Because this is just how special I am.

I get travel anxiety, a lot of the time.  Okay, fine, all of the time.  Straightening the house, double-checking compulsive lists, printing annoyingly color-coded itineraries that are read and re-read until the pages start disintegrating—yup, that’s pretty much me.

 

I came home yesterday morning, and I set three alarms to wake me at the ungodly hour of 4am.  I needed to be out of the house by 5.30 to be at the airport by 6; all that double-checking takes time, you know, and I was petrified I’d oversleep.  It’s been a long week, and that’s the last thing I needed, to sleep through my ticket out of here.

 

As I was courting sleep, I was going over the plan again.  Wake up; shower; pack last remaining toiletries; leave and walk to the metro, and catch the train to the airport to be there close to 6.

 

Over and over I repeated this, but something was just kind of not right. 

 

Then it hit me. The metro. Saturday. Facist “weekend schedules” that make no accommodation for universally busy travel days.

 

Oh. Holy. God. Metro doesn’t start running until 7am because hi, we’re WMATA, and we suck.

 

I called the cab company in my cellphone, and they laughed at me. “Tomorrow morning? To the airport? You must be joking, lady.” Click. I looked up every cab I could find online, with similar results. I was very brave and did not cry, but was near hysterical when I called J. He was’t amused, at first, at my idiocity, but he covered for me valiantly and said he’d come collect me at 5.30.

 

He did, but that’s not the whole story. First, he was all pissy about how inconvenient that would be, and wouldn’t it just be easier if I drove to the airport myself, parked in the daily garage, and then he’d come over later in the day and get my spare keys out of my apartment, metro to the airport, and get my car out and drive it home (saving me the extortionist parking fees to garage my car for the two weeks I’ll be away). Ok, a feasible plan—but hello, problematic! Inconvenient! Stress!  His excuse was a constant “but I need my sleep, it’s dangerous for me to drive tired.” He was planning to go up to his parents’ in NY later in the day.

 

I really, really wanted him to come get me.  But I accepted that it wasn’t convenient, and said the whole car-moving thing would work.  We debated this, I think, for about an hour.  We agreed, and we hung up. 

 

I burst into tears.  Am I too idealistic, waning a boyfriend who says, wow, you screwed up but you need me so I’m there?

 

He called back in about 20 minutes, to be sure I was ok.  He said he’d be there, would come for me after all.  His decision.  He came, right on time, but god, was he angry.  “I’m only doing this a formality,” he spat at me. 

 

This is where the story takes a turn in the  “magda practices giving J the benefit of the doubt” direction.  This has been something of an ongoing campaign for me, trying to be less of the princess, and giving J the benefit of being human who sews up sometimes, too.

 

I’d say it worked.  I didn’t respond with my usual fire, and kept coming back to how grateful I was, and how he was making things so much easier for me.  And you know what? It’s been smooth sailing since then.  I let it go, I detached, and I’m not still dwelling on it.  Except, you know, for this writing.  It’s didactic, really; I’m chronicling to learn and remember and repeat.  Et cetera.

 

That’s part of what makes relationships work, I think—focusing on the positive, brushing over the rough spots with love and encouragement, and not being so hurt by every barb and unpleasant twist.  Was I angry, and hurt, and alarmed by J? Did I find his selfishness unattractive and, in the moment, unforgivable? Yes.  Yes, but I love this person; this is a moment, and I love the whole package.  He isn’t perfect, and if I’m honest, I’m glad.  Perfection is not worth pursuing.  Who wants to look at something perfect, anyway? Nothing unique, no quirky crooks or adorable dimples; nothing that makes it stand out.  Perfection is ordinary; to transcend that takes something malleable, something that shows affectation, some evidence of life. That which is facially perfect has no room for growth, improvement, change.  Love is nothing if not about change. 

on the death of a high school administrator.

I never knew you, and a lot of what I knew of you, in all honesty, I thought was unglamorous and unimpressive. My second-hand knowledge of your policies, my hearsay observances of life in your high school, did not cast you in the best light.

You died today. “Shocking and unexpected,” they said in my generic alumna e-mail announcement, no doubt penned frantically in an office with PR in mind.

