thunderstorms highly likely

Incompetence really frustrates me. People who drive or walk too slow do, too. But I think people who try to shift blame and avert responsibility top my all-time list of supreme grievances.

I find the offense especially egregious when parents try to make someone else responsible for the rearing and discipline of their children. I was spoiled, I suppose (though I certainly didn’t see it that way at the time); I had two very involved parents who wanted everything to do with how we grew up. We heard “no” a lot. Do we know her parents? Will her parents even be there? You’ll be out till what time? No. Resounding.

The world has changed a lot since I grew up, in a house that had no internet till the tenth grade. Looking back, the landscape seemed a lot safer then: everything was visible; it was knowable and seeable. Parents today have a lot to more deal with, but I don’t think the mysticism of the internet is any excuse to let your duties-as-mom-and-dad slack off. Know when she’s online. Know who she talks to. Know where she goes, and what information she’s telling the world about herself. Harder, sure, but not impossible.

I read a case today where a thirteen year old girl registered for a MySpace page by pretending to be 18. She uploaded pictures of herself, some of which were scandalous, then made internet friends with some guy. After extensive chats, she then arranged to meet him, and was assaulted. Tragic, really. But her mom? Her mom sued MySpace. Negligence, she said: MySpace hadn’t adequately protected her daughter. EARTH TO MOM, that’s YOUR job.

Back when I was younger, if I would have broken the rules and gone out late and been by myself and talked to strangers downtown and gotten hurt, could my parents have sued the City of Seattle? Obviously the analogy is flawed, but really?

The judge in this case was a guy I like. I might even write him some fan mail. This from the transcript:

THE COURT: I want to get this straight. You have a 13-year-old girl who lies, disobeys all of the instructions, later on disobeys the warning not to give personal information, obviously, and does not communicate with the parent. More important, the parent does not exercise the parental control over the minor. The minor gets sexually abused, and you want somebody else to pay for it? This is the lawsuit that you filed?

COUNSEL FOR THE DOES: Yes, your honor.

He threw the case out, and the appellate court affirmed. Good news all around. Still, though, parenting like this makes me want to punch people in the kidney. Laws are important, and technological protections for kids online can go a long way. Nothing, though—nothing at all—will protect a child better than a parent who’s involved and on the scene, who communicates and listens and is there.

That’s about my two cents on that. Time to get back at it now, lickety split; it’s always more fun when work gets you passionate, yeah?

You know it’s summer in DC when the interns start swarming in, all hungry for a stab at the opportunities, all abuzz at being part of the proverbial action.  They’re easy to spot, running around in their new suits and proudly clipping their picture IDs to themselves—wearing their red-lettered TEMPORARY credentials as a badge of honor, strung on lanyards beneath crisply ironed collars.  See, I’m one of you, I belong here.  I’m doing this, too.  That’s the message, and I’ve been there.  I remember that first badge I had.  It’d be a lie to say that the thrill of buzzing myself through doors and past security has worn off.  I’m easily amused, sure, but I remember feeling like the coolest person ever when it was all brand new.

We had a few interns start in our office today.  When I stop and think on it, my intern summer wasn’t that long ago—two years is all—but oh, do I feel a world away from their bright-eyed enthusiasm.  Remember when it was all new? And all exciting? And working in an office meant you were going somewhere and doing something (as opposed, say, to staring at a computer till you need glasses and learning mental gymnastics to tolerate the imbeciles down the hall?).

I was thinking similar thoughts over the weekend.  J remains serious about his future career in music, and we took a day trip to Charlottesville where he had a dinner meeting set up. You’d think we were an old married couple or something; like I was shackled to his business plans.  I tagged along voluntarily, though; I love love love Charlottesville.  It’s a nice drive, too, and getting out for some country air? Always a grand idea. (Yes, I have very simplistic, 50’s era ideas of spectacular weekend plans.  A drive in the country? Charming! Let me pack us a picnic, put on my good hose, load up the station wagon, and we’ll be off, at 20 mph on an old country road.  My imagination? Often my best friend for a reason).

