at the cereal cabinet yesterday morning, and discovered that my mom had not one, not two, but six boxes of All-Bran. Today, I teased her about it—“they were having a sale at the Go Grocery, weren’t they?” She giggled, acknowledged that there had been a sale, and then said, “Shoot, I should have hidden it.” Because, you know, in addition to family drama and medical emergencies and the welfare of the family pets, her propensity for fiber-filled, cardboard-esque cereal should also be hidden from her daughter.

This is beginning to sound like a rant, but I don’t mean it that way…I’ve just had a nice refresher in how my family operates over the past 36 hours!

On a positive note, when I finally checked my email this morning I had eleven messages from the VRE about train delays. And, as I sat on the back porch and sipped coffee while watching the koi pond, I couldn’t help but think,”ha-ha!” (Nelson on The Simpsons-style).

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym,

Hi! We’ve never formally met, but you'd probably know me as the bleary-eyed brunette on the elliptical machine in the mornings who yawns excessively (sorry about that – it's a side effect of the Zoloft). Now, I understand that people aren't supposed to smell good at the gym—no pain, no gain, right? However, your odor is unique in that it is all-pervasive even before you begin to exercise.

It's not a typical body odor smell, either. I can't quite put my finger on it…maybe like a sea otter that has bathed in Aqua Velva? Or the love child of one of those discount perfume stores and the floor of a bus? Maybe you even have some weird medical condition. Whatever. The origin of your odor does not concern me.

Here's my issue: your unfailing proclivity, no matter how empty the cardio room may be, to hop on the machine right next to me. I know I'm being a wuss when I move to a machine across the room—hey, I try to be polite and wait at least a couple of minutes so that you don't pick up on the correlation between my leaving and the arrival of your all-consuming stench. Still, because I detest the treadmill and must flee the row of elliptical machines like a right-wing Conservative flees reason, I end up on the stationary bike, which is not a great calorie burner.

Thus, I must come to the conclusion that you, Mr. Stinky Man at the Gym, are the root cause of my recent weight gain. I'm going to have to ask you to make some changes. Of course, I am not a dictator! You naturally will have several options, put forth by me, in containing your malodorousness:

1. Stop coming to the gym for your exercise. How about an outdoor activity? Perhaps a sport that requires you to be out in a large body of water all by your lonesome?

2. Replace the cologne you hose yourself down with in the morning with Febreze.

3. Devise some sort of self-containment system—something akin to wearing one of those hamster balls to the gym. I recommend watching The Boy in the Bubble for inspiration.

And finally:

4. Soap: It's Not Just for the Ladies.

I do hope you understand that your cooperation is necessary for my continued health and fitness. I wish you only the best (as long as you keep your distance from me). I'm sure that somewhere out there is a colony of olfactory-challenged villagers who would be glad to welcome you into their fold.

But still: Soap. Seriously.

So the writing has not been occurring much lately. I'm not sure why that is. It's not like I don't have the time at work, but it seems like the more bored I am, the less likely I am to write. But in an attempt to be better, here's a pointless anecdote:

Last Saturday, Yoda and I took Lucy for a walk. As we rounded the end of the row of houses, we saw a little yellow dog down the hill, sniffing around. He didn't have a collar, and we didn't see anyone nearby. He did notice Lucy, though, and bounded up the hill in cute little spurts—imagine Q-bert in dog form. So the dog finally reached us, and he and Lucy start doing the bowing thing that dogs do – you know, the universal dog symbol for "Let's play!"

Of course, before too long the little dog became much more interested in Lucy's rear end. Lucy's not one to snap, so after a couple minutes of trying to run away from the little dog (while on the leash…no dice), she came up with what I’m sure she thought was a genius solution: cut off access! And thus my brilliant dog sat down right there in the middle for the sidewalk, no doubt thinking, "Aha! This plan is foolproof." Yes, unless you actually want to move sometime. Ever.