At 45, were you ready? There was more for you to see, and more for you to do, of course; but were you at peace? Did you leave knowing that you’d done all you could, that you’d maximized the days allotted? Do any of us?

I am so sorry that I first assumed that the e-mail was a tasteless prank. I am so sorry that my first thoughts on reading the subject were “yeah, right,” with a chuckle.

Today I will live life, and I will be in it. Thank you for being in my story, even if on the fringes, and for giving this day-to-day thing your best shot. The words will, from here, keep flowing; but you are not forgotten.

Maybe near broke, but oh so happy.

I don’t think it’s too unusual to respond to stress, frustration, or general dissatisfaction by shopping. I’m not tremendously proud of it. but this has been a tried and true remedy for me for a long time. Bad day at work? Nordstrom on the way home. Bad argument with J? I’ll buy a consolation outfit downtown. Sad about the weather/stressing about family/feeling just generally crummy? Let’s go to Target, and see what useless things I can buy to divert myself. Recently, though, some of the luster seems gone. I walk into a store, into my favorite stores, and nothing grabs me. Even if I buy something, it lacks the revitalize-me spark it once did.

I was at a loss for awhile; in a veritable funk. I shopped for other people–Christmas, you know–but didn’t detour near as much for myself as I (ahem) usually do.

Then it started. I started reading, rather than immediately recycling, the sad, plead-for-money charity letters that fill my mailbox this time of year. Like my shopping therapy, this is pretty typical, too–of course they send those letters this time of year, and of course they want you to feel sad. I’m normally just able to ignore them, but this year, for reasons largely unknown, I read them. All of them. I may have just wanted to wallow in a truly unnecessary woe-is-me mentality. I do this. Maybe I wanted to step outside my world. Maybe I was just really, really bored.

In any event, here is what I found in those envelopes, in between the bills and the ads and the Christmas cards. Anna was having a hard time focusing in a local school, and the teacher learned that she had to take turns with her brothers for which days they could eat. Women downtown facing crisis pregnancies need support and supplies for their new babies. Fred and his brothers aren’t going to get any Christmas presents this year, because dad just lost his job and mom just isn’t getting enough tips at her job as a waitress to make it happen this year. Every one made me cry. This is either really touching–the day magda got just that much less self-centered–or really distressing–the day magda finally went off the deep end. I sent each of them a little bit of money. I just felt so sad–here I am walking down the aisles at the grocery stores, knowing I can buy whatever I want, knowing that I have a family who supports me, knowing that even if I got fired or evicted or pregnant, I’d have options, resources, and most of all love.

I don’t know what it is about my relative privilege that just makes me so poignantly sad. I don’t spend money to feel less sad–that would be a bit like buying a guilt-free conscience–but something about sharing like that, even if it’s just a couple of dollars, just feels so right.  That’s what Christmas is all about anyway, right? Love and sharing and peace on earth; spending more than you probably should, but knowing that someone else will love it which makes it all worthwhile. And now! Now I’m not just buying presents for people I like because I should. I’m buying presents for people I’ve never heard of because I can.

I found a fantastic group that has a donation holiday catalog, and even though I’ve basically already picked out presents for my family, I added some things on. A pair of chickens to give eggs to a third world village in honor of my sister and her husband; they’re so in love, and so generous, it just seems fitting. Food for a hungry African family for my parents; they were always so good at providing healthy meals for us. Supplies and aid to an impoverished school child in New York City for J; that’s his city, and we’ve both been so blessed with education.

And, of course, for me. As my own christmas present to myself, I’ve sponsored a child. He is So. Amazingly. Adorable. He is seven and he lives in Albania. His favorite subject is reading. I wrote him a letter tonight, and it was all I could do to refrain from writing OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU across it in big letters. Yeah. They’d probably terminate me for that. But still–the kid’s amazing. And I feel so lucky to be able to give him more of a fighting chance. My mood is remarkably better; uplifted, really. I’m bringing my child’s picture to work tomorrow. I will look at him and focus on goodness and giving and light, instead of thinking about my boss getting hit by a metrobus.

On life, love, and copyright infringement.

