Phone numbers

The other morning, I was driving in the car with the baby asleep in the back seat -- yes, we had another baby -- and I wanted to call my husband.  In that moment, I realized that I don't know his phone number off the top of my head. It made me laugh out loud that I couldn't think of his number or even our landline number, but I still remembered my mother's cell phone number.

Only, when I really thought about it, I couldn't remember her number.  I do remember my grandmother's old phone number, and the phone number for our house in Florida, and my work and cell phone numbers.  I even remember our phone number from the house in New Jersey when I was 12.  But I can't remember my mother's number anymore.  Over the last eight years, my brain left it behind.  I guess it needed to free up space for details about pediatrician's appointments, preschool teachers' names, and what time we need to leave to be on time for gymnastics.

Also, when I think of it, I really do know my husband's number - it just takes me a minute. But really, what's the point when all I have to do is push a button and the phone dials for me?

Missing my mom

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a picture of my mom, holding me, when I was one day old:

I miss her. Especially today.  And especially now that I'm going to have a baby of my own.

On how we met

Everyone keeps asking me how I met my husband. It's a tough question, because I don't actually remember meeting him.

We met in middle school, when I first moved from New Jersey to Florida at the beginning of the 8th grade. I mostly remember him from the bus, when he was sitting next to the boy who set my friend's hair on fire. On that same bus, later in the school year, he taught me the ingredients in a screwdriver.

I also remember him from classes -- mostly English classes -- both in middle school and high school. In 9th grade gifted English, he sat in front of me and had long hair that he would flip onto my desk. I had a brief crush on him -- but my crushes were always transitory, fleeting things.

We were always friends: we traveled in somewhat different circles, and we weren't particularly close friends, but I can honestly say that we always liked each other. (In retrospect, it's a little puzzling to both of us that we weren't closer friends when we were younger.) And then we left school and went in completely different directions, but somehow, 23 years later, we wound up here, together -- and now, married.

It's a pretty remarkable story, even if I can't remember the very beginning.

Pain Meds

I hurt my knee and my hip, basically doing nothing. Maybe it was because I wore the wrong shoes, maybe it was because I tripped while walking, maybe it's because I'm getting old and fat -- but for whatever reason, I've been in pain since Sunday night.

It interfered with my sleeping a bit on Sunday night, but it got worse on Monday. In fact, I was in so much pain when I woke up Tuesday morning that I literally cried. Instead of pouring myself a bowl of cereal or drinking the coffee that my boyfriend was attempting to hand to me, I just sat on the couch crying like a baby. If I weren't in so much pain, I would have smacked myself.

So last night, to avoid a repeat, I took a pain pill. It was the good stuff -- the addictive stuff. Twenty minutes or so after taking it, I was relaxed and mumbly. A few minutes after that, I was asleep. I slept well, deeply. I had the most amazing dreams. I woke up refreshed -- although, admittedly, my knee and hip still hurt when I try to move.

If these pills were available without a prescription, I would probably take them all the time. I can see why they're dangerous.

Christmas Memories

Everyone always makes comments to me about a "traditional Jewish Christmas," i.e. Chinese food and a movie. I think it's quaint, because, until I was living in DC in my mid-20s and had my first ever Jewish boyfriend, I had no idea what that meant.

My family had a traditional Christmas: stockings, tons of presents, capped off with a giant family celebration. My mother did, however, draw the line at a tree. And Jesus. There was no room for Jesus in our Christmas.

Most of my memories of Christmas revolve around the fireplace in our second house in New Jersey, the big house in the affluent suburb. We always had piles of presents, and the Christmas presents were entirely separate from the Hanukkah presents. (Santa Claus was very careful most of the time to not use the Hanukkah wrapping paper.)

Every year, there was candy and an orange in the stocking, and when I was really good, sometimes something extra special like a bracelet or earrings. Santa was a firm believer that "good things come in small packages." And like my mother, Santa agreed that jewelry was a very good thing.

I had a really good childhood.

Before that house, we lived in a different house, a split-level, without a fireplace. In that house, Santa left the presents by the front door, and we would sit on the stairs and open them. I used to pester my father with all sorts of questions about how Santa got into the house in the absence of a chimney. My dad eventually told me that parents of good boys and girls gave Santa a spare key. Case closed.

