Letting Go

I turned in my keys to the apartment today. It was two days early, but the apartment was all cleaned out and ready to go, and I was down in the neighborhood.





This process has been harder than I've admitted to most people. For the last couple of days, I was going back and forth between feeling a little weird about the transition, and then feeling like the weirdness was me being crazy. The best explanation is that I kept feeling as if the apartment was one of my last remaining connections to my mother -- she picked it out, she came to visit there, she stayed there to take care of me when I had my wisdom teeth out -- and how by moving on to some place that she has never seen and never will see, I am losing yet another connection. It's hard even to explain to people who haven't been through something similar, and it's not a feeling that I would wish on anyone.

But, ultimately, it all comes down to the fact that I have to keep moving -- keep moving on, keep moving forward. And the only way to do that, I suppose, is by letting go of some things. The apartment is just one.

Blog in Action

For the first time, this blog has proved itself useful in a way other than providing me an opportunity to vent or otherwise amuse myself. As you all can read, on Sunday, I blogged about my problem getting cable and internet.

When I called to reschedule my appointment with Comcast, I had asked to have a manager call me back, but none did.

But apparently, there are those within the company who are concerned about their customers. Mark C. from Comcast's headquarters found my posting and left me a comment with a contact email. I emailed him my number, and within hours, a representative called me.

I wound up with an appointment for this morning.

By lunchtime, I had cable and internet. This evening, I set up the wireless router. Right now, I am typing this while watching Project Runway.

So thank you, Comcast -- and especially Mark C. After Saturday's experience, this level of customer service was refreshing.

Moving stinks

I am so tired and stressed out that I just got in the elevator to go down to the parking garage, forgot to get out, and pressed the button to go back up to the condo. At the time, I was carrying an empty suitcase to take back to the apartment to fill with the last of my clothing -- so when I got back into the condo, I stood around wondering how I wound up with an empty suitcase.

Nothing about moving ever goes as planned. I had written out a schedule for myself, and I am so far off schedule that there is no way that I will ever get back on track. And now, it looks like I'll have company the second week of September -- my Nana wants to come visit. I'm just hoping that there will be a pathway to the guest bedroom by then.

Last night, I rushed around to get back to the new condo in time for the cable guy to meet me to install the cable -- and thus the internet. He called me fifteen minutes before his appointment to let me know he was on his way, and to ask me if I could get "the key" from the management office. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me that he would need access to a cable closet outside of my apartment, and that the management office had the key.

I went downstairs to ask the concierge, who is there every night until 9pm. Of course, the concierge said that he did not have access to that key, and that it would have to wait for the management office to reopen -- on Monday.

So, who's the asshole? (a) The condo, for not giving access to the key to the concierge? (b) Comcast, who clearly knew that they would need access to the closet, but did not tell me to make arrangements for access until WAY outside of regular business hours? (c) Me, for thinking that anything related to this move could get done without a problem? (d) All of the above?

Of course, I wound up having to call Comcast to reschedule. After explaining to me how "installation" appointments take much longer than regular appointments, they then told me that the first available appointment is on Sept. 3. So now, I will have no cable -- and no internet -- in the new condo until Sept. 3 -- which, coincidentally, is the same day that Macy's will be delivering my new couch.

If there was a way to fire Comcast, I would totally do it. But I can't and ultimately, I am left with nothing but respect for the woman who went into their office and started hitting computers with a hammer.

Weirdness

I spent my first night in the new condo last night, but only because that's where the bed is.

It was weird -- like sleeping in a stranger's room. Which is really weird, when you consider that I'm sleeping in the same bed -- different frame, different furniture, but still the same bed that I've been sleeping in for about 10 years now.

My new room is really dark. When I woke up, I thought it was really late, but it was 8am. Which is also weird, because without an alarm, I almost never wake up that early. Scratch that -- I NEVER wake up that early without an alarm.

It'll definitely take some getting used to.

Deleting the past

I've decided to become one of those people who just has a cell phone -- no landline. My father and aunt are very opposed to this turn of events, but then again, my aunt doesn't own a computer, and my father doesn't know how to work the VCR -- let alone the DVR or the DVD player. So I'm taking their complaints with a grain of salt.

Besides, if I need a landline, I have one at work.

What this means is that I'm donating a couple of phones to Goodwill, and in so doing, I've been sitting here cleaning out the memory of one of those phones.

Then I realized that I just deleted the record of the last time that my mother called me -- the last time that my mother will ever have called me. It made it real, I guess -- the death, the move, the moving forward. My eyes filled with tears and for a second, I could hardly breathe.

Move in progress

I ran out of boxes at about midnight, and my kitchen wasn't yet packed. (Not to mention the closet, but let's not even go there.) So, I set the alarm for 5:30, woke up, moved the wash into the dryer, and started throwing pillows, blankets, and other bedding into garbage bags. Then, at 8, I went to Staples and bought more boxes. You know how they advertise about it being "easy"? Well, buying boxes at Staples was probably the easiest thing I did all day. It took longer to drive there than to complete the transaction -- and, as a point of reference, the store is 2 miles away.

Anyway, then the movers came. The kitchen was still not packed. By the time they finished loading the stuff that was packed, I had managed to pack one box of dishes and glasses. Boy were they quick! After they left, I tried to take a nap, since my head was pounding due to a lack of sleep and the remnants of the cold from hell -- actually, I'm becoming suspicious that it's a full-blown sinus infection.

So I got up and came back to the old place for the evening, ostensibly to pack the rest of the kitchen, but really to check my email. (Alas, there will be no cable or internet in the new place until Saturday evening.) I'm hoping that I'll be able to get the rest of my stuff packed and brought over to the new place tomorrow, but I'm not holding my breath. And I have until the 31st -- well, really I have until the 29th, because that's when the cleaning lady is coming. Still. . . .

On the drive over, I saw something that made my day. There was a traffic sign that said "Short Weave Area." I laughed out loud, at least until I started sneezing again.

The consequences of not leaving well enough alone

This weekend, I had a ton of stuff that I wanted to do, and I had a ton of stuff that I should have done. But instead, I wound up repainting my bathroom -- badly.

Let's start at the beginning: Back when I first decided to paint the new condo, I inherited some emerald green paint from a friend, and thought, "Hey, that might be a neat color for a bathroom." Then I decided that painting my entire condo would be overwhelming, and wound up hiring painters. They painted the entire place, but when they got to the master bathroom, the light wasn't working. They attempted to paint in the dark, but it wound up looking like, well, they painted in the dark. And the defects were glaring once the electrician came and fixed the light fixture.

So, I needed to fix the paint job. I wanted to sponge paint a lighter shade of green over the darker green -- which could have waited until after I moved in (and unpacked). But no, despite having hundreds of other things that I could have or should have been doing, I started sponge-painting right after moving the bed into the guest room on Saturday afternoon.

It looked like crap from minute one. So I gave up on the sponge painting, and decided to repaint the entire bathroom in the lighter green color -- which, coincidentally, is the same color as my living room.