What I didn’t realize was that it was UVA’s graduation weekend.  What I thought would be a nice few hours of me sitting on the downtown mall, novel in hand, watching the world go by was, once it met reality, more like a chaotic scene of strollers and wheelchairs; well dressed younger brothers tugging the hands of newly minted 20-somethings with big dreams. It was a pretty spectacular scene to sit witness to.  I found a cutesy patio panini bar with a spare table, which served as a perfect window to the transitioning world around me.

More than anything, it got me thinking about the very best friend I had in college. We roomed together for three years; we were practically inseparable.  I majored in English, and minored in Biology; she majored in Biology, but minored in English.  We helped each other and loved each other, and oh my goodness we were BFFs and we would star in each other’s weddings and our children would be best friends.  Forever!  Of course!

Our junior year, she was preparing for the MCATS, I for the LSATS, and we timed each other and did hard-core drills.  She went to med school in St. Louis when I moved back to Seattle for law school, and I think the miles and the stress of those years really damaged something great. 

We trade detached e-mails, and sometimes voicemails, but the last time we actually talked was on my birthday in the fall.  She was engaged, she said, to a guy I’d neither met nor so much as heard of. 

They got married on Saturday.  They were standing up in her parents’ living room, saying forever as I sat eating a sandwich and sipping wine, a backdrop to the start of other peoples’ new lives. 

She called me from the airport yesterday, on her way to the honeymoon.  It was different than she’d always thought, getting married, she said, and sitting there in that terminal, she wondered how we’d gotten sidetracked.  How we’d gotten lost.    

I think that there are things in life that you just have to go out there and get.  You have to hold on to the eager enthusiasm of the moment, because getting there? Reaching that last day, finding that best friend and that perfect guy, getting that prized internship? It’s a blip.  Life happens in between those markers, and you have to keep fighting for it.  You have to call those old friends and keep in touch with why you dress up and leave each morning, because that energy, once it gets a kick-start, is really quite catching.  And it’s what holds it all together, as fleeting as it sometimes seems. 

J came back from Nashville last night, all in one piece, apparently. He called around 9 and wanted to see me, but it was going to involve some crazy scheme whereby I’d have to drive over there, follow him to the car repair man, then either drive him back with me or leave my car in his garage or something; apparently, busting back and forth to freaking Tennessee leaves some hard miles on a car. Who knew.

I opted for the “no” side of that choice, and stayed home, nursing my blah-ness. My parents’ departure and J’s disappearing act have been stale bread sandwiching the continued idocity of my job and the early-March weather the sky’s spat back out. The “specials” chalkboard of my life this week has read a giant BLAH. Color, color, nowhere. Just a lot of grey that says, magda, go back to bed; a grey that says yes, crying will make it all better! (Lies! Terrible lies!).

I don’t know the cure for the blahs. They come and they go. A temporary fix, though? Cheese. And wine. And fresh and delicious seafood. Preferably all served together; preferably all from Washington; preferably all at the Washington State Society Dinner that is (so convenient!) tonight, in downtown D.C. I’ll be there, at my college’s alumni table, with one of my best home-state gal pals.

So no J again tonight, but really, I think that’s okay. And I’m kind of looking forward to it, in a no-I-don’t-secretly-want-to-break-up-with-him way.

To the blahs I say good riddance. Choosing happiness is so often the hardest part, but tonight, with wine as my side-kick, I’m making a comeback. Yes siree.

She’s stumbling through Paris tonight, but with a certain grace, as suits her.  She’s got her party hat on, is charming the euro-locals at the bar with a French that has finally surpassed mine, and is, with all certainty, rip-roaring drunk.

She’s my littlest sister, and she’s 21 today.  Twenty-one.  She exists only as a frenchie caricature in my mind, because I just can’t grasp the reality.  I remember so distinctly being 21. I also remember doing things as a twenty-one-year-old that, ahem, no one’s little sister should be allowed to even know about.

Although there’s significantly more fuzz, I also remember the day she was born.  I was in kindergarten, and she was my blue-eyed baby.  Hooray!  You’re 10 today!  I seriously considered sending her a birthday card with this message printed inside.  Behold the power of Hallmark; you, too can reverse time; back-track; take a do-over.  If only it was so simple.