Yoda and I decided that the dog wasn't a stray, because it seemed happy and clean and well-fed. The little guy showed no intention of ever leaving my Lucy alone, so it was decided that I would scoop the him up and detain him while Yoda and Lucy fled.

Well, once I picked him up (which he surprisingly didn't fight too much), I noticed that he was, um...highly aroused. I found this very, very disturbing. Seriously. Really, really disturbing.

He didn't try to get away from me, but he did watch my Lucy as she walked away. I could only assume he was thinking something along the lines of, "Damn, I hate to see her go, but I'm lovin' watching her leave!"

And that is the story of how I cockblocked a Chihuahua.

I am a weak, weak woman.

Last week, in a fit of work-induced boredom, I caved into bagborroworsteal.com. A silly, frivolous, materialistic thing to do. However, I can't deny that the thought of lugging this Tory Burch around with me for the next month brings me (silly, frivolous, materialistic) joy:



Sadly, I can't even afford to rent a lot of the bags they offer…for example, Hermes' Vintage Crocodile Birkin Handbag for the low, low price of only $1,632 per week. But, given that retail is $42,000, I guess it could be worse. It is pretty fabulous:



In other news, Yoda's in Boston again, so I'm planning on curling up on the couch with a vegetable-laden meal and watching America's Next Top Model, which he abhors with the hatred of a thousand suns.

We had a nice weekend in Charlottesville for Yoda's birthday, although it was way too hot for April, and Saturday morning when we decided to walk around UVA, the campus was swarming with coeds in strapless dresses and floppy hats, on their way to a horse race they apparently hold twice a year. It really brought back memories to walk past an open dorm room door and see people drinking Natty Light at 9:30 in the morning. It also really brought back just how old I am. But it wasn't all bad. When Yoda and I were sitting at the hotel bar and this college chick came up to see what drink she could buy for the handful of change she had in her purse, I felt the smugness of being a true adult with a pretty large credit limit.

We also went to visit Jefferson's home, Monticello. It was beautiful and interesting, although Yoda and I were both stumped as to why someone would spend so much time and money designing the perfect home, then decide to put the closet above the bed, making it only accessible by ladder. And now I'm picturing Thomas Jefferson in some kind of flimsy nightshirt, holding a lit candle in one hand, his bottom half hanging off the ladder and his top half stuck inside the weird little crawl space, looking for his favorite pantaloons. Isn't history fascinating?

Some Brain Farts:

Lucy was highly agitated that there was a squirrel on the back deck trying to get into the trash can. Yoda and I were highly freaked out when we noticed that said squirrel had one eye hanging entirely out of its socket! I cannot begin to describe how disturbing this was.

Our new neighbors actually seem like nice people—about our age, from the same state as me, similar professions. That said, I'm sure they're preparing the backyard for ritualistic animal sacrifice as we speak. Yes, I'm jaded— remember crazy yelling lady, complete moron, and the little drummer boy?

Peep Art is highly enjoyable. My favorite one makes a strong stance against standing on the left.

I'm hungry right now. I brought lunch with me, but don't have anything good to read if I go down to our little kitchen, and don't have anything in particular to watch on the web if I stay in my office—plus my boss always, always interrupts my lunch while I'm eating in my office. What to do?

The Obamas' new dog is adorable. I, for one, don't fault them at all for going with a purebred, given the allergy issues. Plus they made a donation to the Humane Society, so that's OK with me. (But as for the rest of you non-allergy-stricken people – adopt!)

And now, for the one faithful reader still attempting to read this—Lee, this one's for you.

You wouldn't think a writer/editor would have to pay much attention to the Pope's schedule. However, consider the following equation:

[1 writer/editor + ((unrelated responsibilities) x 5) + (Trip to Israel x Needy Committee Members)] all divided by [The Pope's corresponding visit to Israel]

What does that equal? Maryment < 40,000 Christian pilgrims needing hotel rooms.