There’s something I find completely adorable about quiet, shy guys … you know, the really good ones who are just so sweet. I dated one in school for awhile, which was nice for a time. I got to do all the talking, really come out of my shell and urge him out of his, too. It helped me define myself. But once I was defined? Like I said, for a time.

I accompanied an old work colleague to a very chi-chi event tonight, and got to relive some of the glory days of dating Mr. Quiet. Mr. Old Work Colleague is cast from the same mold, my friends, the very same mold. I got to run my mouth, make him more comfortable, and smile confidently when he paused awkwardly. I’m normally the quiet one in relationships (and in life), so this was a nice change. Something about quiet but unimposing people makes me so, so much more confident and sure of myself. I don’t know why. I beat myself up for a time after Mr. Quiet, convincing myself that I’d abused the situation, that it was a selfish relationship, that I had no business dating him. I don’t think that’s it, really. It was just a different way of casting myself, like trying on a new outfit, or a new hairstyle; tapping a part of me that rarely gets exposure. I like that side of me, the talkative, uninhibited side. She doesn’t come out much with J, and it’s always good to see her on the dance floor, being the her that’s somewhere in there.

Plus, there’s something really endearing, if not poignantly disturbing, about old copyright attorneys throwing their hands up, pulling off their ties, and shakin their thangs to Wyclef Jean. Wyclef headlined at this party tonight, and it was awesome. The party was sponsored by hard-core copyright advocates, however, which I think is slightly less awesome. I like music, I like innovation, and I fully believe in protecting artists’ rights. Like, 100%. However. I really am a fair use girl at heart. Yes, illegal downloading is wrong. Should you get sued for it? Survey says, NO. I am not in support of these subpoenas that the recording industry keeps serving on universities; I think it’s bullshit. If you put your work out there, expect it to be enjoyed. That’s all I’m sayin’.

Hell, though, all those lawsuits funded one hell of a party. Rock on. But first, a couple of notes:

1. party planners: when you host a party in the middle of december, especially when there’s dancing involved, please, please have a coat check. It’s ridiculous to carry around a winter weight, knee length pea coat, adorable as it is, all night.

2. staffer girls: you may be just out of college, but you have jobs now so please, try to at least resemble grownups. Teeney bopper shrieks and omigods are so passe. Plus, you’re easier to spot than you think.

3. anorexic girls: your arms are so scary. Please eat something. Your bony spindles are not lithe and svelte. They are hideous and alarming.

4. coworkers in the office tomorrow: I’m sorry in advance for coming in late and yelling when I mean to just make conversation. It was a long night, and my eardrums are shot.

grazie.

Fringe Benefits, or, the Day the Constitution Bit Back.

Once upon a time, in a far away land, I went to (and graduated from) law school.  It was, as many of mine tend to be, a error of thunderous proportions. However, the experience left me with a couple of assets.  (a) a J.D., which sometimes gets whipped out to intimidate losers at bars (Lame guy: “What do you do?” Me: “Who, me? Oh, I’m an attorney); (b) a license to practice law in a far-away state, which basically means I pay the bar association a preposterous dollar amount every year for the privilege of legitimately claiming (a); (c) an impressive bookshelf full of very heavy books, like the con law book that tonight killed an insect in my apartment.  A big insect.  A big, suspiciously roach-like insect in my apartment.  My seventh floor apartment.   

I distinctly remember reports of roaches in the apartment reviews I read before I moved out here.  I live in a very modern high rise on, as noted, the seventh floor.  I am a very clean girl.  Okay, sure, there are some crumbs in the cracks where my cabinets don’t quite seal and where my vacuum doesn’t quite reach, and my recycling has been sitting out for a few days.  But seriously?  

There I was, washing dishes from the gingerbread dough I’d just finished, and then a big crumb seemed to just fall out of the cabinet under the sink.  Then it started moving.  It had these alarming little tentacles, or feelers, or whatever, and I screamed.  I’m only an occasional screamer, but this brought out the worst in me. It froze, and I busted to the bedroom for the biggest, baddest law book I could find.      