I made a complete mess of it. Dribbled paint everywhere, got green paint on the ceiling, on the mirror, on the fixtures, on the tile, on the cabinets, all over myself . . . . Well, you get the picture. It was decidedly NOT GOOD.

Yesterday, I went back to finish, and, after painting for about an hour, noticed that in one section, layers and layers of paint were peeling off -- not just my paint, but at least the last two layers of paint. So, I took the utility knife and tried to trim the hole as best I could. Of course, this left a hole in the paint -- approximately the size of a paperback novel -- making yet another issue that I now need to fix.

So tonight, instead of packing, I went over to the new place and spackled the hole in the paint and tried to clean up the gobs of messy paint all over the place.

All of this, and I am still so not packed. And I don't remember when I last did laundry. But this speaks to a bigger issue, a character flaw: My inability to let things be. I always think I can fix things, and I always make things more complicated. I am very keenly aware of this tendency, but until now, I didn't know how it applied to home improvement.

Note to self: Next time you think you want to paint, don't. Just leave well enough alone.

In the trenches

I think I am about 30% packed, and the movers come in six days. In other words, there's much work left to be done.

I am trying to figure out how I managed to keep so much stuff in this apartment. Because I keep bringing things over to the new place -- which is just about twice as big -- and I am starting to be concerned that it's not all going to fit.

Don't get me wrong: I've been able to get rid of some things, and not just the boxes. I already gave my old rollerblades to Goodwill, and I've got a bag of electronics to take over there this weekend. I have a pile of old suits to give to charity. I have a dress and a sock monkey to send to my sister.

In the meantime, I've learned one very important thing: I never ever want to move again.

Collections

On the surface, I am very neat and organized, but underneath the facade, I am, at heart, a pack rat. A collector.

I come by it honestly -- most of my family is the same way. But unlike most of my family, my collections are organized, to say the least. My clothes are in order. My CDs and movies are alphabetized. My tchotckes are all in their assigned spots.

When I was helping my dad out after my mom's funeral, we were looking for some paperwork about the house -- specifically the addition that they had built onto the back. Over the previous Thanksgiving, I had bought my mom a filing cabinet so that she could start putting her stuff in order, but apparently, her version of organization and mine were polar opposites. I eventually found the papers in three different files -- one marked "house," one marked "addition," and the last with no label at all. Other things that I found in those three files included my brother and sister's birth announcements, my bat mitzvah invitation, and a newspaper photograph showing my nursery school graduation.

My files are not like that at all, although I will admit that I have a tote of old pictures and clippings that I have intended to put into scrapbooks for years and just haven't managed to get to yet. But unlike my mom, they are all in one place.

Anyway, when I was packing and cleaning up some stuff, I found that I had a sizable collection of which I was unaware -- a box collection. Alas, they were not the useful packing kind; they were decorative gift boxes. Some were small, some were large, many had interesting closures -- one, from Sephora, was fastened with an elastic band with a feather -- and all of them were stuffed into a dark little corner of my closet -- along with yards and yards of wrapping paper and ribbon.

I don't know why I save boxes -- I almost never use them. And I know I never use them. But I keep doing it. Until tonight, when I stacked as many as I could inside one another and made the trek down the hall to the garbage.

Moving + Cold = No Fun

I have been working like crazy trying to get things in order for the big move -- the movers come in 10 days. But as they say, the best laid plans often go awry. In the midst of a to-do list that seems never-ending -- a feverish pace of packing, trying to get the developer to finish up the last few things on the punch list, painting, trying to schedule movers and painters, and trips to Ikea -- I got sick. So sick that I sat down in the middle of the floor in Ikea while trying to decide between two different wine racks to put in my pantry -- and then sat in the middle of what will soon be my living room trying to build those same wine racks with a fever. So sick that coughing hurts my abs way worse than pilates ever did. So sick that I've already missed two days of work -- and am seriously considering missing a third -- and yet, have only managed to pack six boxes. (But I have caught up on Mad Men.)

I am, officially, so far off my moving schedule that I might never find my way back.

So that's what's going on around here. And if the blog doesn't get updated frequently for the next couple of weeks, you'll know why.

Six months

The worst minute of my life was precisely six months, fifteen hours, and fifty minutes ago. It was also the start of what would be the worst day, worst week, and worst month of my life.

I am fairly confident that 2008 will go down as the worst year, too. I mean, I can't comprehend how anything could top losing both my grandmother and mother in the span of three weeks.

While I'm not sure that I have entirely processed everything, I am relatively certain that I am making progress -- I am moving forward. I tell myself that every single day. Or, as my dad said when he was discussing the fact that he now has a girlfriend, "I am trying very hard not to be unhappy." I have moments like that -- where I just sit back and say, "This is just the way things are, and I have to deal."

According to this article, my dad's behavior makes him a "coper." I think I'm more of a "muller" -- I am trying very hard to find meaning or extract some kind of personal growth from the experience.

I'm not quite there yet. Getting used to living without my mom is hard. It'll take a lot of practice.

Sleeping through it all

My dad came to visit over the weekend. On Monday, he insisted that I drop him off a the airport what I consider to be very early -- 90 minutes before his flight. I then went to go run errands, and late that evening, realized that he hadn't called me to let me know he had made it back home. But it was too late to call, so I waited until yesterday.

As it turns out, he didn't make his flight -- not because he got to the airport too late, but because he got there so early. He fell asleep while waiting for his flight to board, and missed the announcement. Lucky for him, Southwest put him on another flight -- through Tampa -- and he got home really late.

Of course I made fun of him. It's what I do.

Cut to this morning. As usual, I was exhausted and running late. I got on the subway heading to my office and -- you guessed it -- fell asleep. I woke up after having missed my transfer station by several stops, and wound up being about an hour late to work.

Dara vs. GPS

Today's Washington Post had a long feature on navigation devices. This is now a subject on which I am quite familiar.

It all started when Inbal took her brand new GPS device on the California trip. Before then, despite all my traveling, I had pretty much managed to avoid GPS. In fact, I can only remember having GPS in a rental car once: It was back when it was first starting out, and as it turned out, I didn't really need it -- it was in South Florida, where I kind of know where I'm going.

At first, my inner Luddite was a little turned-off by the GPS. I like having written directions and maps -- which is probably why I was an early adopter of Mapquest and then Google Maps. And the GPS said all the words funny, which, on occasion, made the directions difficult to understand. (It also made me snicker and mimic.)

And to be frank, the voice got annoying after a while. A surprisingly short while.

More importantly, the GPS doesn't really help with the confusion of figuring out which street to turn on when there are a whole bunch -- I mean, it's hard to judge exactly how far is 350 feet, and sometimes, you can't see the street sign until you're already in the turn lane. But in those cases, a map wouldn't really help either.

So, despite my initial reluctance, I embraced the gadget, and ultimately found it to be useful for navigating around new, unfamiliar places. Plus, I loved how it could pinpoint what time we were going to arrive at our destination. That way, when someone calls, you can tell them "I will be there at 8:43." If you try, you can make it seem like you're predicting the future.