The year we moved out of that first house, when my brother was still a baby, I remember my mother taking me into the city to see The Nutcracker. I had just started ballet lessons and was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina. I looked the part: tiny and vaguely Eastern European, particularly in comparison to my larger, blonder siblings and cousins. Unfortunately, despite 11 years of dance lessons, the klutzy gene prevailed. (At least I got the bookish gene to go with it!)

I've written before about the Christmases in Florida. I've told the story of the mutant and pornographic Chrismanukkah cookies. I've also noted that the house in Florida didn't have a fireplace, and so, we'd have Christmas in front of the television.

When I was older, I would wait until everyone else had fallen asleep to sneak out and leave presents from "Santa Claus" for the entire family. It was nice to surprise my mother. The last Christmas I spent with my entire family - in 2006 -- Santa brought us all matching pajamas. Santa was such a dork.

I miss Santa terribly right now. I could use a dose of Christmas magic.

Fini

I graduated from law school on December 18, 1998, three weeks after I turned 23 years old. Nineteen months later, after the bar exam and an extra year spent getting my LL.M, I was sitting in my crappy apartment in a complex where one of the Gainesville murders took place, packing up my meager possessions into boxes, and waiting for the movers to come get my stuff to cart it a thousand miles north. Other than continuing education seminars, I was done with school, raring to enter the working world.

Fini.

Or so I thought.

Which brings us to the beginning of 2010. After the loss of my mom, several painful failed relationships, and interminable work stresses, I found myself looking for something, well, more. That more turned into a graduate degree program at Georgetown. And as of a few minutes ago, I just turned in my final exam for my very first class.

I am proud of myself for finishing that first class, but I have so many more to go if I want to complete the degree program. I have no idea whether I’ll ever make it to the end, with work and responsibilities and (arguably) life. But still, in this moment, I am proud. Exhausted too.

Ancient History

I live in a city obsessed with history: Washington, DC is, in many ways, entirely focused on preserving it, interpreting it, making it, and sometimes even rewriting it. It's strange, though: The history we focus on here only goes back, at maximum, 400 years. When I was living in London, I was constantly overwhelmed by just how old everything there was. And that was nothing too -- when I was in Jerusalem, everything was even older. All that history makes me feel somewhat comforted as I'm heading into another birthday.

The years that end in zeroes and fives are the most stressful. And this time, I'm about to be in another age bracket -- the victim of an unwarranted demographic shift. All of a sudden, I am less valuable to advertisers. But I feel so young -- except when I look at the gray hairs, or when I hear my back and my knees crack and creak when I get up in the morning, or when I realize that some of the people I knew in high school now have teenage children. How did this happen? And, more importantly, how did it all pass me by? When did I become middle-aged? It seems like I was just having my mid-twenties crisis, but no, I'm far removed from all that and instead, getting closer to a sports car and an inappropriately young lover. (Does that even apply to women?)

I passed by Ford's Theater today -- the place where President Lincoln was shot. All of a sudden, I was brought back to my eighth grade trip, to standing on that very corner, with a cast on my arm and a pink denim jacket. Who was that thirteen year old girl? Where has she gone? What transformation could possibly have turned her into me? How did I possibly get here?

Dara vs. the Library

Growing up, my favorite place on earth was the library. Not just because of story time, but because there were piles and piles of books for me to read. I consumed books like others consumed food, or perhaps even air or water. Without books, I wilted.

In college, I would occasionally hide in the library -- it was a quiet place to read and think and sometimes write. This was before computers ruled the world -- they were just there as aids to help you find things. (And also, it was where the Tallahassee Free-Net computers were located.) By the time I got to law school, I could see the evolution. Books were becoming disfavored; computer research was the way of the future. And the library? I couldn't study there -- there was too much talking and gossiping. I had to go to the med school if I wanted undisturbed peace and quiet.

Nowadays, I spend almost no time in libraries. We have a small library in the office where I do a little bit of research, but almost everything I need is available on my computer. At home, I have a large number of books -- not quite a library, but perhaps the beginnings of one -- and when I want something new, I go to the bookstore or order it to be delivered.