My vengeance came in the form of Constitutional Law,  Fifteenth Edition.  1500+ pages of pestilence-destroying goodness.  Ah, the founding fathers would be so proud.  Or, maybe not.  I hurled that bastard of a book very, very hard at my trespasser.  I’ve heard that roaches are hard to kill, that they can flatten themselves very small, and can even crawl out of vacuum cleaners.  My mom told us all these stories when we were growing up; her kind of “uphill both ways to school” kind of tale about how hard things were where she grew up, and we should be so grateful for our happy west-coast existence, where there are no snakes/poison ivy/humidity/roaches/hellfires and damnation, etc.    

This fucker was no match for the United States Constitution, however.  He was crushed.  Absolutely pulverized.  After a calming glass of wine, I scraped his guts off of my tile, and launched into a seriously intense deep cleaning session which is still, in fact, underway. The unknown is petrifying.  How did he get here? Why did he come? Am I that dirty? Did he walk up seven flights of stairs to come and hunt me down? Also, he was kind of small.  Maybe that’s why he was so easily overcome.  Are there more of him? Is his family planning a stakeout? I keep thinking that every cabinet I open, every drawer I pull, will yield an angry army of bugs, like in the movies.  Like Pacific Heights, right, where the bugs just, like, come pouring out of everything.  It’s all very disturbing.    

Thank GOD I’m going to J’s tonight (bearing gifts of gingerbread, hooray!).  I do not think I shall mention the roach.   

Risky business.

I take little risks every day. I drive faster than I should; I drive, period. I compromise my privacy online, both by sharing data and information, here and elsewhere. and I order things, relinquishing that little cvr or whatever number on the back of my credit cards. I hold my breath in tunnels. I rely on a little pill to keep me from being mom until I want to be.

There’s something in me that’s crying out to push the boundaries. It’s a little voice that says, ah, come on, there’s got to be more than this. It was that voice that said hey, let’s do something radical, and left me packing boxes to ship cross-country, changing the plates on my car, and learning new way home to a new home, across foreign rivers and badly signed highways. Some days I catch myself, and say WHAT was I thinking? What was it that prompted me to venture off like this, to see what there was to see?

I’m generally a boundaries girl. Draw me some black borders, a “do not cross this line” scenario, and I’m happy. No boundaries, I’m liable to run amok on you. I was always the child that needed the firm hand, the hard spanking, the clear instructions. I’m detrimentally good at entertaining and amusing myself; always have been, always will be.

I suppose I could cast my move out here as a wild abuse of freedom. I’m freee! Time to be irrational!

I don’t let myself off that easily, though. I really think I moved here not just because I could, but because I wanted to try something new; I wanted to take a risk. It’s human nature, really, to take ownership for where you are and what you have. For a long time, my life was largely handed to me. Now I’m more in control. I’ve wielded the marker, and I draw my own boxes. Sometimes my lines are wobbly, sometimes they’re misinformed, but I’m learning and growing and trying.

I still don’t know exactly why I did it, what prompted me to take my life into my own hands like this. Some part of it’s inevitable, sure, but I took the whole “move out, move on, be an adult” to a new extreme by essentially leaving the familiar behind. Risky, yes, but exhilarating just the same. The feeling’s not new. It’s the same, albeit differently translated, in my sister, getting married; in people having kids; in any number of major shifts. It’s like, ok, life, here I am, and I’m ready to be in charge. Let’s take a new path. It’s all too short to second guess, you know? Sometimes a drastic change is what’s needed; a risk to spice things up and keep life on its toes.

Two years ago, I never would have seen myself here. I’m pretty glad about that. I’ll tell you a ballpark picture of where I expect to be this time even next year, then hope to hell I’m wrong. I like the spontaneity, the unexpected joys and trials of everyday. The details that defy definition, in other words.

Bring it on, Brigadier.

