Getting into the Game

Rule #1: always go down swinging. Especially when it's the last strike of the last out of the last inning and the winning run is standing on first base waiting for you to send him home. But that's all I'm going to say about that. Sigh.

Rule #2: keep your eye - and your hands -- on the ball. Do not fumble a hand-off on the 3 yard line. Do not allow the opposing team to move 50 yards down the field on a punt by fumbling the return. And, for the love of everything sacred, please stop throwing to the other team.

So this weekend pretty much summed up what it means to be a Philly sports fan. Starting out with a bang, ending with "what in the hell just happened?"

But sometimes just getting there -- with the right person holding your hand -- is good enough. Although winning would have been nice, too.

Farm to Fork to Fabulous

Went to the Memphis Farmers' Market benefit at the Mesquite Chop House downtown last night. I think I might be developing an unhealthy obsession with butternut squash ravioli. Except that it's not really unhealthy to eat squash, especially when it's that good.

I did have a chance to work a few of the calories off in advance, since I helped to collect most of the produce -- including the butternut squash -- at the Farmers' Market on Saturday. I never in my life thought that anything -- or anyone -- could make me excited about getting out of bed before noon on a Saturday. I wasn't actually sure that anyone could get me out of bed before noon on a Saturday, but I was wrong.

I was also wrong about the unevenness that I thought was happening in my last post. Things have really smoothed out, mostly because I've stopped trying to convince myself that they were rough in the first place. Sometimes life just takes a while to get you to where you want to be, but everything that happens along the way makes you the person that you are when you get there. The trick is that you have to be able to learn from the past, and then let it go. That's the difference between "life lessons" and "baggage." I definitely still have some unpacking to do, but I'm getting there. I even found the cord for the modem.

Now all I need to find is some more ravioli...

Page 2

Back at Republic Coffee, partaking of breakfast-for-late-dinner, a white chocolate Americano that I probably should have gotten in decaf, and free wi-fi, since I haven't found the power cord for my modem at home yet.

I should probably explain, of course, why the power cord for my modem -- along with many other items of varying importance -- is not where it should be. After three years in my beloved apartment with the high ceilings and walk-in closet, I decided that I really wanted a house. Wanted it enough to give up said high ceilings and walk-in closet, as well as the fireplace. In exchange, I get a great back yard (with patio, shed, and plenty of room for a hammock), a front porch that's just waiting for a rocking chair or two, and my very own driveway. I also get to be within walking distance of both my office and the campus pool, which unfortunately just closed for the season.

After two weeks of cleaning, painting, and packing -- interrupted by a semi-spontaneous road trip to Myrtle Beach -- I am now surrounded on all sides by piles of boxes, bags, and bins. At some point I will begin to make order out of the chaos. For now, I will make short work of my waffle and bacon.

The story that I began in my last post is progressing... unevenly. I'm trying not to read too much into either the highs or the lows, and realizing that most of the latter are, perhaps, only in my mind. Maybe the hardest part about starting something over is that you can't help looking back at everything that's happened in your life since the last time you tried it. I'm such a different person now than I was then, and in so many good ways (or at least I think so), but that doesn't mean that I'm always as strong as I pretend to be. Sometimes I wonder if I've learned to put up too many walls, if I'm building a trap for myself rather than a shelter. But I'm not ready to knock those walls down yet, so for now I'll just hang around inside and see what happens. And try to find that power cord.

Old Story, New Chapter

Ever have one of those days where everything happens exactly the way you planned? No, me neither. But yesterday was pretty close.

The funny thing is, I still wasn't prepared for the way things turned out. Even though the pieces fell into place like they were meant to come together, I'm still a little bit amazed. If you have an idea, maybe a dream, of how you want something to be, why is it such a surprise when it actually is?

Last night might be the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. Or it might be the first step on the road to an incredible heartbreak. Either way, it's already taught me so much about second chances, about trusting my instincts, and about believing that the best part of a person really can rise above anything, and everything, that tries to pull it down.

So it's a new chapter in an old story, with a plot twist that changes everything about the way that I thought it would end. And I can't wait to write the next page.