This brings me to the fact that, for school, I have to write a research paper, which, as it turns out, requires research. And so, this morning, I headed out to the library. First of all, I had forgotten that Georgetown plays football, so I was surprised to find that there was a game today. I was even more surprised to see how small their football games are. But I digress: I parked and walked up the hill to the library.

The library is no longer the quiet refuge of my childhood. It is a noisy place. People talk, slam their computers shut, type with purpose. I used a public computer to search the catalog for the books and articles I needed, writing notes by hand in a spiral bound notebook. I was the only one doing such things. I am a dinosaur.

I was there for a while, but then, all of a sudden, a woman with short blond hair, looking to be my age, sat down at the computer next to me. She slammed her stuff around. Her cell phone rang at least three or four times, in a loud techno music ringtone that angered me. She typed like she was trying to kill the keyboard. She read things on the screen out loud. She also had this weird thing where she kept smacking herself in the abdominal region, five or six times in a row, then would stop, and then a minute or so later, would do it again.

I had to get out of that fucking weirdness.

I finished what I was doing as best as I could. I emailed myself the articles I found online, and went all the way downstairs to the area of the library where they keep the books on religion. It was a dark and musty smelling basement with no signs of life. I quickly figured out why: that section is only open during regular business hours on Mondays through Fridays.

And so, defeated, I trudged back upstairs, straight to the help desk, and told them of my dilemma. They looked at my list of books -- five -- and told me that they would try to get me any of them that were not designated as "Library Use Only." It would take a few minutes. I decided to go to the coffee shop to grab a drink. I have never seen anything like it before: a coffee shop, noisily playing indie music, in the middle of a library. I then looked around. There were almost no books. They are archaeological relics, hidden in the cavernous subbasements where no one is allowed to go.

I managed to check out two of the five books, and raced home. I am hoping that I don't have to go back anytime soon.

Archives

I used to love sitting down with my grandmother, looking at old pictures, listening to her tell stories of the way things were when she was a girl and her mother -- my great-grandmother -- still young. She would also whisper stories of my mother's childhood, perhaps with a wink, helping me to see the girl -- the person -- underneath the parental veneer.

I still love those moments with Nana, although they are more rare now. I try to get her to write things down, and she does it in spurts -- a caption on a photograph here or there. A few years ago, when she was sick, and my littlest cousin was still a toddler, I bought her a book so she could write things down for him, just in case. I'm not sure if she ever used it, and lucky for my cousin, she's beaten the cancer, so far.

I think that Nana's boxes of photos and clippings are why, since childhood, I've always tended to keep my own pictures, mementos, scrapbooks. I also think that, on some level, it's why I keep journals -- so that the stories live on. I'm a collector, an amateur archivist.

A few weeks ago, while cleaning out some things, I stumbled across a small collection of camcorder videos that I had made in law school: some footage of my friend's band playing; one of my brother's plays; a video of my roommate and I dancing around our apartment. And then I found paydirt: several hours of family movies over the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays in 1997, where we were just sitting around, talking to each other, playing with the dog, eating pancakes. My mother at her best and happiest: surrounded by her college-age children and parents.

Watching the tape was like time travel. All of a sudden, I was sitting there, hearing my mother's voice, my mother's laugh, for the first time in years. And seeing the sights and sounds of a family, together, all under one roof, happy. I had not forgotten those sights and sounds: what I had forgotten was how much I loved being a part of a family, a collective.

I copied the video to my hard drive. I'm going to burn it to DVD and send it to my siblings and my father, so that they can remember too. And, in some way, the video will help my mother live on in some tangible way -- just a little -- for my nephew and, perhaps one day, my children.

Q&A

Q: If you could go back in time 10 years and tell your younger self something, what would it be?

A: Don't necessarily work so hard at work, and work harder at your relationships. Because in 10 years, the work will still be there, but the relationships might not.

(via Formspring.)

Time Travel

Getting back in touch with people you haven't seen in a long time is odd.  In a way it's disturbing -- everything is out of place, out of context.  But, on the other hand it's comfortingly familiar.  Not only does it reconnect you with the other person, it simultaneously reconnects you with who you used to be, the good and the bad and the in-between.  You might not be able to go back in time to impart your hard-earned knowledge on your younger self, but you certainly can, from time to time, have your younger self remind you of who you really are, and who you really want to be.

