Exiting Stage Left

I'm outta here. I am heading back to Gia's Outpost where I belong. See ya!

DC to Chile

I could pretend to miss DC. I would be lying.

Spending the past 8 days in Chile's perfect summer weather at 82 degrees has been surreal. We have worked hard, but working hard in this environment has been nothing but a pleasure.

Kind people. Smiling faces. Warm sun. Gentle breeze. Sun, did I mention sun? Smiles, did I mention smiles? And color, bright, vibrant, happy colors?

Life is so much better in happy, vibrant surroundings.

DC Masked

Riding the DC Metro is an experience, and not one I want to repeat on a daily basis. Not that the Metro isn't a viable and sometimes preferable way to get around the DC area, it most definitely is. But it's not my cup of tea in the early morning on my way to work. I prefer Chai.

But seriously, I just don't see the advantage to starting my day with a sardine-packed crowd of gloomy-faced commuters in black coats. Nothing like a human downer to take the excitement of a new day from you. And those blank stares...it's actually a bit frightening. I think they are real people, but....

Anyway, this week I'm dealing with masks. No gloomy faces, just masks. DC has truly gone undercover. It's cold outside and scarfs are now wrapped artfully around necks and faces, ski masks are tugged up over mouths, hats are pulled low over freezing ears, and faces have disappeared on the streets of DC. Only the blank stares remain visible.

So, metro or not, there is no positive facial communication going on the this powerful city. Imagine that. It's a strange way to live, not to mention the real effort it takes to go anywhere. Let me focus on that for a minute.

I'm used to sliding into sandals and heading out the door, morning, noon and night - New Mexico spoiled me. Now, in DC, in this weather, there's a ritual to going anywhere. And it's not a fun ritual.

The ritual to leave my condo now includes the following components:

1. Shoes. Boots are preferred, so tugging, zipping, wiggling into boots becomes part of the exit process. And an extra pair of shoes to wear in the office is recommended as a permanent part of your of office or shoulder bag inventory.
2. Scarf. Scarves are not optional. At least one is necessary, around the neck, tucked under or laying over the collar. A second shawl-style scarf can also be wrapped around your shoulders, over your coat (later).
3. Gloves. Gloves are a must. Frozen fingers do not maneuver office security systems well (and we all have little buzzers, or keys, or fobs, that allow access into our DC office buildings). Security is everything in DC.
4. Coat. Coats are required. Long is preferred. Pockets are recommended. A hood is perfect. And it has to slide over business clothes, so bulk is a benefit when talking about the coat. (now is the time to wrap the shawl-style scarf, if you have one)
5. Umbrella.  Always. Period. No further discussion needed. 
6. Over the shoulder bag. To carry everything as you walk or ride to your destination. (including shoes)

So, when it's time to go somewhere, you change out of your "pretty" shoes, into your boots. Then you wrap your scarf around your neck in whatever creative knot you prefer. Then the coat is pulled over the business clothes and buttoned or belted. The shawl-style scarf is wrapped around your shoulders before the over the shoulder bag is lifted high over your head to criss cross your body at a jaunty angle, then you check (once more) that your umbrella, mini-purse, documents, shoes, etc, are safely tucked inside and the bag is latched, zipped, snapped). Gloves are pulled over fingers and.....well, off you go, assuming you still have some energy.

When you hit the cold air as you leave the building, you tug the scarf upward to cover your mouth and nose, tilt your head down, and stare at the pavement beneath your feet.

You are now one with DC. Unidentifiable. Non-communicative. Masked with eyes to the ground. (reminds me of Pants on the Ground) but not nearly as fun (but yet another way to stay warm, I suppose, if you're into street dancing). I talk to the parking garage attendants more than anyone else I see during the day, with the exception of my amazing Atlas colleagues. How can you talk to someone when everyone's looking down?

Going out in DC is an ordeal. No quick grabbing of sandals and out the door. Not here.