Beach Blog, Part 2

Back at the Mockingbird for more free wi-fi. On the menu today: an iced latte and a fritatta with an unexpected -- but very welcome -- side of spinach salad. Must get the recipe for this dressing. Not that I would make it, of course, but someone else should.

I've learned the hard way that I don't sleep well without a good pillow. Which, of course, one doesn't usually bring along when one is sleeping in a tent. But I did manage to take a very restful nap yesterday. Unfortunately, I was lying on the beach at the time.

So today I am rather pink and highly annoyed at myself. I'm usually very careful about sunburn, and I didn't even hit the beach until 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon. Sigh.

On a brighter note, I am happy to report that the tent, and my tent construction, passed the rain test with flying colors. And the sound of rain on a tent is actually very soothing once you're sure that there won't be any rain in the tent. Especially when you're using your comfy new "camping pillow."

Postscript: A reporter from NPR just came into the Mockingbird and is sitting at the table across the way from me talking to the manager. I'll post a link to the story when I find it.

Postscript #2: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128321481

Beach Blog, Part 1

I'm a big-city girl at heart, but I have to admit that it's nice to spend a weekend in a place where you can just turn the car alarm off and forget that you have it.

I'm at the beach, finally, camping in Buccaneer State Park. This morning I'm taking advantage of free wi-fi and strong coffee at the Mockingbird Cafe in Bay St. Louis. Across the street is the Methodist church that I remember from my first post-Katrina visit here. At that point, six months after the storm, its steeple was still laying on the front lawn. Seeing it standing tall again yesterday made me want to smile and cry at the same time.

Katrina's fingerprints are still all over here. Part of Beach Boulevard is a dirt road, waiting to be re-built. Many beachfront lots are still vacant; others have only empty pilings and "for sale" signs. But the beaches are still beautiful, the Gulf water is warm, and I haven't seen any oil -- yet. BP's workers are walking the beaches, but the big plastic bags they're carrying have been mostly empty. Unfortunately for the local businesses, so are the beaches.

I Should Be Writing...

... but not here. I'm supposed to be writing a paper for my first business school class. If I can get it done by tomorrow night, I won't have to write it while I'm on vacation. I think I've made it through the hardest part: I found a topic. Which is more than I've ever been able to do for this blog.

At first, I had no idea how to write a paper for a class about project management. I wasn't quite sure that I would be able to expound on the fine art of budgeting for six double-spaced pages. And I quickly discovered that I wouldn't. Time for a "change in scope."

So I decided to write about negotiation and conflict resolution, figuring that I could lump them both together in case I ran out of steam with one before I made it to the page limit. But I am quite proud to say that I don't think my cop-out tactic will be necessary. I found some pretty interesting research on conflict resolution styles that should do the trick. Especially since it involves illustrations, which will fill both space in my paper and slides in the PowerPoint presentation that I probably will have to do while I'm on vacation. Having a netbook with eight hours of battery life, however, means that I can work from the comfort of my lounge chair. If only they had WiFi on the beach, I might never have to leave.

I'm hanging out at Republic Coffee, substituting a nonfat vanilla latte for the cheap-draft-beer-in-a-plastic-cup that I used to drink while attempting to write papers in college. Last night I stopped by Starbucks and had the somewhat unusual experience of contemplating my paper while sitting next to a guy who was grading papers. Maybe I should have asked him for some tips. I just hope I don't have him for class next semester; I didn't see very many A's.

Just Visiting

Dropped by while trying to help a co-worker figure out some technical stuff. May as well post something since I'm here.

Destination Uncertain

I definitely inherited the road trip gene from my dad, because my mother doesn't believe in highways. I probably have more miles on my car now than my mother has ever accumulated on all of the cars that she's ever driven. Until he traded in his Honda last month, though, my dad had me beat by about 200,000 miles.

My earliest road trip memories are of our annual visit to my dad's parents in Chicago. We would make the two-day trek from Philly packed into the family station wagon. My mother would bail out halfway through for a conference in Ohio, leaving my father to deal with my younger brother and me. And leaving the open front seat as just one more thing for us to fight over.