So I get an email yesterday from one of the group traveling to Israel – there aren't any rooms left in the hotel you suggested! What do I do?-- Well, there had been when I told people to make their reservations three weeks ago. Do you think it's a coincidence that, shortly after the Vatican released the details of the Pope's visit to the Holy Land, all the hotel rooms were gone?

Why am I expected to resolve this situation? I am not a travel agent—I'm not even Catholic! Even if I could make a plea to the Pope himself for more hotel rooms, I'm thinking he'd help out the 40,000 Catholic pilgrims before he'd help me (although I'd probably come out ahead of any homosexuals or condom-users in the queue…yippee?).

And, lovely as it was having lunch with her yesterday, Signe's suggestion that I "send them to a kibbutz" was not particularly helpful.

Think there's a Holiday Inn in the Gaza Strip?

What do I say about this day?

On November 4, I stood in line for about an hour (a short waiting period, by many standards) to vote for “That One.” It was cold; people were late for work, but everyone was cheerful. There was a sense that something was different about this day. The first time I voted, I voted for Bill Clinton to serve a second term, in a race that everyone knew would be a landslide. The second time, I voted for Al Gore, not liking the looks of W., but not really believing that the country would be that different depending on who was leading it.

Four years later, I knew better.

I sat in my living room with Yoda and our then-houseguest Ms. Post No Bills, drowning my sorrows in beer and brownies. My main thought that day was, “How can we let this happen again?” I got a little teary the next day, when Kerry conceded—not because he lost, but because W. had won.

So On November 4, after voting and working (well, attending work…and monitoring exit polls) a short day, I returned home with hope and trepidation. After Pennsylvania and Ohio were called, we had a toast with our friend the Candy Fairy. I napped until all the polls closed and they could “officially” call the race. Then I again got teary—for better reasons than in ‘04—watching the ecstatic hordes in Grant Park.

Fast forward a month and a half. I’m at Yoda’s family’s Christmas gathering, with the traditional White Elephant exchange. Someone opens up an Obama “Yes We Can” t-shirt. It was incredibly ugly, but given the conservative South Carolina Republican crowd, that’s not the reason why it was a gag gift. Yoda was lucky enough to draw number one; he had the final selection at the end of the exchange, and he claimed that ugly Obama shirt. I promptly pulled it over my head, and wore it during the annual Yoda Family Photo. Of the approximately 25 attendants, three of us voted for Obama—me, Yoda, and Honorary Aunt.

Today, I’m wearing that ugly t-shirt. In hindsight, I should have picked up a more attractive Obama t-shirt yesterday at the mall, where there was an official souvenir store. But at the same time, the shirt gives me a certain amount of pride, given its history.

With my social anxiety, I was wont to travel downtown today. I did go downtown on Sunday, which was amazing…one of those days were you really regret doing something, until a certain moment happens, and it was totally worth it. I was cold, surrounded by people, and waiting 3.5 hours for a concert. But then I was able to stand on a camping chair, thus seeing the screen—and occasionally the stage. We were told to “remain standing” for the invocation, which drew a great laugh from the crowd, since we hadn’t sat for hours. Then, Denzel Washington came out. A young African-American woman in front of us started yelling, “Denzel! I’m here! Your next wife is here!” And suddenly the whole mood changed. Everyone was in a good mood, talking to each other, filling the shorter people in on what they were missing. It was like celebrity bingo—Ladies and Gentleman, Dame Judi Dench and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson! Pee Wee Herman and the cast of Rent! Pauly Shore and Meryl Streep! (okay, none of those are real pairings, but they were about that odd—picture Jack Black in a full suit, not cracking a joke. Really strange. He came out with Rosario Dawson.) One of my other favorite pairings was Kal Penn and George Lopez—one of the few guests who cracked a joke: “Anybody here from out of town?”