When we got back from California, Inbal let me buy her old GPS from her. It doesn't have all the bells and whistles of her new one -- for example, it has a smaller screen and it doesn't say the name of the streets (you have to look at the screen to figure that out). Still, I find it really useful whenever I'm not exactly sure where I'm going -- which is more often than I'd like to admit, as I like to think I have an excellent sense of direction.

On the flip side, I hate how I'm starting to let it think for me. I might have needed it to find Wegmans when I was at the closing down in Fairfax, but I certainly do not need it find my way from my apartment to the new condo. But I feel compelled to see what route it recommends.

Increasingly, I find myself talking to it. "Duh. It's a one-way street." "Alright, alright. I'll get over to the left as soon as I can." "How come you're telling me to stay on the highway when the sign for the airport says to take this ramp?"

I am, however, somewhat fearful that one of these days, she's going to say, "Just what do you think you're doing, Dave Dara?"

Yesterday, I was dropping my aunt off at her friend's house downtown, and I decided to ignore the directions, and go the way my aunt suggested. The GPS originally said that we would reach our destination at 2:23. Each time I ignored it, it would recalculate the route, adding another minute or two onto the ETA -- like she was punishing me. My aunt's directions -- the way that her friend recommended we go -- ultimately wound up costing me 15 minutes. At the law firm, that would have been around $100 of time.

You win this one TomTom. But I am confident that I will, one day, emerge victorious.

Wow. Just wow.

I fancy myself to be something of a writer -- a hobbyist, for sure, but still a writer.

I wish I had enough talent -- and cajones -- to have written this poem.

During the closing

I was nervous before heading into the closing on my condo. But my coworker said something that helped put it all into perspective. He compared the house buying process to the student loan process -- also a lot of money that I never actually saw, and which I've paid back over time since graduation. That was kind of like a mortgage on my education.

Realizing the similarity to something I'd already done helped. But the thing that helped the most was a bit more sentimental.

Many years ago, my mother bought these small teardrop-shaped blue topaz earrings, and from time to time, before I double-pierced my ears, she would loan them to me to wear with formal wear. Sometime, either when I was in college or law school, one of the earrings went missing. By that time, my mother rarely wore them, so she automatically thought that I had misplaced one of the earrings. I hadn't. But I kept the remaining earring, thinking that one day, either she or I would find the mate.

We never did.

So, before the closing, I took the earring down to the neighborhood jeweler, and turned it into a pendant. I thought that wearing something of hers would make me feel like she was there with me.

Celebratory Champagne

I've been planning on drinking my bottle of 1985 Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne for a long time. And what better reason to do it than to to toast to my new status as a homeowner? But then I had to drive through traffic to get home from the closing, and I walked into the apartment, and almost immediately had to evacuate because of a fire alarm.

Grrr.

When I finally got back upstairs, I changed out of my suit, read my email, and laid down to watch the news/take a nap.

About 90 minutes later, when the phone rang, I woke up. I was going to celebrate after all.



On first taste, the champagne was a little yeasty and strong. The color was very dark, more like honey than straw. It probably should have been aged somewhere other than my refrigerator for the last six years. But after the bottle was opened and started to air out, it got better. The second glass went down smoothly -- especially with a black-and-white cookie.

The rest of the bottle was equally good. Of course, it probably would have been better had I eaten something more substantial first. Because when I went to go eat later, my stomach did not want to cooperate.

I could have done without the being sick, the lying down in the middle of my living room before 10 pm -- I refused to get up and evacuate during the second fire alarm of the evening, even after my partner in drinking put flip-flops on my feet -- and the massive headache when I woke up at 5 am. But drinking a very expensive and rare bottle of champagne? Awesome.

And it's not over yet: There will be more drinking at tonight's shindig, in which we will be saying goodbye to the old apartment. I can hardly wait.

Circumstantial evidence

Dear Bob Novak,

I know most people want to give you the benefit of the doubt about running over that 86 year-old homeless pedestrian yesterday. I mean, the cops only gave you a ticket for failing to yield, even though you had driven off from the scene of the accident. Still, isn't it peculiar that you wound up doing the very thing you talked about years ago? As a journalist, wouldn't you find that suspicious?

Just sayin'.

Bad hair day

Last night, after I got home from the gym, I took a shower and washed my hair. As soon as I stepped out of the shower, my phone was ringing, and it was my aunt -- calling to try to make plans for something-or-other for a week from now, when my dad's in town. I talked to her for a long time -- couldn't get her off the phone -- and then I made dinner. By the time I finished eating, it was well after 10 pm -- and I never got a chance to dry -- or even brush -- my hair. I decided to let it be, and went straight to sleep.

This morning I woke up with the world's biggest Jew-fro. I mean, even during my 12 years in New Jersey, my hair had never managed to get that big before today. Not even my typical librarian-chic hair clip could contain it.



I'm hoping there's a little room in my budget for a real haircut soon.

My mother and moving

Last night, my mother was in my dream again. I don't really remember what the dream was about, but part of it was that she was helping me move. Which, had things turned out differently, she might have been doing next month.

Actually, that's not true -- I never would have let my mother help me move. I would have let her help me pick out the condo, but I would never in a million years have let her pack or unpack my stuff. She'd complain the entire time about how much work it was and how much useless stuff I have. Which is why the last time I let her help me move was when I moved into my first dorm room.

And like she would have been one to talk. She has boxes in the house -- which she and my dad moved into six years ago, a few weeks after I moved into this apartment -- that haven't been unpacked since they left New Jersey in 1988. I may have 100 pairs of shoes, but she has at least that many. I learned from a pro.

Eventually I'm going to have to go down to Florida and help my dad go through those boxes. And I am looking forward to that even less than moving the contents of my closet to the new place.

Needing motivation

I tried to go to sleep early last night -- I was exhausted -- but still managed to lie awake tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, and then the alarm went off way too early. And then I got into work -- where my big project for the week is to clean out and organize old case files from one of the file rooms that they're planning on turning into more office space. Of course, I felt singularly unmotivated all day -- and got next to nothing done.

If I really think about it, it's probably the perfect project for me right now, considering that my head's all consumed with the condo-purchasing slated for the end of the week. Still, I'm not rushing to go dig through all of those boxes. So what I need is some kind of motivation -- something to coax myself into getting through all of the crappy work by the end of the day on Thursday. But I'm out of ideas. I mean, usually my motivation would include some kind of shopping, but I am on a budget. (And I mean it this time!) Clearly I need help. So if anyone can give me pointers on how they convince themselves to get through boring, monotonous, and menial work projects, I'd appreciate it.

21st Century Communication

When I left for college -- back in the stone ages -- email was just beginning to be a common tool of communication, and there was no Facebook, no MySpace, not even Friendster. There were some people with whom I kept in touch with by letters and the occasional phone call, and maybe would occasionally see if we were all in the same place at the same time -- but over the years, even with the best of intentions, I've lost touch with most people.

So, as I've noted, I signed up for Facebook this spring, and now I have an obsessive love-hate relationship with it. I love how all of a sudden, through this electronic medium, I am able to keep up with the goings-on of so many of my friends from high school and college. I love being able to see the pictures of my friends' kids, and to hear about their engagements and the like. It really makes the world seem a whole lot smaller.