My father's fatal mistake came when he implored us to "just sit still and watch the scenery." We happened to be passing a field full of cattle at that moment, and my brother and I decided that we would take turns mooing at the cows, with the approximate ratio of one moo for each cow that we saw. There are a lot of cows in Ohio and Indiana. I don't think any man was ever so glad to see a cornfield as my father was on that trip. It guaranteed him at least a couple of miles of peace. Or maybe not, because mooing at the cows was pretty much the only thing that my brother and I agreed about during those trips.

When I finally got my own car, my road trips were mostly out of necessity: visiting family, a friend's wedding, moving from city to city as I changed jobs. Not long after I moved to Memphis, I discovered the Gulf Coast, and I used to squeeze in a trip to the beach any time I could string together more than two days off in a row. I wish I'd done that last weekend before the oil got there.

Visits with my dad now don't include mooing or cows or grandparents (sadly) any more, but there's usually a road trip or two involved. We've covered a fair amount of Colorado -- mostly in the mountains and never during ski season. From Memphis, we've ventured mostly south: to Tupelo, Oxford, and, most recently, Vicksburg. To be honest, I had no idea how long it took to get to Vicksburg from Memphis, nor did I realize how much longer it would take with my dad driving. But we had enough time to make it around the battlefield, read historical markers, and eat some really good seafood.

I actually started this post a long time ago, even before the Vicksburg expedition. As the title suggests, I wasn't sure where I was going with it. I'd say that applies to a lot of things in my life right now, so maybe that's why I'm back to the topic. Sometimes it seems like everything you thought you knew about your life gets turned upside down. Then, just when you think you've figured out why, you find out that everything you've said to explain it to yourself no longer makes sense. Kind of like fate jumping up and biting you on the ass because you're arrogant enough to think you understand it.

No Regrets

What a great name for a tattoo place.

I turned 35 a couple of weeks ago. I was really OK with the idea until last Christmas, when my aunt turned to me and said, "You're going to be thirty-five this year!!" in a way that made me suddenly think that turning 35 was not OK at all.

So maybe I rebelled a little bit. I felt the need to wear every mini-skirt in my closet at least one more time, because everyone knows women over 35 shouldn't wear mini-skirts. We had the coldest damned winter that I've seen in ten years in Memphis; it's a wonder I didn't end up with pneumonia.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was completing my Sunday ritual of buying a cup of coffee and a newspaper, I saw a woman with a tattoo of a cat on her ankle. Suddenly, I wanted one. Not a cat; I already have four. And not a tattoo of a cat; I'm really resisting the "crazy cat lady" label.

When I had my "one-third-life crisis" at the ripe old age of 28, I almost got a tattoo, but I chickened out and got my belly button pierced instead. I told my boyfriend at that moment (we broke up about three hours later) that if I ever changed my mind, I was going to make him go with me when I got my tattoo. He promised that he would, and he kept his word.

This time, I didn't chicken out. And 35 hasn't been such a bad year, after all.

Warning: Introvert on the Loose

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my personality test scores over the years have placed me progressively closer to the "introvert" side of the scale. So when I found myself scheduled to attend four different social gatherings in one weekend earlier this month, it was a little bit overwhelming, to say the least.

I started the "introvert to party animal" makeover on Friday afternoon with a "life-changing" haircut. My stylist, who is the only person I have trusted to touch my hair in the past six years, has tried to sell me on a number of ideas that he has promised will "change my life." I've played along with some and passed on others, but the Sahag cut is probably the most drastic thing I've let Buddy do to my hair since the first time he touched it (when he cut off about eight inches and made me cry for about a week). Since then, every "let's try something new" suggestion from Buddy tends to prompt a "whatever you do, don't make me cry again" response from me.

At first, I thought my new haircut was so incredibly different that people wouldn't recognize me, but apparently that hasn't been the case. Which makes me feel better, because I really didn't want to change my look. Or at least the look that I get when the stars are aligned perfectly, the barometer is at precisely the right level, the humidity has mysteriously vanished, and I've used seven different kinds of curl-taming, frizz-fighting goop.