Albums of the Year(s)

Last year, the AV Club ran an article based on something they saw somewhere else -- which is essentially a highbrow meme -- where they picked a favorite album for each year they've been alive. Of course, I think it's kind of a neat idea. So, here are my favorite albums for each year that I've been alive:

1975: Fleetwood Mac, Fleetwood Mac
1976: Hotel California, The Eagles
1977: Rumours, Fleetwood Mac
1978: Outlandos d'Amour, The Police
1979: London Calling, The Clash
1980: Boys Don't Cry, The Cure
1981: Escape, Journey
1982: Thriller, Michael Jackson
1983: Madonna, Madonna
1984: The Unforgettable Fire, U2
1985: Songs From the Big Chair, Tears for Fears
1986: Slippery When Wet, Bon Jovi
1987: The Joshua Tree, U2
1988: New Jersey, Bon Jovi
1989: Disintigration, The Cure
1990: Violator, Depeche Mode
1991: Ten, Pearl Jam
1992: Wish, The Cure
1993: August and Everything After, Counting Crows
1994: Grace, Jeff Buckley
1995: A Boy Named Goo, Goo Goo Dolls
1996: Crash, Dave Matthews Band
1997: Whatever and Ever Amen, Ben Folds Five
1998: Wide Open Spaces, Dixie Chicks
1999: There is Nothing Left to Lose, Foo Fighters
2000: No Name Face, Lifehouse
2001: Room For Squares, John Mayer
2002: Songs About Jane, Maroon 5
2003: Elephant, The White Stripes
2004: How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, U2
2005: X&Y, Coldplay
2006: Stand Still, Look Pretty, The Wreckers
2007: Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, Spoon
2008: Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, Coldplay
2009: Middle Cyclone, Neko Case

I'm shocked by how hard it was to make these choices, and how mainstream these choices are.

Contemplating U2

Here is a confession that should surprise no one: U2 is, by far, my favorite band, and have been since high school. And I've seen them on every single tour since I've been old enough to drive myself to wherever it is that they are playing. So it should surprise no one that I will be attending their concert here next week.

In gearing up for said concert, one of the music critics at the Washington Post posted a blog ranking the 12 U2 studio albums from worst to best. Here is his list:

12. October (1981)
11. How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb (2004)
10. POP (1997)
9. No Line on the Horizon (2009)
8. War (1983)
7. All That You Can't Leave Behind (2000)
6. Rattle and Hum (1988)
5. The Unforgettable Fire (1984)
4. Boy (1980)
3. Zooropa (1993)
2. The Joshua Tree (1987)
1. Achtung Baby (1991)

At first I thought this list was dead wrong, but now I'm not sure. Like them, whether I rank Achtung Baby or The Joshua Tree as #1 or #2 depends on the day and whether I'm leaning towards dark and ambient or earnest soul-searching. As for the rest, I'd probably put The Unforgettable Fire as my #3, and move Rattle & Hum into the top 5. And I liked How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb a lot more than some of the other newer records. But they're clearly right on one thing: Generally speaking, newer (as in post-1990) U2 < older U2.

Observation #5

Often, when someone goes to a new hairdresser, the hairdresser will try to upsell them on additional services -- for example, hair color. After the customer politely declines, asking "Are you sure that you don't want to cover the gray?" will not work to change the customer's mind, and will, in all likelihood, reduce the hairdresser's tip.

Senior Memories

Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be!!

Copy and paste the questions into your notes section, fill in the answers, and tag your friends to see their answers.

IN YOUR SENIOR YEAR DID YOU...

1. Did you date someone from your school? Yes.

2. Did you marry someone from your high school? Almost, but not quite.

3. Did you car pool to school? For a couple of weeks, until Ryan got tired of having to pick me up.

4. What kind of car did you have? None -- my dad told me to find a boy to drive me around.

5. What kind of car do you have now? 2001 VW Jetta with 35,000 miles on it. It's good to live in a place with public transportation.

6. It's Friday night...where are you now? Out at dinner. If I'm lucky there will be drinks, too.

7. It is Friday night...where were you then? Probably sleeping over one of my friend's houses so I can actually DO something.