It's not easy. It's not quick. It's not comfortable. And it's not friendly. Fellow DCers in masks or with gloomy faces.

I think I prefer the masks. I can imagine smiles beneath them.

DCostco

It would make sense that people who live in DC would like to shop local, but in the "taxation without representation" district it's not an option if you're thinking Costco. Costco is in Virginia. And all those DC folks, along with everyone in the states of Virginia and Maryland, were in the Pentagon City Costco parking lot today. Every darn one of them. I'm sure of it.

I hadn't even considered what Costco would be like here. It's been part of my life for eons. I drive there, I park (yes, sometimes I have to park way out yonder, but I park), I shop, I load my car, I head home. Done. Simple. The Costco Experience as it should be.

Not in DC (VA). Costco is not easy here. Let me just say that we had to validate our parking receipt, roll a shopping cart through the Costco parking lot, through the adjacent mall, up a floor or two via elevator (an elevator only big enough for one cart at a time, so we waited in line for our turn), and across at least five rows and several aisles of parked cars before we could load up the car, then pull out cautiously (because several cars were already vying for our parking space), hunt for our validated parking receipt, drive to the exit, wait in line as people hunted for parking receipts or dug in pockets for change and then one-by-one exited so that we could finally pay the attendant ourselves, wait for the gate to lift, pull out of the parking garage, and then finally, totally exhausted, head home. And that was only our departure from Costco.

The arrival was worse, beginning with 1 1/2 blocks of backed up cars waiting to ENTER the parking lot through the gated entrance, each car required to stop and grab their parking receipt and wait for the gate to lift before entering. Then a minimum of 5 laps around the parking lot before giving up and heading to the adjacent mall's tiered parking behind Costco, maneuvering for a parking space, hunting down the correct elevator (which takes you to the mall), walking through the mall to exit into the Costco parking lot (note: this is where we started), and then weaving cautiously through an unbelievable number of frustrated drivers pulling wildly in and out of parking spaces, before grabbing a cart, showing our membership card, and finally entering Costco.

Once inside, you might as well be in St. George, UT, or Issaquah, WA, or Albuquerque, NM, or San Bernardino, CA, because all Costco's look the same on the inside, with a few minor exceptions. But this was the Pentagon Costco, in Arlington (Pentagon City), Virginia (no, it isn't built in the shape of a pentagon, it is still your basic big box warehouse store).

So, no, the minor exception today was not design, it was inventory. The exception today was a missing refrigerated shelf with uncooked tortillas. Nada, nunca, nil. None. No where. No how. And those yummy tortillas were our main reason for braving the risky DCostco experience. Kyle and I wanted those tortillas (Kyle a bit more than me) since having yummy Cafe Rio-style sweet pork burritos at Kelly's last weekend - in home-fried fresh, soft, warm tortillas.

So, as happens any time you venture into the wilds of the Costco aisles, we managed to purchase $250 of "non-tortilla stuff", but not one real tortilla. Cooked or uncooked. Not one.

I'm not sure that was worth risking our lives and sanity, but then again, I am sure that we'll do it again sometime. It's hard to pass up those free samples. And where else are DC/VA/MD folks actually friendly?

It's just the way we roll in the DC area. At least when we're not stuck in traffic.

Under Cover. Again.

As a born and bred Cali-girl, I am used to a lifetime of fretting over a pair of sandals, or which jeans to wear with what tank top. Here in DC, the land of coats and dagger-looks, it's all about winter wear. Coats, scarves and boots (which look rather odd when paired with shorts and a tank top - unless you are on the cover of People mag).

But, coats, boots and scarves it is; a new reason to go shopping! 


Black is the color of choice, unless something crazy and wild shouts out a demanding "I was made just for you!" from the much-looked-over racks and racks of wool and big buttons.