So I had my downtown DC experience two days before the actual inauguration, which was fine with me. I was stretched to the limit with 500,000 people…I can’t imagine being down there with 2,000,000. We went to the house of Suburban Pastor and Rice. Suburban Pastor was fighting her way into her seat at the Capitol, but Rice and his three adorable children were at home. Two of my favorite moments: 1) Pastor and Rice’s youngest daughter, notoriously warm-blooded, standing at the bottom of the steps, holding her fleece pajama bottoms in one hand and the summer dress she wanted to be wearing in the other; 2) The youngest, managing to Bogart the remote and turn off the TV at the exact moment the swearing-in process for Obama began.

I’ve talked before about my family history. In college, I took a Sociology class in Race and Ethnicity. One of the assignments was to interview two people who had lived through segregation and write a paper. This was easy for me—my parents are a little bit older than the parents of most people my age, and they were both from well below the Mason-Dixon Line. My Dad, from Miami, remembered playing baseball with the Cuban kids, but never with the African-American kids. My Mom, from the mountains of North Carolina, remembered watching the “black bus” drive by while waiting at the bus stop. I remember her saying, “How could we not have known? But we just didn’t realize it could be any different.”

Dad joined the Army, and they traveled the world. They met all kinds of people. My mother admitted that when my Dad brought a friend over for dinner, without telling her he was African-American, she was startled at first…not because the man wasn’t welcome in our home, but just because it never occurred to her that Dad would bring a black man home.

When I was 6 or 7 living in Columbia, SC, my best friend was the girl next door—Amber. Amber was African-American, not that I noticed. Throughout elementary school, when I’d tell tales of new kids at school, my Mom would always inquire as to their race—I don’t think because it really mattered, but because it was still new to her that people of different races and ethnicities could mix without it being an issue.

My parents are each the only one of their siblings to leave their home states. Now, they both work tirelessly for the Democratic Party in their conservative county. I talked to my Mom tonight; she said she was going to do the dishes, and then “plant myself in front of the TV and not miss a moment of the festivities.”

She really wanted to see what Michelle was going to wear.

Some brief anecdotes in order to finally post a blog entry:

Yoda and I had a nice trip to the Carolinas over the Christmas holiday. We always look forward to returning home, however, so that we can pick up Lucy from the kennel. She seems to kind of like the kennel, but is always happy to be home. Well, she was even happier this time, as she approached the front door and realized there was a hamburger patty in the front yard. The next day, Yoda took her out back, where she found a whole chicken leg. Apparently while we were gone, somebody kept throwing meat in the yard. Bizarre but true. (And no, it wasn't the horrible redneck neighbors, because they moved out—hooray!)

The other day, I was getting ready to disembark the commuter train. I had been on the second level, so I headed toward the stairs, where a woman was already standing, waiting for the door to open. While waiting, she opens her bag, takes out a big, elaborate perfume bottle, and applies perfume. And not just a small dab, mind you—a spray behind each ear AND on each wrist. And of course, because I was at the top of the stairs and she was standing on the stairs, I then had to walk through her cloud of perfumery. I might as well have rolled around in her dirty laundry, I smelled so much. How can anyone think that is appropriate? A new low in the "Mobile Grooming" department, for sure.

In other news, the trend of "employees leave maryment's workplace and she gets stuck with the work for no extra pay" continues. This time with Congressional relations, which really has nothing to do with me or my position. Supposedly they are going to hire someone else, but I imagine it will take at least a month, and since the new Congress just began there's a lot of immediate work in the Congressional relations department. So, for those of you who are counting, the roles I fulfill are: assistant editor (my job), managing editor (because she doesn't do anything and I have to step in), IT person/web developer (because they laid off our one computer guy), administrative assistant for my department (because the entire admin department pretty much left, and the head of the admin department basically doesn't know how to use a computer), public relations, Committee Liaison (because the full-time person who was doing this position was laid off), designer (because we can't afford outsourcing anymore), production manager (because he left and I got his work), and now congressional relations.

Happy New Year to me.