(And seriously?  A 21st birthday in Paris?  Who does that?  How do I know this person?)

In other news, J’s apparently in Nashville this week.  I say “apparently” because it all sort of flew out of nowhere, and as my other sister, the biochemist, oh-so-helpfully pointed out on the phone earlier, I don’t actually know. And thanks, dear.

When I started dating J, he was an attorney in a high-powered firm downtown.  Stable.  Secure. Known.  Earlier this fall, he declared himself miserable, and went to work for a Senator. Starting in about January, he began a tortuous process I can only define as “finding himself.”  Cliché, yes, but hey, if the shoe fits…

On the side, he’s started doing some legal work for a start-up band starring, hilariously, his mandolin teacher. (J’s been playing mandolin for maybe 2 years now.  It’s not something I’m particularly fond of).

He’s started looking into real estate.  He thinks maybe he’ll be a businessman.  In my books, he’s walked the career plank, but rather than furiously and determinedly swimming for shore, he’s splashing around and amusing himself, and wondering if there’s a better beach off in a better direction.

And then I get this call on Sunday. He says he’s leaving his parents’ early and is heading to Nashville.  “I’m going to negotiate a contract for the band,” he said.  He’ll be gone for the week.  Oh really. And I guess work doesn’t mind? You can just write them and say, peace out, I’m driving to Tennessee this week, see you around?

They’ll be really busy, he said, so he may not have time to talk when I call. “I’ll call you when I get time.”  Um. 

From a man who is freaking obsessed with his mobile e-mail (and has been known to regularly check his personal e-mail while we are at restaurants and in church), I have received a whopping ZERO notes of affection/amour/otherwise.  No text messages.  A series of short calls, all late at night. 

Granted, I’m a suspicious person naturally.  It’s an affliction for which I’m a confirmed carrier. The biochemist put it into words, though.  I don’t actually know. It’s not that I doubt, really; it’s more that I fear. I fear that I’m losing touch with who he is at all. 

And now I’m back to googling his ex-live-in girlfriend.  Very. Bad. Behavior. 

Working hard without hope of recognition or personal gain is a great virtue.  Honesty in all things and fairness to all people is the mark of a true leader.  Double-check facts and call to confirm reservations.  Laugh at your own foibles.  Self confidence amidst a sea of infidels and fools is a skill hard to hone, but so valuable to hold.  When management doesn’t respond and the water is too hot, pry the mechanical door off its hinges and readjust the hot water heater yourself.  Be abundantly generous with those you love, for time is precious.  Have a glass of wine or two at home before dinner, and really talk to one another.  Distance is no object when it’s real love at stake; togetherness trumps a phone call, no matter the cost or short duration. Find humor and lightness in a world that is so often grey.  Lessons from dad.

Rain is good for the complexion.  Sometimes a good hug makes everything better. Live life outside of your comfort zone; adventures await, even on metrobuses in the hood.  Look for the joy in little things, as the world holds so much beauty that so often goes unseen. The Eating By Color cookbook is, quite simply, amazing.  It is possible to find practical walking shoes that are also cute. Appreciate the finer things in life, but realize that happiness isn’t found in that which is material.  Chart your own course and make your own decisions, but do so with a level head and reasoned judgment.  Be glad our culture does not condone arranged marriages.  A cheerful attitude changes everything.  Always carry purel—life’s germy. There’s no place like home.  Lessons from mom. 

Brief glimpses and rememberances of what it used to be like brings homesickness on quickly. Looking for editorial jobs in Seattle on craigslist only makes this worse. There’s nothing like family, quirky as they are; there’s something invaluable about knowing and seeing where exactly you’re from.  Age accumulates, so fast. We’re none of us getting younger.  Appreciating advancement and change is bittersweet.  Anxiety and nervous anticipation of the inevitable is a poor use of energy; time is so much better spent in grateful appreciation of all that’s been given. Independence and self-reliance is a skill to cherish, but at the end of the day, it’s just one tool in a crowded box.  A weekend is never long enough.  Lessons.   

It’s been gorgeous here for weeks—temperatures in the high 70s, sunny days, no humidity.

Then, on the day my parents are set to arrive, it starts raining. And not just ordinary, “oh what? these sprinkles?” rain.