Bright colors are an option, and I have a shiny mustard raincoat to prove it, however it's a bit odd that when I put it on I feel very fashionable, but as I walk down the sidewalks of DC, passing women in tailored black wool coats which are flapping neatly around their laced and buckled black leather ankle boots, I lose that previous sense of vogue confidence. I don't feel sleek. I feel outlandish.

So, back to the "new reason for a shopping" trip, I go...mustard raincoat slung jauntily over my shoulder to hide my embarrassment, last year's ankle boots worn proudly beneath a tailored pant, and the California tank top neatly hidden beneath my denim jacket (a quasi-substitute for the jeans cut-offs I used to wear in my younger, thinner days).

I'm a Cali-girl with a love of blue jeans, tank tops, cowboy boots, sterling silver and turquoise. What can I say? 

Besides, black wool is the perfect partner for denim, don't you think? And you can wear turquoise at any age, and any size. 


Add a pair of black tights and I'm ready for winter!

What happens when a recovering Mormon slips?

It's a confusing concept: recovering Mormon.

What is a recovering Mormon? Where did they come from, why are they here, where are they going?

These are deep questions for anyone, but especially for those who are in recovery and sometimes still prefer to live on the surface, walk on the edge, refuse to forgive others or even themselves, and avoid serious self-evaluation or the need to question beyond the moment.

Being a recovering Mormon isn't something that's easily defined; in fact there are probably several definitions that could be argued. Some Mormons might even take offense at the thought of people considering themselves recovering Mormons. Be that as it may, I've been in recovery for quite some time, but only recently borrowed the phrase "recovering Mormon" from a friend who coined it in my honor.

I remember when my kid's Dad and I divorced - I kept his last name - Avarell. It was who I was - Jean Avarell. My kids carried the Avarell name and so would I, until I remarried and made the misguided choice to give it up. But in spite of that choice, in conversation I would often refer to myself as an Avarell, and I am still fond of saying "once an Avarell, always an Avarell." I believe the same is true for a Mormon: once a Mormon, always a Mormon.

Oh sure, there are those who have renounced their membership and left the church behind as if it was never a part of their lives, and also those who the church has removed from the membership lists. But the fact that they were once a Mormon is often something that defines these people as they move on. Whether they like it or not, the phrase "once a Mormon, always a Mormon" definitely has some merit.

So, recovering or not, I am a Mormon. And throughout my life being a Mormon has meant different things. It's been a revelation, a strength, a blessing, a standard for living, a guidepost, an inspiration, an opportunity, a second family, a constant, a responsibility, and then at times, even a trial and a disappointment. This is not unique to Mormonism, it's something that can and does happen in any organized religion. I just didn't expect it to happen to me.

When you've committed yourself to a certain way of life, agreed to follow appointed leaders, shared your personal beliefs with others, taught your children to live according to specific gospel principles, and made personal and sacred promises, it is difficult to just sit and watch as others in positions of authority appear to disrespect, through their actions and decisions, those things you consider sacred. It's even harder to feel the consequences from choices made by those you love and trust who carelessly choose to toss eternity to the wind. And it's excruciatingly painful and very close to spiritual suicide when you are the one who is guilty of abandoning your own standards.

All of these disappointments and betrayals lead to doubt, to hurt, and ultimately to an insidious undermining of the spiritual foundation you built your life on. No matter how many faith-filled sandbags you pile up, some damage is unavoidable.

Suddenly you find yourself in a position that you never could have anticipated and one you never expected: one of being a Mormon, but no longer with the same wide-eyed, all-trusting faith you once had; now with a newfound awareness of the frailty and imperfection of humans, even those in authority, even those you loved and trusted, even yourself.

And the sudden and clear understanding that comes with this awareness is that the real responsibility in spirituality is for individuals to learn, embrace and live their own personal faith as best they can. To not try to live on borrowed light. And to base their beliefs on these three fundamental principles: self-control, respect for others, and faith in God.

And that is where I am.  A Mormon always, but not the cookie-cutter Molly Mormon that some might wish I was. I am not that person. I never really was. I am just me. And I am finding my own light. And I am joyful in that effort.