But there's a cost: I hate how I spend so much of my day paying attention to the goings-on of people who, until now, I only thought about when I got an email or looked through an old photo album. The past really is a great distraction from the present.

A fond farewell

I've lived in my apartment for roughly five years longer than I was planning on staying when I first moved in. It was supposed to be a stop-gap -- and now, six years later, I am finally leaving.

I remember going to look at the apartment with my mom, and how blown away we were at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Of course, it was mid-May, so we had no clue about how cold it would be to sit near those same windows in the winter, or how stifling the apartment would get from the western exposure during the summer.

We also loved the giant walk-in closet in between the bedroom to the bathroom. At the time, my mother had no idea how bad my shopping habit was becoming -- and that it would eventually end in a closet calamity.

I moved into the apartment on July 27, 2002. I was pretty much completely moved-in within a week -- once the desk and bookcases got delivered -- because I got tired of tripping over boxes -- and let's be honest, apart from clothing, shoes, books, and CDs, I really don't have all that much stuff. And then I bought a little bit of furniture -- a coffee table, a kitchen table, and eventually, a new frame for the futon that serves as my sofa -- which were the first pieces of "grown-up" furniture that I owned. Somehow it all managed to fit in the neat little 750 square feet, although more often than not, I wished for more room -- a guest room, more closet space, a pantry.

In just over one week, I will be closing on the new condo -- which will have all of the things that I wanted, and then some -- HELLO, second bathroom, linen closet, and sunroom! And, in some weird synchronicity, it will be almost six years to the day since I moved into the apartment.

I will miss this apartment.

• I will miss the fun times that I've spent here. (I will not miss the Midori stains in the carpet.)



• I will miss my very short commute and easy access to the airport. (I will not miss walking through the mall every day, especially during the Christmas and Cherry Blossom seasons.)



• I will miss having the Harris Teeter and Noodles & Company downstairs, and the DSW next door. (I will not miss how I could not possibly fit ONE MORE ITEM of clothing in the closet.)



• I will miss the baseball players living down the hallway. (Too bad they play for the Nationals, but that's a whole other post. . . .)

Fashion fate

I left for Chicago right after my offer on the condo was accepted. As a result, I swore to everyone that would listen that I was going to be on a strict budget. There was budget for the hotel, and for food, and for activities -- but no budget for shopping.

Of course, my brother has a close friend who has a boutique in Wicker Park (or is it Bucktown?), and he thought I should go to her store. So off we went. What happened next is a blur. I tried on skirts and jeans and shirts and tops. Some things looked good -- others not so much -- but almost nothing ever fits me right because I am so short. But my brother's friend was not deterred, and kept bringing me new cute things to try. If this was what shopping with a personal shopper is like, then I totally understand why people do it.

Then she brought me a dress -- a simple sundress, spaghetti straps and a slightly empire waist leading into an A-line skirt, made out of a light blue cotton fabric with white polka dots, red roses, and green leaves. The dress was nothing I would have picked out for myself, seeing as I have a closet full of skirts and dresses that I hardly ever wear, telling myself that I am just not a dress person.

I put on the dress, zipped up the back, and stepped out into the store, where my brother sat on the couch, next to the mirror. He looked at me and his face changed. "That is your dress," he said. I knew it too -- and not just because my brother almost never says anything complimentary about the way I look. I knew it the second I pulled up the zipper. It was like the dress had been magically waiting there for me to find.

Of course, the dress was very expensive. There went the budget, before it had really been in effect. But the dress and I were meant to be. It was fate. Kismet.

This morning, after I heard the weather report, I decided to wear the dress to work with a white crocheted sweater -- mostly to cover up my tattoo, but also to protect my arms from the air conditioning. And all day, everyone kept commenting on the dress -- and I kept telling the same story: The dress found me.

Retail economics

On Saturday, I went to the Shakespeare Theatre to see The Imaginary Invalid. We managed to score a parking spot right next door -- right in front of the Penn Quarter Olsson's books -- which, apparently, is now closed.

Now, I'm not going to write a great lament about the demise of the small independent book and music stores -- been there, done that. Besides, that Olsson's location did nothing for me. The cafe was not very large or good, and there was not a lot of room to sit there and read. The books (and CDs) were overpriced, the selection was not great, and a lot of the time, it was just impossible to find what I came in to look for. And in terms of authors/readings/events, other local stores seem to do a way better job.

So, I guess what I am going to say is that it's a matter of economics -- the small stores generally can't compete with the large chains in terms of pricing, so to stay alive, they need to do something else -- or do it better. Like how some smaller coffee shops are doing well, despite the bad economy causing Starbucks to close 600 stores. Maybe the bookstores and record stores should take note.

Doctor Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

On July 15, everyone needs to tune into Doctor Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. It's Joss Whedon, so I would pretty much assume that it would be awesome -- but it's also getting some pretty rave reviews.

Here's the trailer:

New insight as to where I stand with my dad

Last night, I was on the phone with my dad, and somewhere after 20 minutes, the conversation went off the rails in a really unusually disturbing way.

I'm paraphrasing a bit, but here's the essence of the conversation. We were talking about family and communication and then took a detour into talking about custody fights. As I am apt to do, I forgot for a moment, that, for all intents and purposes, my father had almost no relationship with his father after his parents divorced when he was a kid. So I took the position that it's the dad's obligation to fight to be involved in the kid's life.

Then Dad says "I don't know why people get into such messy, horrible custody battles. If it were me, I would just cut my losses and walk away."

Being one of the kids in question, I was a little shocked by this. "Dad, you mean to tell me that, if after you had me, you and mom divorced, and she withheld custody from you, you wouldn't have fought to see me?"

"Your mother would never have been so unreasonable. That's one of the reasons I married her."

"That's not my point. You wouldn't have felt it necessary to have a relationship with your own kid?"

"Not if the mom was using the kid as a weapon -- It's not worth the fight. And I turned out fine without much of a father."

"Yeah, but don't you think that anyone crazy enough to try to exclude the father from their kid's life as punishment might not be the most stable parent."

"Maybe, I guess. But it's messy. Not worth it."

"So you wouldn't have fought for me? Man, you suck. Glad to know where I stand."

"That's not fair."

Public Service

Not only is it Free Slurpee Day -- 7/11, get it? -- but it's also Cow Appreciation Day.

This is how Chick-fil-A celebrates:

Screaming people are more annoying than stupid people

Last night, on Metro on the way home from the ballpark, I caught a "special" blue line train to Virginia from L'Enfant Plaza on the upstairs yellow line platform. To me, this seemed perfectly normal.



Other people were confused. They thought the train was going to go all the way around on the normal circuitous blue line route -- clearly not understanding that, from the upstairs platform, the only thing the train could do is cross the bridge straight to the Pentagon. Or they didn't understand that, at least from Pentagon to King Street, the blue line and the yellow line run on the same route.

Of course, I don't really care what other people do. If they're dumb enough or confused enough, it's their problem, and as far as I'm concerned, they can wait to get on the next yellow line train.