Here’s a rundown of the weather predicted for the next four days, the approximate duration of their stay: Partly sunny, a thunderstorm. Cloudy, heavy thunderstorms. Cloudy, rainy, breezy, cooler. Mostly cloudy, thunderstorms possible. Mostly cloudy, rain possible; windy.

Awe-some.

Looking for good news on the next page of the paper, I’m hit with the following advisory: “Do expect major metro delays this weekend, green/yellow line riders. Metro is advising riders to prepare for delays of up to 45 minutes on the Green and Yellow lines this weekend because of track work.” I live on the yellow line.

You can’t see it, but I’m flipping off the District of Columbia at this precise moment. I’m also imagining some very harsh expletives that I keep to myself not out of cultured temper, but out of fear for the google hits I’d receive.

I need to get out of this town.

In the middle of a panel discussion on industry best practices in the mobile marketplace this afternoon (yawn, I know), the young man to my left passed me the following note:

Hey, you seem really cool, I have to get back to the office but I’d really like to get to know you better! Give me a call, maybe we can get coffee sometime. –Brad, (xxx) xxx-xxxx.

Aww! Kind of sweet. Even though I think this Brad character is likely barely 21 and an admitted intern, and even though we spoke for about three seconds before the speakers started doing their thing, the gesture was flattering. Got to give it to the guy.

I thought about Brad on my ride home, and for most of my indentured servitude in the gym earlier. Well, perhaps not him specifically. More like the idea of him.

“I wonder if mom would like him if he’s who I was dating.” That’s what I was thinking. “Maybe Brad would be really pleasing to her.”

My mom is not a natural fan of J’s.

There are a million things I love about my mom, and on the scale of mothers world-wide, she gets an 11.5 out of 10. She’s amazing. On this landscape, though, the smallest of aberrations, the most minute cordons of barbed wire, can really mar the picture.

Mom’s never been really enthusiastic about any men that I’ve dated, with mostly good reason and with relatively little protest. “Ah, mom,” we’d say. “She’ll never be satisfied.” It didn’t really matter. Until now. It matters so much to me now.

I want her to like J. I need her to see how much I love him, that I love him for the right reasons, and that he adores me.

She gave me a whole little lecture series over Christmas about how she didn’t understand what I saw in him, didn’t buy it when I said we were such a good fit, wanted to be sure I wasn’t losing out on making friends and finding opportunities because I was so wholly in this relationship.

Fair points, all. But she’d met the guy only twice, and neither under ideal circumstances. First was last winter, when the whole family came out to DC. Our relationship was new, and we had a slight argument over something stupid that ended up making me cry. That wasn’t so good.

Then he came home with me to Seattle last Memorial Day, but he’d broken his collarbone about a month before; he was still hyped up on medication and wearing a really awkward brace. That was pretty unfortunate, too.

This is all she’s using to worry that I’m wrecking my life. I appreciate her concern so much, but it’s hard to keep it impersonal. I don’t want to tailor my life to please her, but her approval is so valuable to me.

They’re coming for mother’s day, my parents, and they’ll be here tomorrow. Instead of running around furtively gathering all evidence of my heathen lifestyle—J’s toothbrush and deodorant, my birth control—and instead of piling dresses and sweaters on top of the clothes on J’s shelf in my closet, I’m just sitting here agonizing about the whole thing. Wondering why she doesn’t think we’re a fit. Scared she’s right.

She specifically requested to not see him on mother’s day, which I still find a bit harsh. “We’re coming to see you,” she wrote in an e-mail. “I respect his place in your life, so maybe he could come over one night besides Sunday and we could cook something.” Between the lines I’m reading “we don’t want to consider the possibility of him as family, we don’t even want to take him out, get the picture, we don’t like you dating him, now move on along.”

True, they’re coming from really far away. It makes sense, and I understand. But still, what is this?

I (stealthily) encouraged J to go back home and spend mother’s day with his mom, which happily he’s doing. But at what cost? He’ll miss my parents entirely this trip. Maybe it’ll be good; will give me a chance to show them that I’m just as much me without him by my side. Let them see that I’m strong and dynamic, that I take care of me and make good choices. Maybe.