Today I believe that I am more focused on living my daily life in line with godlike principles then ever before. I care more about others. I care more about me. I care more about God. I study. I pray. I listen. I hope and believe. I have faith. And I love.

I love others, I love God, and I love myself. And as God is no respecter of persons, I respect all equally as children of a Heavenly Father who loves us unconditionally. I hope and strive to always be tolerant and non-judgmental. To love the sinner if despising the sin. To do unto others...I'm not perfect, but I am trying.

And I'm tired of the rat race, the competition with the Jones family, the never-ending comparisons. I don't want to compete. I don't want to win or lose. I just want to do my thing and be me. And I want everyone else to do the same. If our paths cross, what a blessing! We can share our talents and our energy and our resources and our laughter and our tears, but let's not compare and compete. It's not healthy. And it's not Christlike.

I really doubt that Jesus cared if His raiment was better or worse than the man next to Him. I don't think He was paying attention to those insignificant details in life. He was looking at the person, not the designer duds. And it is inconceivable to think of Him comparing His home to the one next door.

This isn't to say that having a beautiful home and designer duds is a bad thing, I am the first to say that I love to decorate and shop. It's our attitude about having (or not having) those things that can drag us down and cause jealousy or pride. I recognize that life today is different than life when Jesus walked the earth, and we are different than He was, but I still shudder to think of the money and energy and time I have wasted in my lifetime on things that may have seemed important at the time, but in reality didn't and don't matter - things of substance, but of no real substance.

I am happy with who I am today, because who I am is a person who has made mistakes and is trying to learn from them. With those mistakes came the knowledge that I need to do better, to be better, and so I am seeking to improve, to learn and love and believe and enjoy life again. Every day I feel a deeper appreciation for what I have, and for where I've been and where I'm going. I seek things that are praiseworthy....and of real substance.

I am a Mormon, yes. I am a recovering Mormon who has loved the church, the members, and the teachings of the Gospel for her entire adult life, and still does. That will never change.

But I have changed, and I hope I continue to change, to improve, to progress. Because that's what this life is all about. Learning. Adapting. Forgiving. Healing. Loving. Living. Progressing. And then doing it all over again, and again, and again.

My favorite folk art sign reads, "Laugh Often, Love Much, Live Well," a phrase so simple yet so pure. Leonardo da Vinci once said, "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." I like simple. Simple is good.

And I believe. I believe more than ever before. I believe in the goodness of man. And I believe in Jesus Christ. And I believe in God. And I believe in my own self-worth. And I believe in second chances. And third, and fourth chances too.

I know that life has a purpose and slips happen for a reason. I'm where I am as a result of choices I've made, sometimes with and sometimes without prayer and reflection. I have no one to credit or blame but myself. Even if I asked for guidance and received inspiration, the ultimate decision was mine. The glory may belong elsewhere, but I am responsible for my actions and I will have to answer for them, both good and bad. I own my choices and where I am today.

I hope I can live the rest of my life without too many slips. To continue on a path of faith, integrity and kindness. To be who I am supposed to be. To recognize the responsibilities I have and meet them head on. To honor the opportunities that have come to me and connect the dots between them. What amazing possibilities are ahead!

I am not perfect; I don't know anyone on this earth who is. But I am trying to be better every day and I am hoping that's enough.

What happens when a recovering Mormon slips? They look a little deeper inside themselves, they open their heart a bit more, they give trust another chance, they take nothing for granted, they seek knowledge, they celebrate life with more enthusiasm, they step away from the edge, they forgive more easily, they give thanks every day, they turn their face to God, and they tighten their grip on the iron rod. I am very grateful to be a recovering Mormon. It's a good place to be.

Slips happen. Some slips happen without causing too much damage, some aren't so kind. But life usually goes on, sometimes altered slightly, but it still goes on.