I must be in the minority. Some crazy ass lady on the train with me stuck her head out the door of the train and started yelling at people, trying to explain to them how the train was going to work. And while most of the people tried to ignore the crazy screaming, some of the previously confused people actually allowed themselves to be browbeaten into getting onto a train even though they weren't entirely sure where it would wind up.

Of course, the small percentage of train converts was not enough for the crazy lady. She moved on to the next door and started screaming louder and more insistently. And as they held the train for about four minutes, she went back and forth from the one door to the other screaming at people.

I felt embarrassed for the man that was with her. I felt embarrassed for the people that she treated as stupid children. I felt embarrassed for the crazy lady who looked, well, crazy.

But in addition to being embarrassed, I was annoyed. I hate screaming people. But it's more than that: I hate people that don't quietly mind their own business.

But mostly, I didn't see the point -- and I still don't. Why run around like a crazy person, screaming at people who have nothing to do with you? If they're confused, it's their obligation to try to figure it out. And if they're too dumb, well, that can't really be fixed anyway.

Lacking motivation

I got back from Chicago last night and pretty much went straight to my softball game. (I scored a run AND had an RBI, thank you very much.) When I got home, instead of working on my mortgage paperwork or unpacking and doing laundry, I goofed around on Facebook.

Today, instead of working on my mortgage paperwork or unpacking and doing laundry, I went to the baseball game with an old friend from law school.

I am feeling exquisitely unmotivated -- and as a result, unproductive. I need someone or something to get me motivated -- to provide that kick in the butt.

Cakes, cookies, bacon, and tattoos: 24 hours with my brother

Right now, my brother's neighbors are outside lighting off fireworks and talking really loudly in Spanish. The fireworks -- not the Spanish -- is driving most of the neighborhood dogs crazy, but my brother's roommate's dog is as cool as a cucumber.



So far, it's been a pretty busy 24 hours. Last night, after my flight landed, we went straight from the train station to grab food and then out to a bar where a bunch of my brother's friends seem to hang out. He knew about half the people in the bar, one of whom was painting glow-in-the-dark fake tattoos on people.

Here's mine:



I sort-of wanted to keep it, but eventually, my brother managed to convince me to shower.

This morning, we went for brunch at this awesome bakery that had the coolest cakes ever in the display window out front.





Then we went shopping, and on the way, saw this sign, which I thought was funny, and which my brother thought was perfectly normal:



I think I'm dedicating the picture to Jordan Baker, who seems to be obsessed with bacon.

Oh, and the shopping -- we went to Chinatown so my brother could pick up some kind of herbal medicine -- which loosely translates to the "Four Horsemen" and is meant to cure his spleen. No kidding. I got a bunch of fortune cookies -- normal and chocolate -- and fresh baked almond cookies -- all for under $3.00. And a picture of Confucius.



You know what would go perfectly with fresh-baked almond cookies? Green tea gelato. I'm gonna work on that as soon as I get an ice cream maker.

The other side of the coin

When it rains, it pours. There are other volumes in my ex-files, and one just texted me to see if I was going to be in his city anytime soon.

I don't know what self-destructive demon momentarily possessed my brain, but for some unknown reason, I responded -- all too honestly -- that I was going to be in the vicinity this weekend, but that I was going to be busy.

He just texted me back: "Give me a call if you have time."

Ghosts of the past

This afternoon, someone shared with me some news about one of my ex-boyfriends -- good news -- and then, seemed somewhat surprised that I hadn't already heard directly. Then they asked if I wanted to see the email. And my honest, instinctive answer was no -- even though there was that little ping of curiosity in the back of my mind. I think it's the same thing that makes people check the newspaper for wedding announcements or read their exes' blogs. But ultimately, he is so far out of my orbit at this time -- and I am so far out of his -- that I don't feel the need to test the gravitational pulls.

This may sound like maturity, but it's not, really. It's selfishness or self-centeredness or something similar. I wish him the best, but I don't really care about the details. I certainly don't care enough to call or write, and don't expect it in return. Velvet used a phrase that I liked today -- "It's someone else's problem now." Amen.

Amazing powers of observation

Friday morning, on the way into work, I was on the escalator coming out of the Metro station, and I looked down and noticed some girl's sandals.

My first thought was "Those are really cute and they look comfortable."

The second thought was "Oh, they're Tevas."

The third thought was "I am wearing the exact same shoes."

Small world, courtesy of Facebook

The world is shrinking, my friends.

I've had this blog for just about two and a half years now, and I've been reading other blogs for about that same amount of time. There are some bloggers that I started following pretty much since day one, my virtual friends, if you will. But since I haven't gone to any happy hours or met up with any of my fellow bloggers, they are just that -- virtual acquaintances. Even if I do have them on my blogroll, subscribe to their RSS feeds, accept their MySpace friend requests, follow them on Twitter, and correspond with them via comments just about as often as I talk to my "real" friends (sometimes even more).

I signed up for Facebook this spring. All of my "friends" are people that I actually do know in the meatspace: friends, former classmates, former coworkers and the like.

Today, on Facebook, I saw a notification about someone that I have known for pretty much forever, from someone else in the "Washington DC" Network. So, out of curiosity, I clicked on the profile and saw a wall post from a blogger that I have followed pretty much since Day 1. Apparently, all this time, I've been two degrees separated from this person in real life.

This, of course, is causing me to reconsider my stance on whether I should actually meet up with the other bloggers that I correspond with. I mean, at a minimum, I am quite sure that I would have had a grand old time hanging out with Paige Jennifer and Ryane last weekend.

Choosing my family

This morning, one of my mom's best friends called. It was the first time I had spoken with her since the week of my mother's funeral, and we caught up for about half an hour. It was really nice to talk to someone that I've known my entire life, who is like an aunt to me. (Point of reference: Her daughter was the first baby my dad ever held.)

That was my first thought, anyway. My second thought was that it sucks that my own aunt, my mother's sister, hasn't spoken to me since my mother's funeral either. And she hasn't shown any signs of calling.

Anyway, in talking to my dad tonight, between all the condo news (made an offer, hasn't been accepted or rejected or countered -- yet), I told my dad about the phone call with mom's friend, and how lovely it was. And then I said that, for lack of a better word, I am angry with my aunt -- not to mention offended -- but that I know there's nothing I can do about it.

So, what this boils down to is: I acknowledge my anger. And I hereby compartmentalize it. My aunt can call me or not. As far as I'm concerned, from now on, my family is who I choose for it to be. My mom's friend is most definitely in.

I am a shoe addict

Honeykbee asked for more shoes, and I like to give people what they want. Before I got on the whole budget kick, I bought these:



Yes, kids -- they are brown and teal snakeskin. And I have absolutely no idea what to wear them with. But I got them on sale, which makes everything okay.

Budgetary concerns

So I think I'm making an offer on a condo tomorrow. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it for what I want to pay for it, but I'm going to try. And I'm very nervous. It's a lot of money. And, at least for the first couple of months, my budget will be very very tight. I think I'm going to have to stop buying shoes. And clothes. And bags. And hats (like this one, which, along with t-shirt that says "Captain Awesome," is what I happen to be wearing as I type this).