In my head, this weekend will be spectacular. “Our daughter can do no wrong!” they’ll be singing at the end of it. “She’s amazing and brilliant beyond compare, and confidence is her middle name! If she chooses him, we’ll love him! Too bad we missed him! He’s the best!” This will be set to music, of course, and we’ll all be holding hands and smiling ridiculously as we tap dance down the accordion thing to their airplane home. Maybe. Maybe all it needs is time.

Poor Brad probably has his phone on maximum volume tonight. He’ll never here from me, and maybe he’ll be disappointed for awhile. But in time, it won’t mean a thing. In time, it’ll all smooth over, and the rearview mirror will remember nothing. For slightly more selfish reasons, this girl’s wishing on exactly that star tonight.

Days like today, and moments like right now, I’d like nothing more than to wriggle my nose and freeze the world for a bit, a la Samantha Stevens.

I was rather bored at work today; I had plenty to do, but the hours stretched on, and on, and on. In between summarizing two rather dull cases, I pulled together a little list of my activities for this evening.

• Go to the grocery store.
• Work out for a full hour.
• Reconcile finances and catalogue the hideous pile of receipts on floor.
• Do laundry.
• E-mail mom.
• E-mail grandma.
• Call best friend in Seattle.
• Write letter to sister.
• Write J’s anniversary card (a year and a half this week!)
• Take out recycling.
• Vacuum apartment.
• Look for brown boots that have mysteriously gone missing.

I think I may be delusional. I get home around 6, on a good night, and time after work always goes so. much. faster. Why is this?

Accomplished: the store. They gym. The finances. And that’s about it.

Granted, I haven’t organized my budget since mid-march, so it’s fitting (maybe?) that it took nearly two hours to enter and file everything. I opted to take it out in one fell swoop as my parents are coming later this week; perpetuating the illusion of a daughter totally together, I cannot sit by and let the paperwork pile up.

It’s 10:38 and I haven’t even gotten to the laundry. I have a very limited wardrobe of clean clothes remaining. Scheisse.

Not on the list but duly accomplished: consume a near-entire bottle of wine. Make a nearly healthy and deliciously cheesy Mexican-style dinner (Cinco de Mayo, you know). Write this blog post.

Well, I guess that’s progress.

There’s a line, howsoever blurred or indistinct, dividing luck and chance from reality and skill.  I just don’t know where it is.  I’ve never been a traditionally lucky person; I don’t win door prizes, and I’d hit bankrupt a hundred times on Wheel of Fortune before I came near the “Tropical Vacation!” box. Luck or no luck, though, a certain fascination attaches to trying—could be me! Maybe this time! We could beat the odds!

With that (and a drumroll, please), the winner of Pay it Forward here at Thunderstorms Highly Likely is notsojenny. Hooray! Balloons, streamers, etc.  If you don’t already read her, you should; she’s fantastic.

Here are the official stats from the secret magic randomizer (aka random.org):

There were 7 items in your list. Here they are in random order:

1. notsojenny
2. margot
3. la
4. lawyerish
5. bunny
6. ashley
7. um…yum!

Timestamp: 2008-05-05 03:20:20 UTC 

Send me your contact info, Miss Number One, and I’ll send on your goodies. 

Luck—sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t. 

A horse named J. Alfred Prufrock raced in the Virginia Gold Cup yesterday.  If I were a betting girl, I would have put my chips down on him.  And, coming out of the second jump, it’s Head West in the lead, followed closely by J. Alfred Prufrock, and King Lear making a valiant charge ahead, the announcer-man says.  Those odd words just rolled off his tongue, taking with them my support and proving that so much, in fact, is in a name.  

Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. I think of that T.S. Eliot poem every so often, though it usually creeps into my thoughts at work conferences.  Days when I’m dead exhausted, lining up for the free coffee in hotel china; I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Harrowing, really.

Alas, he didn’t win, that horse.  I don’t even think he placed. I stood up there at the edge of luck v. reality to cheer him on, however; adding my applause to the sea of hands and voices, claiming a space for me and my sundress among the truly outlandish ensembles on display.