As for me and my house, I hope we will live life honorably and selflessly, firm-footed, loving all mankind, and serving with faith and joy.

I believe that's why we're here.

DC(undercover)

Little did I know that the title of this blog would be a realistic reference to DC as a place. I thought I was being rather cute when assuming I would author an unnoticed, undercover-like personal blog about quirky things in DC, when in reality it was more like an unknown news journalist naively stating the facts without any knowledge of doing so.

DC is a place where you find yourself, more often than not, under cover. Whether it's dashing from shaded sidewalk to awning-covered entrance, or splashing through reflective puddles of rainwater beneath the wished-for-protection of an umbrella, DC is a place where under is better.

And if under is better, "under the weather" says it all. Whether sneezing from the local allergies brought on by a higher than normal pollen count or coughing from some germ that managed to send the entire office to bed in waves of feverish misery, living in DC is also synonymous with "under the weather".

Chilling goosebumps that follow your every movement until the dampness in your hems and shoes finally dries in the late afternoon of a long day. Humidity in both cold and hot temperature extremes. Dripping trees that offer less than optimum protection from the rain. Gray clouds that quietly roll in to wrap themselves around you and the tall gray buildings around you in their insidious attempt to claim your soul. And of course, what DC is best known for, the strange bed partners in power plays and immoral relationships who spend time undercover under covers in DC.

And DC really could claim your soul. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened. Power and lust and egos reign in this place. They reign and it rains.

Damp basement parking garages built under the office buildings above. Long trench coats flapping around your calves and transforming your smooth, professional appearance to one of someone under cover as you splash through the muggy gray.

DC is not my favorite city, of that I am sure. And I don't think that will change. I have a lot to learn and see and experience in this area filled with history, cloaked with mystery and filled with people, things and places that might be best left undercover,and I am excited to get on with it.

Truth be known, and this is a recently discovered affinity of mine, but I love sloshing through the streets of DC in my trench coat and galoshes. I like being undercover, to be one of the thousands on DC sidewalks that appear to be sleuthing along the sidewalks.

That being said, right now, I really do want to be undercover. Under covers that  is. Clean sheets and layers of quilts. Warm, dry, safe, calm. No busy streets or trench coat or damp socks. Or tall gray buildings. Just dry warmth. And quiet.

Under covers in DC. Or DC(undercover).

There's really not much difference when you think about it.

Then again, there really is.

Catching Up

I was born late. My Mom never let me forget that. Due at the end of August, delivered on September 18th. My first human interaction on earth and someone was waiting for me.

Figures. And nothing much has changed. I am still typically running late and playing catch up.

Like here, on my blog. It's been nearly a month since I last posted. How in the world could I catch up on everything that's happened? There's simply no way.

So the best I can do, the best I have ever done, is to make certain that once I have arrived (and I'm here now) I do the best I can.

I actually hate being late, but it must be in my genes because no matter how many hours I add to prep time, I am still late. Predictably late. Perennially late. Sadly, late.

And so, to catch up on my DC ramblings a bit. DC continues to be a place I am not quite sure about. It's grey. It's busy. There's something about it that I hate and love at the same time. The furious movement, the powerful decisions, the historical everything.

I've actually been out of the area more than in, but when I am here I do manage to get around a bit. I have visited several restaurants and will rave or rant about them here sooner or (later). You guess which.

And even now, as I am typing, I am going to be late to a meeting if I don't get offline and get going.

So, bye bye for now. Not a whole lot to say right now and it's time to be late for another important date!

Ta Ta!

Drunken Noodles and Pomegranates

The Titanic sunk. The noodles were drunk. And pomegranate juice is everywhere. Disaster X3.

But Thai Tanic, the restaurant, was not a disaster. It was delightful.

Tonight we enjoyed Thai cuisine at the original Thai Tanic location at Logan Circle. The service was prompt, the ambiance very pleasant, and the food very good.