As someone who has never really been on a budget in her entire life, this is going to be a challenge. I don't even know where to start. I mean, I probably should have started a while ago. Like I didn't really need to buy a new dress this week. And maybe I should be learning to be less of a food snob -- for example, I can go back to buying cheese at the grocery store instead of at Cowgirl Creamery.

Maybe I should get a roommate.

George Carlin

The first thing I read this morning was the news about George Carlin, who, for as long as I can remember, was my favorite comic. And not just because he was in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure -- one of my favorite movies -- but because he was, at heart, a grammarian. He is one of the first people who got me thinking about words -- sometimes the dirty ones -- in a deeper way.

Here's a story: In 11th grade, some friends and I made a movie. It started out as a bunch of planned out sketches, but eventually broke down into us roaming around the halls, videotaping whatever amused us at the time. And in a tribute to Heathers, we decided to take lunchtime polls. This was right after I discovered George Carlin. So my contribution to the poll questions was first to steal "Why do you park on a driveway and drive on a parkway?" and later, continuing down the linguistic path, to open to random pages of the dictionary and to ask people to come up with definitions of the more unusual words.

The Washington Post is reading my thoughts

From yesterday's Washington Post:

. . . girlfriends and spouses who look at [men without shirts] and think: That's just unfair. A woman can't strip to her waist, not without breaking the law anyway. And even if a woman is willing to break the law, nobody would consider her shirtless. She'd be considered topless. There is no such thing as a shirtless woman, just like there's no such thing as a topless man.

For the record, I have this exact thought all summer long.

My priorities are skewed

Last night, the fire alarm went off at 2 am. I got up, turned on the light, looked around my apartment, and went right back to sleep. With the alarm blaring.

In all honesty, I took inventory of the situation and decided that the sleep was more important. And I didn't want to put on pants and shoes.

I am glad there was no fire.

The elaborate and strange workings of my subconscious mind

For the first time in what seems like a thousand years, last night, my mother was in my dream. I was on a trip, somewhere exotic (possibly Southeast Asian or Middle Eastern), and I was in a hotel -- which was reminiscent of some that I had stayed in in Morocco: a little shabby and worn looking, but a perfectly sufficient place to sleep.

In any event, I checked into the hotel, and went up to the room to sit and wait for my mother. I was waiting, and waiting, and kept on washing my hands. As I waited, the rest of the family arrived there too -- my sister and brother, Nana and Pop. Finally, my mother and father arrived, and I was so happy to see her. She told me that I looked beautiful, she had missed me, and the room was a disaster and would never do.

And then I woke up -- late for work.

I remember the dream as vividly as I do most reality -- more so than, for example, her funeral. Which, if you think about it, is actually kind of weird.

One of the last times I saw my mom was in a hotel. I met up with her and my Nana and aunt last fall in Rhode Island, for my cousin's wedding. The four of us shared a room in the historic Biltmore. It was not the best trip for my mom, who, at least for the past few years, was not a good traveler. And my mom, for some reason, was disappointed with the room. (But not the bed, which was fabulous! After the wedding, the four of us watched the Red Sox wrap up the World Series in those comfy beds.)

Anyway, earlier tonight, my Nana called. I didn't tell her about the dream, though. Instead we had a nice normal conversation -- until she asked me if I was angry with my mom for dying. The tears started pouring out of my eyes before I even knew what happened.

Am I angry? Maybe -- maybe not. Disappointed and sad are more accurate. What I do know is that I'm trying not to dwell, because fundamentally, I understand that this is my reality -- it's just the way things are, and I can't change it. I also know that I just spent two weeks on vacation, thinking about how I would have loved to tell my mom about some of the things I saw and did. I would have loved to have asked her where she lived when she lived in Hollywood, so I could have gone to find it. And she would have understood about all the wine I bought (and shipped home), unlike, for example, my dad who said that it all tastes the same to him.

So, maybe that's why I'm dreaming about my mom going on vacation with me. Or maybe I just want her to come and visit.

Get off of my lawn!

There were annoying tourist kids on Metro tonight when I was on my way home. And it was really late for me, which means it was way too late for kids to be making tons of noise while their parents ignore how they're twirling around on the poles as if they were practicing their routines for when they eventually become strippers in their inevitably sad and pathetic adult lives.

Suddenly, I had this great idea for a t-shirt. On the front it says "I don't hate all children. . . " and on the back it says ". . . Just Yours." I think I'm going to submit it to Threadless.

Anyway, that's when the train stopped and one of the twirling children fell. And shrieked. I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. I guess I'm an asshole.

Dumped for Obama

On my way home from work, on Metro, I formulated a plan to write a whole big political/tax-geek thing about the failed attempt on a windfall profits tax on the oil industry. But then I got home and realized that I don't really write about politics anymore. People think that I can't because of work, but that's not really true. The truth is that I don't because I just don't have it in me anymore. Things are a mess and our elected officials keep going in circles, which gets us nowhere. And gas prices are over $4.00 a gallon. It's depressing.

But then Caroline sent me this, which made me laugh. And calmed me down. So here it is:

Vacation perspective

The worst part about coming back from vacation is the sudden transition back to real life. And I'm not just talking about having to unpack, do laundry, pay bills, and go to work -- it's the shifting away from doing only those things you want to doing the things that have to get done.

My reintroduction to my real life was exceptionally distressing: I came back to a heat wave and a malfunctioning air conditioner. All day yesterday, my apartment hovered around 85 degrees. Of course, after the overnight flight, I was pretty much too tired to care, so I did my laundry, watched baseball, and tried to sleep in the sweltering heat -- which, on the most part, was insufferable. But lucky for me, I live in a place with maintenance. So they fixed it. But if I lived in a hotel, they would have moved me to another room last night.

And then there's the whole working thing. Most of the time, I like what I do for a living, but I'd rather be living off a trust fund, traveling across the world. So having to go back to actually doing stuff kind of sucks, in its own way.

I've decided though, that there are some vacation-type things that are going to stick. I'm going to try to drink wine on a semi-regular basis, instead of just at fancy dinners. I'm going to try to go to interesting places and do interesting things on the weekends, and not just run errands. But mostly, every day, I'm going to try to have a sense of wonder about the things that are around me.

Like when I was watching the Foccault Pendulum at the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles:



Or taking in the desolate landscape at Pebble Beach:



Or watching the Sea Lions at Pier 39 in San Francisco:



Or noticing how the butterflies on display at the Conservatory of Flowers just wanted to get outside:



Or listening to the sound of the foghorn at the Golden Gate Bridge:



Or even riding the cable car:



These are the things we ignore or overlook or take for granted every day, but appreciate while on vacation.

Lombard Street

I keep meaning to post more videos, but the whole vacation thing keeps getting in the way.

This is what the tourists driving down Lombard Street in San Francisco look like:



And this is what it's like to be one of those tourists driving down Lombard Street:

Not beach weather

I spent roughly half of my life in Florida. In high school, if I wanted to, I could roll out of bed and, provided one of my parents would loan me a car, be at the beach in 25 minutes. And I'd know what the weather would be like: Sunny and warm in the winter, cloudy and hot in the summer, with an afternoon thunderstorm.