8. What kind of job did you have in high school? None.

9. What kind of job do you do now? Lawyer.

10. Were you a party animal? No. At least not comparatively.

11. Were you considered a flirt? I don't think so.

12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Nope.

13. Were you a nerd? I think I was either a slightly nerdy normal kid or a really cool nerd.

14. Did you get suspended or expelled? Not during senior year. I think I got a one-day suspension for skipping math in 10th grade -- we got caught because we decided to get breakfast at Bageland. Although maybe that was just a Saturday detention.

15. Can you sing the fight song? Hell, no. I never could, either.

16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)? Senior year it was definitely Ms. Arena.

17. Where did you sit during lunch? Senior year I did an "independent study" which meant that I sat in the guidance office and occasionally delivered passes. So I got to take whichever lunch I felt like - which usually meant that I took part of both, wherever my friends were.

18. What was your school's full name? Coral Springs High School.

19. When did you graduate? 1993.

20. What was your school mascot? Colts.

21. If you could go back and do it again, would you? Probably not.

22. Did you have fun at Prom? Yes.

23. Do you still talk to the person you went to Prom with? Yes, although lately it's mostly text messages.

24. Are you planning on going to your next reunion? If I can manage it. The last one was fun.

25. Do you still talk to people from school? Yes, and not just via Facebook.

26. School Colors? Green and Blue.

The History of Dara, Part 8 (Crazy Notebook Edition)

I know I said I'm done blogging, but there are some things that still need to be written. Especially today, the one year anniversary of my mother's death.

I've been sitting here reading the notebook I scrawled in on the airplane down to Florida-- when I was trying to keep from pacing up and down the aisle looking like a terrorist -- and I am astounded by some of the things that I wrote.

This time I brought a notebook on the plane, mostly out of fear of being alone with my thoughts for too many hours. I don't have any idea what I'm doing. I'm like a zombie. A robot. A zombie-robot.

She would have thought that was funny. She always found my strangeness funny. And I always obliged because I didn't care if she was laughing with me or at me. As long as she was laughing.

***

Crying on a plane is so not me. I hope no one sees. And if they do, I hope they just think I'm sick.

***

Right now I think God has a sick sense of humor.

***

I was born on a Thursday. Today is Thursday. 32 times 52 is 1664. So, since it's been about 10 weeks since my birthday, I've had my mother for 1675 or so Thursdays. Not enough.*

***

I think I've been checking my watch every three minutes. God, I can't wait for this flight to be over. Everyone here is either older than my mom or has a baby. One's been screaming since fifteen minutes before we took off.

Need to be off the plane ASAP. Have about an hour to go. Keep trying not to think, not to cry, but it's not like there's a switch I can turn on and off.

I brought a book, but can't bring myself to read, it would just be a waste. I wish I could sleep or even just relax. But my mind's going about a thousand miles a minute. Wish the plane could keep up.

***

My mom is my designated beneficiary on all my insurance and pension and stuff. I remember telling her once that if anything happened to me, she'd be a very rich lady and wouldn't need to share it with Dad. She told me that I was being horrible and that she would share with him.

I guess I need to change all those forms. Which sucks. On so many levels.

***

I think, in retrospect, buying an airplane-proof pen was a fantastic idea. Should have bought a notebook with lines, though. Writing on a plane is hard enough, with all the jolts and jostles of varying degrees. My handwriting is all over the place. But at least it's legible. It looks like hers.

***

I feel bad for my future theoretical children.

***

Not ten minutes ago, I wrote about how much I want this flight to be over. Then I realized that as soon as I get off the plane and see my dad, my sister, or my Nana -- or any combination thereof -- I'm going to burst into tears, and I don't think I'll be able to stop.

My eyes are already brimming over just thinking about it. So now, maybe I don't want this flight to end. Instead, I want to go back in time, to Monday evening, and I want my mother to get herself to the ER the second she started feeling sick, before the infection got so bad.

***

I hope this is not what crazy feels like.

***

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

***

I hope no one reads this, ever.

***

I bought this notebook with my mom, the last time I saw her, over Thanksgiving.

I can't remember if it was the day after or the Saturday. Whatever. I can't believe we wasted all that friggin' time on line at the crappy-ass Bealls Outlet so that my dad could buy $3 pants and I could get a notebook with a fancy cover for a quarter.