I enjoyed Drunken Noodles, one of my favorite Thai dishes, and Thai Tanic's version (which included some lightly grilled tomato wedges on top of the noodles) was delicious. The portion was large and if I wasn't heading off to the west coast tomorrow morning, I would have taken the remaining 1/2 portion with me. As it was, I was happily satisfied. My dining companions enjoyed shrimp, asparagus and mushrooms in a light red chile sauce, and pad thai (which he proclaimed the best in the DC area of the restaurants where he's sampled Pad Thai).

But as wonderful as the food and ambiance might have been, the best part of the evening was the company. Dining with friends is pretty close to heaven - oddly, a topic of our dinner conversation (but that's another blog entry).

Adedayo Thomas, the pied piper of liberty in Africa (as I like to call him), joined me and my Atlas colleague, Pechwaz Faizulla, for dinner on the at Thai Tanic. Two amazing and brilliant gentlemen, and me. How lucky am I?

Peshwaz is the editor of Chiraiazadi.org, the Kurdish website and the managing editor of Cheragheazadi.org, the Persian website. Prior to beginning this work, he was managing editor of Hawlati, the highest circulation newspaper in northern Iraq, and on the editorial board of the independent news agency, Voices of Iraq. He received his BA in English from Suliemany University, and his MS in Journalism from Columbia University in New York. Little did I know that Peshwaz is also a YouTube cooking instructor, specializing in opening a pomegranate in this video! Although, I shouldn't be surprised, he is a chef in his own right (I have sampled his cooking and he could open his very own restaurant if he wasn't so dedicated to liberty!)

Adedayo is an affiliate of AfricanLiberty.org as well as its publisher. Adedayo is affiliated with the Free Africa Foundation and IMANI Center for Policy and Education based in Ghana. Through the activities of Africanliberty.org, Adedayo promotes libertarian ideas in the core Islamic institutions of northern Nigerian states. I met Adedayo 2 years ago at the Atlas TTMBA training in Virginia. He was as amazing then as now. This morning he was our guest speaker for Atlas's Liberty Cafe and shared the experiences of being a troubadour for liberty throughout the African continent. What an amazing leader of liberty he is.

And then there's me. A redheaded grandma ;).  Like I said. How lucky am I? Very lucky.

Try Thai Tanic, I think you will be very pleased with what you find, but I can't guarantee your dinner companions to be as entertaining as mine. I'll leave that to you.

Bon appetit. (And good luck with your next pomegranate!)

God BECKons

He was here. Not God, well not in person anyway. But Beck was definitely here. He commandeered DC in a way not seen for decades.

I didn't go. I am not wild about crowds, or heat, or evangelical gatherings. But I did watch. And I was surprisingly moved. I am not a Glenn Beck fan. His TV personality is more than I want to deal with. And after yesterday it's obvious he is not an orator, but I was still impressed.

The crowd was mesmerized. The ministers of all faiths never unlocked arms. Beck challenged us to bring God back into our lives, and our families, and our communities, and our country. His message gave me chills.

He's right. We need to be more about love and those God-given principles that give humans an edge over animals. We need to exemplify what's good and fair and right. All things "virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy."

It's been said that the Elders of Israel will be instrumental in saving the Constitution when it is all but destroyed, when it 'hangs by a thread'. But before they can save it, they need to understand it. Before they can understand it, they need to want to. 

Beck (and others) felt a need to light a fire and stir our curiosity to study the Constitution, to know it, to believe it, to trust it. To trust God's divine role in its origin; to believe that he established the Constitution of this land, by the hands of wise men whom he raised up unto that very purpose.

Beck (and others) felt they needed to remind those who are fighting for liberty that theirs is a great calling, to help them recognize in humility the great challenge ahead. 

You never know when God will beckon. Yesterday he was waving madly.

Twinkle, Twinkle

My Dad called me Twinkle when I was born. Oh sure, Jean Elizabeth was my real name, but he called me Twinkle for the first few years of my life - he told me that I had a twinkle in my eye way back then.