California's weird. I thought that at least the SoCal/beachy parts of this vacation would be sunny and warm. But it's been cold. Really cold. In fact, while walking down to the beach in Carmel today, I had to wear a sweatshirt AND a jacket.

Here's a video from the beach.

Santa Barbara Wine Country

We left L.A. today, heading north, first to Santa Barbara and then to the Santa Barbara wine country. We drank a lot of wine. I bought a case of wine. There was a lot of giggling. And then we settled down -- to drink more wine -- in a town with a windmill.



For the record, I did drink Merlot, against my better judgment.

The Joshua Tree . . .

. . . is one of my favorite albums. But it's also a national park.

It looks like this out the car window.



Just kidding. This is my favorite of the 100-ish pictures that I took today.

Beautiful San Diego, plus fireworks

We arrived in San Diego yesterday morning. After losing exactly one blackberry (not mine) and enduring an unbelievably long wait for a rental car, we were on our way.

First stop: La Jolla Cove. We wanted to see the beach. What we got were seals. Lots of seals.



Then, last night, we went to the Padres game. Here's a little video of the fireworks from the post-game.



After what was close to a 24-hour day, we went to sleep at our very posh hotel. This morning, we woke up and went to Coronado.

First the beach:



Then we chased some ducks through downtown:



Then we went out to Balboa Park and relaxed at the Koi pond by the Botanical Garden:



Tomorrow we head out to the desert.

Revisiting the '80s

I stumbled across an article in the L.A. Times about how Hall & Oates is having a resurgence of sort.

Personally, I never really thought that they went away. In fact, I still have my tape of Big Bam Boom that I got for my birthday in the 4th grade. I remember watching the Nickelodeon show where they played music videos (I wasn't allowed to watch MTV), hoping that they would play Out of Touch or Method of Modern Love. I still maintain that those songs are awesome. The '80s hair, not so much.

Just a trim

For the last couple of days, I've been thinking that my bangs are too long, and that I probably ought to get my hair cut before I go on vacation. But because this revelation was kind-of last minute, I couldn't get in to my normal -- and comparatively expensive -- salon. Which is probably a good thing, because despite my proclivity for spending a ridiculous amount of money on clothing and shoes and manicures and so-forth, I can't fathom spending $60 or so to get my hair trimmed.

So I went down to the neighborhood Hair Cuttery after work tonight. That was my first mistake.

The second mistake was allowing a girl who barely spoke English and had crooked bangs near my hair with scissors. I told her that I just wanted a trim.

"One inch?"

"No, a trim. Just cut off the ends, keep the layers and the style."

"One inch?"

Rather than argue, I decided to hold up my fingers to indicate about a quarter of an inch.

"Oh, okay." Surprisingly, she followed my instruction.

Then we got to the bangs. "How much cut?"

"Shorter, but not too short, keep them long enough so I can push them to the side. Keep the style, but angle them in. Try to blend them into the layers."

She gestured to her very short and crooked attempt at blunt-cut bangs. "Short like mine?"

I said, "Uh, no," but I was thinking, "Pretty much exactly the opposite."

She then proceeded to part my hair down the center to trim my bangs. She cut about a quarter of an inch off the bottom, and asked me if it was short enough.

Admittedly, I'd rather her leave them too long then have her cut them dangerously short. But that wasn't even close to what I had asked her to do. And I haven't worn my hair parted down the middle in a very long time. So I told her that they don't go like that. And I told her that my hair generally parts on the left. She then proceeded to try to part my hair on the right, and couldn't understand why my bangs didn't want to cooperate.

After watching her fuss with it for a couple of minutes, finally I said, "My hair just doesn't go that way. Do it on the other side."

She ignored me and took the razor to my bangs. Unsurprisingly, my hair was still not cooperative. Finally, she got frustrated and asked me to show her how I do it.

I took the comb, changed the part, and the bangs went right where they were supposed to go. She played with the razor for a little while longer, but really didn't cut much more.

Ultimately, I think I avoided the third mistake, which would have been letting the girl actually cut my hair. In fact, when I left the place, my hair pretty much looked exactly like it did this morning. Thank god it only cost $14.

Of course, I'll have to see what it looks like in the morning.

Random political thought o' the day

In avoiding anything that has to do with American Idol -- and trying not to watch the Nationals get blown out by the Phillies -- I stumbled across an Obama rally on C-Span tonight, before turning to my DVR and tuning out.

In all honesty, stump speeches bore me to death. But my viewing options were limited, so I watched for a couple of minutes. And compared with a lot of other politicians, he really is a captivating speaker.

The entire time, though, I was thinking about the Washington Post article describing the racist incidents that his campaign has had to endure. And we all probably know at least one person who, despite being otherwise reasonable, believes all the chain emails about him being a radical Muslim or whatnot. (According to the New York Times, this is an epidemic amongst older Jews in South Florida. I personally know at least one South Floridian who, despite being a lifelong Democrat, will vote for McCain over Obama this fall.)

I can't help feeling that it's such a shame that people are so closed-minded.

Grey hair

Early this morning, my brother texted me to tell me that he was upset because he found a grey hair. He's 28.

I started finding gray hair the week of my college graduation. A lot of them. And since I've given up dyeing my hair for the past two years, I'm at the point that I don't want to even look anymore.

So I texted my brother back, saying that "You complaining about gray hair to me is like me complaining to you about being broke."

What to pack?

I was at work until well after midnight last night, and came home to no internet. Which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, since I really needed sleep. But what I also need to do is pack for my upcoming vacation, which starts Saturday. (And get a haircut, which is a whole other matter.)

Anyway, in deciding what to pack, I have a quandary: Which dress to wear to the wedding. So I'm asking the audience. Here are your choices:

Birthdays

Today would have been my grandfather's 84th birthday. A year ago, the family -- other than my parents, who were away on vacation -- crowded in the ICU, and read him his cards, hoping that things would end well. So much has changed since then, it's hard to wrap my head around it all.

When I started thinking about things, I noticed a strange numerological coincidence that had somehow managed to escape me for the past 32 years: My mom and her father were both born on the 15th; my dad and I were both born on the 27th.

Yet more shoes

Not sure if these are too high (4"), but they match my Catherine Malandrino dress:

I forget what eight was for, too

more song chart memes

Political horoscopes

I read this L.A. Times article about the presidential candidates' handwriting, and I am of two minds about it. On the one hand, looking at the candidates' handwriting and trying to get a feel for their personalities is somewhat humanizing. The graphic is particularly illustrative: McCain is "intense yet private," Clinton is "controlled, smart and forceful," Obama "deals with different people and situations well."

On another level, handwriting analysis seems akin to analyzing the effect that birth order had on their development -- which is, to say, about as insightful as reading their astrological chart. If you look hard enough, you can find something there to support the inferences that you've already drawn.

But don't take my word for it: I researched the candidate's horoscopes. Here are my conclusions:

• Obama is a Leo, so he is a "natural born leader", "well organized, idealistic and [has] a knack for inspiring others."
• Clinton is a Scorpio, which means that she's "overbearing," "stubborn" and doesn't "know the word quit."
• McCain is a Virgo, so he's "picky and critical," "exacting," and "practical and logical."