After my haircut epiphany, I headed to just-to-the-right-of-nowhere Mississippi for Party #1. After some good friends and good food (passed on the chocolate cobbler, but couldn't resist the brownies), I was off to Party #2. This festive occasion, however, required a pit stop to change into more formal attire and a networking frame of mind. Once inside, I commenced to mingling, and was rewarded for my efforts by a genuine compliment that I really appreciated, an invitation to join a striptease workout class (more on that later), and a "prom picture" that I can't wait to see. Except that our group seemed to have caused the camera to malfunction.

Day 2 of my socially-overloaded weekend featured my boss's 40th birthday party. Somehow I failed to notice the large tubs of beer on ice, so I made the questionable decision to mix my own vodka and tonic. Then I made the (probably wise) decision to sit very still for the rest of the night. Luckily, I chose to sit still with my boss's parents and a friend who's known him since middle school, so I have plenty of ammunition next time I need a day off.

For Day 3 and Party #4, I was back into networking mode for a work shindig. I got to spend the latter part of the afternoon with a woman who, I have no doubt, will be a source of inspiration for the rest of my life. At 92, she is newly- (and somewhat reluctantly) retired, although she admitted that she's enjoying retirement a little bit more than she had expected. Throughout our conversation, others at the party came up to say hello, always reminding her of their names. Each time, she responded, "I know that," in a tone that clearly showed she didn't appreciate the suggestion that she might have forgotten. Eventually the talk turned to college basketball, and she began rattling off names and statistics so rapidly that I wished I could ask her to help fill out my bracket form. (After the mess I made this year, I definitely will be asking next year).

All in all, I'd have to say that my temporary re-invention as a social butterfly turned out quite well. I'm still undecided on the haircut, though.

Trusting My Intuition... Or Not

As I mentioned before, I always score very high on the "Intuitive" part of the personality test. I'm the kind of person who firmly believes that I can trust my instincts when it comes to most people and situations. Although I've recently decided to take a "Self-Defense for Women" class, just in case I'm wrong about that.

I'm having one those moments when I'm wondering whether I was really, really wrong about the way I read a situation. And one of those moments where I know that this blog is not the place to go into details. It's a damned good story, though. I'll leave it at that for now.

I am honestly considering doing something that I've only done twice in my entire life: once when I was 13 and once when I was in my late 20's. It was a big mistake (from the perspective of a 13-year-old) the first time, only slightly less of a mistake the second time, and it's probably an enormous mistake now. And no, it doesn't involve any kind of illegal activity. Nor does it involve activities that were illegal when I was 13.

My head is saying to cut my losses and move on, that I'm better off where I am now than where I might end up. But my heart is reminding me that it's usually not wrong about these things, and that maybe I won't ever be happy if I don't find out for sure.

The Private Face of Public Blogging, or vice versa

I sometimes wonder if having a blog actually keeps me from writing. On nights like this, when I'm struggling with bigger dilemmas than Papa John's vs. Pizza Hut, it seems like I should want to pour my heart out on screen. But sometimes the knowledge that my blog is not entirely private really keeps me in check. On the one hand, what's the good of having a blog if it's stifling my creative muse? On the other hand, what's the good of having a blog if I end up in jail for libel? Despite the fact that I pretty much stick to a no-names-to-protect-the-not-so-innocent policy.

So maybe I'm overthinking all of this, although, as I learned in my Leadership Memphis class, thinking is not my strength. Of course, I have known this since about the fifth grade, or whenever I first took a temperment test. No one who spends as much money as I do on food for four formerly stray cats will ever be accused of letting her head rule her heart. My temperment has evolved over the various permutations of the test that I've taken, though. I've become more introverted, although I think that's because I've started answering the questions honestly and stopped pretending that I like people. And this time I scored higher on "judging/scheduling" than "probing/flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants." I attribute this entirely to my job, being a deadline-junkie, and my tendency to over-commit. I like to pretend that I can keep all the balls moving, although in reality I think my tendency sometimes is to throw them -- and my hands -- in the air and call it quits. But I've always been a strong "N" (intuitive) and an off-the-charts "F" (feeling).

Somehow, reminding myself of that makes me feel better, because I know that I'll never make a decision without letting my heart weigh in on the matter.