J and I sometimes jokingly call DC Washington, Dead City. In a lot of ways, it is–the city has this shiny exterior without much soul. I used to love this place, really love it. One of the reasons I moved out here, in fact, was because I wanted to be a part of the perceived action. For the first 6 months, my DC love was solid. It slowly eroded, though. My friends weren’t real friends, the people I met were, beyond their initial gleam, just on an agenda like everyone, and everything seemed so hollow. The buildings and history that once called to me grew silent, and I felt veritably let down. DC is something of a wanna-be city, I think. We’ll never get the roots of New York, and we’re nowhere near as big; we want the glam of Los Angeles, but our intellectual snobbery won’t let us get there. I think we have an inferiority problem. We were here first! We’re the capital! We’re the seat of power! Therefore, we are mighty. Aha, but not always so. It’s like anything great; it isn’t deserved, it’s earned. We just aren’t putting in the effort. We’re here for ourselves, to get the “DC experience,” to become better and seasoned and more valuable whenever we go back to where we came from, or wherever we go next. DC is a transfer point, one of those insane junctions where all the trains meet up and people change around; the platform is always jammed, but no one actually exits, no one submerges from the cavernous damp underground to touch the soil, see the light, be in the place. They’re there for a moment, impatiently tapping their feet and listening to their ipods and watching the numbers tick down for the next train’s arrival. It comes, they go, and more people get off.

DC earned back a bit of its valor for me tonight, though. I was walking around the perimeter of the Capitol after work; it was quiet, and dark, and oh so cold. There was snow on the ground, remnants of last night–our first snowfall of the season. So beautiful. Every step I took made a subtle crunch, and looking up, I saw the lights in all the offices of the Senate office buildings. Every room illuminated in a building old and beautifully imposing. I saw plaques and plants, big desks and mahogany tables. This is our government, our people, our country. I was meeting J for the promotion ceremony of one of our army friends, but I was a bit early. (I could pretend here that I’m just that good, just that irritatingly super prompt girl. In truth, I leave double time in case I get lost. Which, um, I do, all the time). I took the time to walk through the offices. I don’t think enough people know that all of the Capitol buildings are open to any member of the public who’s willing to walk through a metal detector and submit all effects to x-ray. Once inside, sure, they may ask for credentials if you want to go into offices or anything–but the walking around’s free for the taking.

In point of fact, though, I am in possession of senatorial press credentials. Yes, at times I am that kind of writer … one of those cheapskates who gets in free by flashing a press pass, then madly writing up what the important people say. It forces me to learn a lot, but honestly, the reporting function of my job is my least favorite. I majored in English Lit instead of journalism on purpose.

My press pass lets me past “staff only past this point” signs, and grants me entrance in “authorized personnel only” doors throughout our government, however, which is a nice perk (and mostly makes up for the drudge of being an editor, writer, and reporter, depending on the mood of upper management). I walked through the senate, through the Capitol’s rotunda, and onto the house side. It’s all connected underground in what’s really a piece of living history. In light of what I’ve already written, it’s surely ironic that I’m saying that I found something connective down in the crypts, but it seems a different world, a relic of a different time, a different government, a different life. But still the same country, see.

I emerged in time for the ceremony. Our friend became a brigadier general tonight; a one-star general. So many people were there in uniform, telling stories of honor and glory and America. We said the pledge of allegiance.

Somewhere at the core of this city, there’s still hope. Where northwest meets southeast, where all the numbers start again, there’s a pulse, and a heart, and people who still care. We are a great country and a great people for reasons far transcending the outward presentation of this place, and it’s moments like this that make me so thankful I have the clarity to cast the two separately.

Tips for a Hassle-Free Hanukkah (Part1).

“Organization is imperative. Meals, gatherings, and gifts for all eight days should be charted well in advance to ensure a seamless holiday your family will remember for years!”

Organization. This means don’t stay up till 1a baking special and oh-my-god hard fruit bread, and, say, forget to add eggs. Don’t wait till the day-of to realize that no known stores in the DC area sell driedel and star-of-david shaped cookie cutters, because here “holiday” really means rows of red and green abominations, some of which sing but none, incidentally, cut non-Christmas cookies (Curses! Curses!). Don’t be confused by your day planner’s designation of Hanukkah on Wednesday. Clearly, this means it starts sundown Tuesday (ok, seriously?).

So far I’m the poster child for how to have a totally jumbled together at the last second, oh-hell-I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing Hanukkah. I’m quite sure my family (speaking solely in terms of J at this point) will remember it for years to come. Only perhaps with significantly less glamorous detail than originally envisaged.