This is deep and insightful, right?

Oxford Comma

Yesterday, Stuff White People Like noted that white people really like grammar.

Guess that makes me white, because I'm guilty as charged.

But you know what's better than grammar? Songs about punctuation. Specifically, the serial comma:

Irony is hard; mocking is easy

If there's one thing I've learned over the past two-plus years, it's that irony requires a deft touch. Especially in written form.

When an author writes about something, and the article turns out to be the best example of the subject, it's not really irony. Well, maybe it's dramatic or situational irony, but it's not truly ironic. And it's not really funny, either.

Case in point: a discourse on the overuse of the word awkward is, for lack of a better word . . . awk-ward.

Mother-less day

This is the first year that I can remember where I did not buy a Mother's Day card for my mom. I will never buy a Mother's Day card for my mom again. And, for all of these years, all of these cards, I always bought her funny cards -- even though I knew she liked the sappy sweet ones better. I always hated the mushy stuff -- now it's worse than ever.

I managed to mostly avoid being overwhelmed by mother's day stuff today by going to watch a stinky baseball game in the rain. For some reason -- habit, mostly -- I checked out some of the mom-themed postcards on PostSecret, and a couple of them made me tear up. What really got to me, though, is how my Nana said that she put out the cards she got last year from Pop and my mom. I waited until I hung up the phone, but that's when I lost it.

More shoes

These might be the most ridiculous shoes that I've ever purchased:



And yes, I really do need a pedicure.

Trust vs. Skepticism

I had a weird conversation with my sister today. She's always been a very trusting person -- like my mom -- and, after a series of recent events, she's become aware that people take advantage of it -- which is starting to get to her.

Not me. I was born a skeptic -- and law school just made it worse. I told her that I go into every situation fully aware that everyone has an agenda -- sometimes it's hidden, sometimes it's not -- but it's still an agenda. And I spend an exorbitant amount of time trying to figure out just what that agenda is.

I don't know which is worse -- trusting people too much, or not trusting anyone.

Cards and Flowers

When I was in law school, Mother's Day always fell right around finals. One year, I had a late final or a paper due or something, so I told my mom that there was no way that I'd be able to come down for the weekend. Then, when she and the entire family were out to dinner, I magically showed up, flowers in hand. She was so surprised to see me -- much as she was when I did the same thing for her birthday a couple of years ago -- but she lied and told me that she thought I'd be there. The truth is that she knew I would do something -- I always did something -- but she had no idea that I'd get in the car and drive for four-and-a-half hours just to turn around and head back the next day.

The real truth was that I hated not being with her on Mother's Day. Celebrations like that were very important to her.

One year, a long time ago -- back when I was still a teenager, maybe in my first year of college by then -- my mom and my sister got in a bad fight right before Mother's Day -- so my sister ignored her for the weekend.

That was so not my mom's style -- she'd get angry and then forget why she was angry about 10 minutes later -- or maybe the next day if it was really bad. So my mom wound up being upset that my sister was mad at her, but she was really bothered by the fact that that my sister didn't wish her a happy Mother's Day, or even give her a card.

Of course, I tried to negotiate a truce, and found out the truth: My sister had gotten my mom a card, but didn't give it to her as "punishment," like how you would take a favorite toy away from a misbehaving child.

But I digress. What I really mean to say is that this is the first holiday that she's not around, and it's way harder than I thought it would be.

According to a survey, this year, consumers plan on spending about $15.8 billion on gifts for Mother's Day. In 2007, the same survey indicated that consumers planned to spend $15.73 billion.

Not me. This year I am doing nothing.

Yesterday, I told my Nana that I couldn't even bring myself to go into the Hallmark store -- right downstairs -- to get her a card. Not surprisingly, she understood that I'm just not in the mood for it.

I don't think she knows how bad it is. Every time I see an ad on tv, or get an email from one of the places I used to send my mother flowers in years past, I get annoyed. I think I'm just about ready to add 1-800-Flowers and ProFlowers and FTD to my spam filter. All that marketing is really just too much for someone who just lost their mother. It borders on offensive.

No, that's not exactly right: It feels like a kick to the stomach.

You would think that the retailers would have done some kind of survey on that.

It's still May 6 in the D.C. metro area

Not only was there an earthquake in Annandale today, but somehow, the Washington Post managed to break the space-time continuum and write a story about it in the future.

Talk about newsworthy.

My "truest, deepest self" still wishes my mom was here

I stumbled across an article in the Los Angeles Times, of all places, about how some people improve their lives after being orphaned as adults.

I am not an orphan (my dad has promised that he'll make it to 100, and I believe him) but I understand part of it. I mean, since my mom died, I've made a conscious effort to try to clean up my act -- I'm being healthier, I'm trying to be more responsible, and I'm trying to eliminate extraneous things from my life, particularly if they don't make me happy. But I can't get behind the central pretext of the article, that "The death of your parents can be the best thing that ever happens to you."

The author tries to justify, or maybe just explain:

"The death of a parent -- any parent -- can set us free. It offers us our last, best chance to become our truest, deepest selves," Safer writes. "Nothing else in adult life has so much unrecognized potential to help us become more fulfilled human beings -- wiser, more mature, more open, less afraid."

I find the whole thing offensive. Even if all the rest is true, since my mother's death, I don't find myself being free. Not even close. And I'd trade any wisdom or maturity or fearlessness that I may have gained in this shitty process to have her back -- even with the merciless nudging, the constant complaining and the high expectations, coupled with my need to make her happy (or at least placated). I miss it. I need someone to kick me in the ass sometimes.

All of the re-prioritization in the world isn't worth it.

How the dinosaurs must have felt

Don't get me wrong: I love CDs. But my consumption of music has been evolving -- I am now as likely to download a song from iTunes as I am to go to Amazon and buy the CD. And not too long ago, I noted that I had digitized my entire music collection -- it's now up to 12051 songs (not including a whole bunch I got from Stereogum that I haven't added to my iTunes library yet).

I even posted my own muxtape to share with the world.

I used to buy CDs in actual music stores. But I can't remember the last time I did that. In fact, the only time I remember going into a music store lately, it was a record store (Orpheus in Clarendon, which is going out of business by the end of the month), and I bought a used copy of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk from the bargain bin. And that was before my record player died, which must have been at least a year ago.

I think I'm a prime example of the reason that record stores are going out of business -- my habits have changed drastically in a very short time.

A couple of months ago, I read a Washington Post article indicating that the record industry believes that it is illegal for me to copy the music that I have purchased in CD format onto my computer. That can't be right, can it?

About the only thing in the entire story that made sense to me is this:

The RIAA's legal crusade against its customers is a classic example of an old media company clinging to a business model that has collapsed. Four years of a failed strategy has only "created a whole market of people who specifically look to buy independent goods so as not to deal with the big record companies," Beckerman says. "Every problem they're trying to solve is worse now than when they started."

The 21st century is a confusing time.