For nearly a decade I have had a small sign in both my office and my home that reads, "We can't all be shining examples, but we can all twinkle a little," but it was today that I saw the connection between my little sign and the nickname my Dad gave me. I was pretty tickled, to be honest.

Tonight I took a walk through Courthouse, it was a beautiful night. I was returning to my condo when a quick blink (or twinkle) caught my eye - possibly similar to that special moment when my Dad looked into my newborn eyes. It's almost the end of lightening bug season, in fact, it is the end. I haven't seen one for nearly a week, but tonight there was one remaining twinkle as I walked home. One last sparkle before the delightful sight of twinkling lights hovering just above the grass disappears for another year.

And as I looked to the skies there were stars, twinkling in the sky. One here, one there, and then another, and another. Twinkling, then fading out, then twinkling again.

DC was twinkling tonight, at my feet and above my head. I'm sure it won't be the last time. I continue to be surprisingly enchanted in this world of business suits, cement, traffic, power and titles.

My Dad was onto something, all those years ago before I knew anything about this busy world of DC. He knew that just like the lightening bugs near the grass and the stars in our night sky, I can't be a shining example all the time, but true to my Dad's nickname for me, I hope to always twinkle a little.

Don't we all?

24

24.

A simple number.

A multiple of 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12 and 24.

Two even numbers, side-by-side. Nothing odd about 24 at all.

What do you think of when you see "24"?

The award winning TV show?

24 Hour Fitness, where you sweat off pounds and inches? 

How many hours you have until this time tomorrow?

Two dozen? Eggs? Donuts?

The number 24 will have significant meaning for me forever.

At this moment the number 24 means only one thing to me.

It's the number of stairs to my condo.

The number of stairs I climbed up and then down and then up and then down dozens of times during my frantic unpacking - breaking down boxes - hauling to the curb marathon over the past 4 24-hour periods (days). I am exhausted!

I may be old. I may need to lose 24 pounds, or more. I may have hit 24 twice, plus a few more years. But I am determined, I am stubborn, I am strong, I really AM exhausted. But I did it.

24 stairs. Probably 24 times. In 24 hours.

Not bad for an almost 24 + 24+ 24(1/3) year old.

Not bad at all.

Offensive Driving Techniques 101

Do you remember the phrase, "if you want to soar with the eagles, don't hang with the turkeys?". No? Well, I do. And there are a lot of turkeys on the streets of DC, so soaring with eagles seems to be a bit out of range.

And speaking of eagles, the 1970's driver's ed labs at Eisenhower High, home of the Eagles, were high tech and extremely advanced, so much so that we were written up for having the most user-friendly and technically advanced teaching stations in the southern California driver's ed world. It was a proud moment when I slid my size 5 jeans onto the seat behind the wheel of that simulator. I can still remember the thrill, and fear, as I placed my hands at 2 and 10, sat up straight and waited for the lights to flash green. NASCAR had nothing on me.

Of course, speed wasn't an issue since we were in a stationary simulated driving environment, but I still felt the wind in my long wavy auburn locks....oh wait, this isn't a dating site. Let me get back to the issue at hand. Soaring with eagles, wasn't it? Anyway...

Defensive driving was stressed in every clip of the semester-long video taped course, and restated in person by the driver's ed instructor on a daily basis for those 4+ months of intense days in THE SIMULATOR. (think the Governator's voice).

But with all of the technology, repetition, simulated driving situations and even on-the-road, behind-the-wheel driving, no one every mentioned offensive driving - the most widely used driving technique in the DC area.

So here I am, the product of a recognized-for-innovative-excellence driver's education program, but clearly missing the learned skills of offensive driving. Thankfully, when driving the streets of DC,  instincts prevail and the desire to live overcomes any learned skills or formerly held belief that courtesy is paramount on the highways. An almost zealous need for speed takes over as focus is narrowed and determination kicks in.