I’m going over to J’s tomorrow to cook him dinner in honor of Hanukkah (because, um, yeah… that’s when I thought it started. But anyway). Cooking, really cooking even just one well-planned meal is really hard, turns out! I thought I was being all goody-goody starting preparations yesterday (organization!), but alas. Alas, alas, alakaday, all I have is a dense and disgusting loaf of expensive rare fruits, and an ever-expanding list of things to still get done. I seriously have such new-found respect for the gourmet dinners my mom would just whip up night, after night, after night. The woman’s a goddess.

I’m going over to J’s tonight after work to drop off some of the ingredients (and some presents! Such a good non-Jewish girlfriend I am!). First, though, I’ll go to the store again, for about the zillionth time. This coordination thing really seems to be beyond me. So much preparation. So much planning. So much, sigh, organization. First it was olives, then Frangelico, then dates (I ran out—those, at least, were not forgotten. It was more an estimation problem). Tonight it’s walnuts, at whole foods, on the way home—that should be the last thing. I’ll suck up the inflated cost because it’s just so much more convenient. I’ll re-bake the bread, then truck it all over. Oh lordy, it’s going to be a long week.

It’s good to be back.

The creak of the kneelers, the smell of the incense, the way the fading light manages to penetrate the leaded images in the windows–all of these things remind me that it’s been far too long since I’ve been to church.

For reasons largely unknown, I made women’s prayer group a priority this week. I met up with them after holy hour Thursday. My connection with these girls began as part of my initiative to be more religious; to rediscover my Catholicism; to find community when I first moved here. I met with the women’s group regularly for a few solid months, then tapered a bit, then sometime early summer quit completely.

For some reason, though, they wouldn’t quit me. Some people you can just shake with a “I am going to ignore you 100%, I won’t return your calls and I’ll delete your emails” strategy. These girls? Not so much. It wasn’t that I hated them, or that we had some kind of falling out. It’s just that they weren’t like me. They weren’t what I thought. We didn’t have anything in common–nothing of real substance, anyway. Sure, we had our faith. But did we? I found in them a breed of uber-Catholics that (maybe tragically?) I just can’t relate to. I’ve never seen anything like their dedication, their whole-hearted everything-Catholic mentality.

I love the tradition of the church, and I love the peace I feel there. It isn’t my life, though–I don’t my shape myself or align my identity around being Catholic. I have plenty of friends who aren’t even Christian, much less who aren’t Catholic. Even within the church, I’m not wholly integrated. I don’t know all the saints, I can’t recite any portions of the catechism, there are plenty of prayers I’ve never memorized. Blame my progressive west-coast Catholic school for that. In my school, we learned about religions of the world. We were taught Catholic values, certainly, but we were also taught tolerance. We learned (gasp) about sex and, drop dead now girls, birth control. I never learned how to pray the rosary.

My first women’s group meeting should have proved to me that I didn’t belong. “Instead of our usual Bible study, I thought we’d all pray the rosary tonight,” the pseudo-leader said. And ALL THE WOMEN BUSTED OUT ROSARIES! Like, from their purses! I have a rosary. Somewhere. It certainly isn’t on me. I pulled the hair elastic off of my wrist, and played with it as if it was a set of beads. Hi, I’m magda, and I’m pathetic.

I think my attendance at these girls’ meeting was born of some larger desire to find something deeper. I don’t know if I’ve found it, but I think I’m getting somewhere.

Between their hard-line, “must find a devout Catholic husband and have 10 babies” goals and my laissez-faire “yes, I’m sleeping with J, who’s sort of Jewish, but I still want some semblance of meaning in my horribly secular life,” there’s got to be some sort of amiable middle ground. (And no, I do NOT make the above admissions to these girls. Is there a better way of saying, hi, I’m evil and going to hell? Curious). I’ll be the first to admit that I have a lot to learn. There are so many ways for me to improve myself, it’s quite shocking, really. But they, too, could be more open, more realistic, more accepting.

In the meantime, it’s December! Hooray! Less than a month until Christmas. I’ll always love the Catholics for their celebrations, and Christmas surely tops the list. The parties, the colors, the warmth, the drinks. Ah, the drinks. Show me a church that loves drinking as much as the Holy Church of Rome, and I’ll show you … no one.