Never again will I walk into JCrew and scoff at the orange pants with green dolphins embroidered on.  “Who buys these clown pants?” I’ve asked, rather recently.  Ah. Gold Cup goers.  The great mystery of crazy expensive preppy plaid baby clothes, too, has been solved.  Sure, you may not be wise to bring Junior to the play park in his Vineyard Vines seersucker rompers (with easy-access diaper snaps, natch), and he’ll probably lose his pink checked bow-tie between the car seat and the front part of the shopping cart.  But heavens forefend you dress your offspring in anything else to meet your pals at Members Hill!

It’s no secret that I’m very new to the whole east coast experience.  Based on what I saw yesterday, it’ll take a bit more time for me to acclimatize.

I went with two of my west coast friends, and we spent most of our time parked on a picnic blanket pretending to be photographers for People’s Best and Worst Dressed, Gold Cup Edition. 

It was the guys’ apparent enthusiasm that we just couldn’t figure out.  No hometown man I’ve ever met would be caught dead in most of the ensembles that fit right in on that series of lawns.  We had a game going for a while: man walks by.  Friend to me: “imagine your dad wearing that.”  Bwahahaha! Ha! We’d collapse into hilarious laughter, which most people I’m sure assumed was owing the vast amounts of alcohol we were not, in fact, consuming.  The people-watching never really got old, either.  The whole event was like a costume party for the office-oppressed prep.

J swears it’s normal, which of course led to a covert search of the depths of his closet the moment he took out the recycling.  Good news: no embroidered farm animals assuming residence; no wild floral trousers or patchwork plaid caps.  At least, none that I found.

Still, somewhere in my head, I could see myself there.  Me in a big hat with coordinating shoes and purse, holding the hand of a doll-dressed little girl.  J in his plaidness opens the hatchback of our prep-mobile, and he and a smaller version of himself pull a perfectly coordinated and gourmet-homemade picnic from within.  We set up tables dressed in fine linens, and have a civilized afternoon with our seersucker friends.  Their children and ours romp around together, grass-staining their saddle shoes but receiving only superficial scolding. 

Maybe I’d be that lucky.  Or maybe I’m just insane.  Sometimes it really is a difficult line. 

Sometimes, being a working girl really makes me wonder if I’m not on the verge of becoming a major danger to myself and/or others.  The one that all of the nurses pity as they pass my perfectly white room with perfectly padded everything; I’ll sit there, perfectly still, staring out the perfectly locked and barred window. “Poor magda.  Her job drove her to this.” They’ll cluck their tongues and head on down the hall to visit the more interesting patients.  The man who thinks he’s a chicken, maybe, or the psychotic German.

But then little things happen to bring the color and the light back into the day.  A man gives up his seat on the train.  The best kind of yogurt is on sale.  A delightful package has come in the mail.

From a far away girl on a far away blog in a far away place I’ve never been, I received this afternoon the most amazing box of goodies.  It’s springtime, and we’re all in this together, the gesture said; and truly, it made my day.  Penelope, you’re amazing.

There’s really something to be said for unbridled goodness and unreserved generosity.  Everyone should try it out.  It’s quite contagious, and really, really nice. 

Things like this and days like today make me so grateful for this blogging community.  I started writing here mostly as an experiment; it was something I’d seen done and wanted to be a part of, sure, but I also wanted to see what it would feel like to write out my feelings and thoughts for anyone who cared to listen. 

I have a tendency to stumble into things with an extreme degree of naïveté.  The first time J asked me out, for instance, I didn’t get that it was a date.  At all.  I thought we were just hanging out.  “He thinks I’m cool and he wants to be my friend,” I thought.  Wrong.  Moving across the country is another good example.  “Maybe I’ll just move to DC,” I said one day.  “Yeah. It’ll be no big deal.”  Ha. Ahahaha.

For the most part, though, these things work out for me.  It may be luck or it may be some bigger plan, but I’ve stumbled into a lot of deep goodness.

The blog is no exception.  I don’t often directly address you, my readers, but tonight I think some thanks are in order.  Thanks for hanging around, and for coming back, and for inviting me to share in your lives and struggles, too.  You all are the best Internet friends a girl could ask for.  I mean it.