***

Who's going to take care of my dad and my Nana?

***

She wasn't even eligible for Social Security.

***

I can't believe the last conversation I had with her was about the superbowl and the Catherine Malandrino dress.

This is all so fucked up.

***

I am too young for this. My parents had their mothers around well into their sixties. I am only 32. I've been cheated of at least 30 years.

***

Guess she managed to keep me from voting for Obama in the primary after all.

***

In the car on the way back from the airport, I kept saying "Fucking fuck fuck fuck!" It's like stress-induced Tourette's syndrome.

I broke down for a minute in the bank vault with my Nana. We were getting info about the cemetery so my mom can be buried near her father -- my Pop. Nana told me how my dad'll be buried there too, now -- and I lost it. Two grandparents and one parent in 7 months is enough. More than enough, really.

***

I talked to my best friend from high school tonight. She was a religion major in college but couldn't really say anything to help me. I told her how my Nana broke down in the car and started to curse God. (At least she believes enough to curse something!)

The conversation was weird, but necessary. How does someone you've known for more than half your life help you get over this?

She just about lost it too when I pointed out that my brother's bar mitzvah was exactly 15 years from next weekend. How did we get so old and our lives get so screwed up?

***

Just praying that I can manage to get some sleep. This house is fucking weird without her in it.

My dad is a zombie-robot too. It's clearly genetic.

How the fuck is this my life?

FUCK!

I am still hoping that this is some kind of fucked-up fever-induced nightmare -- and that I'll wake up in the morning with everything back to normal.

***

Mom, I'm sorry about the ear piercing. And the belly button. And the tattoo.

I'm sorry about what a crappy pre-teen I was.

I'm sorry about lying about drinking and sex.

I'm sorry I moved so far away.

I'm sorry I wasn't here.

I love you. You've always been my best friend and biggest supporter and I am so sorry that I didn't tell you that often enough.

I don't know how to be without you.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through the rest of my days without being able to call you just to hear your voice, or to relate something silly.

When I make good decisions, it's always been because of your influence and support. I don't know how I'll function without that.

I am so lost already.

***

I only freaked out two more times today. Once was when my dad handed me my mom's rings. I just lost it. And honestly, I didn't mean to do it in front of him.

The second was in my car with Nana, when she said something and it brought up the fact that my mother will never see my kids, her grandkids.

She will not be at my wedding. It is all so very backwards.

My dad lost it a little too. He says he has no focus anymore. I am so worried about him having to be here, alone, when we all have to leave.

I can't believe that my mom will never ever make Thanksgiving dinner again.

Everything is so upside-down and backwards. It's not right.

My dad keeps saying that over and over again. That and the fact that it all happened so quickly.

I don't know what to do. It's like I'm living someone else's nightmare right now.

***

I told my brother and dad about this notebook, how I spent the entire flight writing, and how half of it was the word "fuck."

My brother said that the people next to me probably thought I was schizophrenic. I guess that's better than reporting my behavior to the air marshal.

I keep telling everyone that I'm currently held together with Scotch tape and rubber bands. We'll see how that holds up when we meet with the Rabbi tomorrow.

***

My mother told me what to do all the time. The small things, anyway -- clean your room, make your bed, don't leave dishes in the sink, that sort of stuff. She never really told me what to do, though. She would always listen and help me decide what to do and encouraged me to follow my instincts. And then, when I made whatever decision, she would tell me how proud she was of me. Like when I decided to take less money to do what I wanted to do. She was proud of the level of thought that I had given it -- but mostly she was proud of it as an expression of my priorities -- how it was better to be happy than to make more money. She took special pride in that one, even if it meant that I wasn't going to buy her any more designer handbags. Secretly, though, she was happy because she knew I'd be able to take more vacation. In theory, anyway.

***

My mother had the most beautiful hands.

My mother had the most beautiful laugh.

My mother's eyes were somewhere between sky blue and a cloudy sky. On the way back to the house from the airport, the northeast corner of the sky was the exact same color as her eyes.

These are things I hope I never forget.

*It was actually exactly 1680 Thursdays, but who needs to get bogged down in the details?

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. . . .)

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.