My independent nature has kept me behind the wheel of a car since the day I arrived, in spite of the very efficient (and easy) Metro system that gets you wherever you want to go for just pennies. However, over the past few weeks, my will-to-live has run rough-shod over my independence. And thank heavens for that. There have been too many close calls with taxi cabs, pedestrians, bicyclists, parking meters, one-way streets (yes, I've turned into one so far) and congested traffic in general.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I may have turned into a one-way street going the wrong way, but I have also mastered the technique of cutting in front of cars, easing my way into a lane that is crammed bumper-to-bumper with commuters, pretending to not care that the speed of traffic is an average of 5 MPH, built up muscle to carry pounds of quarters at all times for the parking meters, and mastered successfully parallel parking in a space even my first bike wouldn't fit in. I can do all of this, it's just whether or not I want to. Turkey, or eagle, that is the question. Join the turkeys or soar with the eagles.

The ability to drive on the offense, while remaining acutely aware of other drivers and being defensive, is a quickly learned skill and I believe I've mastered it, which means I am still alive, still driving, but much more inclined to return to the simulator-like safety of the Metro than stay on the crazed-driver infested roads of DC and NoVa.

So, the Metro will see a bit more of me, even if my hair won't be blowing casually in the wind (except as the train approaches). But on those occasions when I do choose to drive, I will think of THE SIMULATOR fondly and sing our Alma Mater with a new found pride, because even if I am stuck on the ground with turkey's, in my mind I will always be an Eisenhower Eagle in size 5 jeans.

And that's that. Survival of the fittest. Avoid turkeys.

Be strong, be bold, be offensive. Be an Eagle!

And...I'LL BE BACK. (think the Governator's voice).

The Slow Demise of the Futon Era

Between home and office I tug a wheeled briefcase. It makes me feel as if my life is together.

But it really isn't. It's not that I have too much going on, in fact it's the exact opposite. Between home and office I have a half dozen or so personal belongings (not counting clothing, shoes, personal items). It's not that I have too much going on at all, It's that I don't have enough going on.

But this is about to change...

Yesterday a recently ordered area rug arrived for my office. Today I am expecting to see two new lamps. And tomorrow *drum roll*  the moving van arrives outside my condo. Life is about to become a bit more normal, which will be an amazing relief.

Soon I will see familiar belongings and spend hours placing a single piece of furniture or hanging a long-loved painting. It will be heaven; my new life and world will begin to seem more like home.

In response to an email from me explaining my schedule this week (which will be arranged to accommodate boxes and furniture and moving help), my boss declared the end of the futon era. All I could think of as a response was "Praise be and hallelujah!"

It's been a very slow but sure transition from NM to VA, but it's finally coming to an end. And not a moment too soon. 

Once my things get here, I will feel more familiar and I will be able to pretend that I am home. 

I wonder if that will ever really happen again. Me at home. Maybe in another era.

For the next few days, I'm still in the futon era, preparing for whatever is next. 

Bring it on.

Puddle Jumping in Heels

Take note. Black heeled pumps - so appropriate for the office - just don't work on the uneven sidewalks of DC in the middle of a storm. Puddle jumping in heels is not an Olympic sport, but it should be.

Let me backtrack a bit. This morning I woke up to thunder, lightening, dark skies and sheets of rain pounding on the drenched sidewalks two floors below my bedroom window. Following a near mid-life crisis of locking my keys in my condo (requiring a $251 visit from the local Arlington VA locksmith - a Sumo wrestler look-a-like with no fewer than 1000 keys dangling from his belt), the skies cleared just long enough for me to arrive at my office completely dry. Several monitor-staring hours later, it was time to head home, so I packed up and headed down to L Street only to find rain drops falling on my head, so I "did me some talkin' to the sun"...well, kind of. And for two blocks I implemented what I believe will become known as a best practice forward motion in a rainstorm. I did not wear my flip flops, remembering that they get slippery when wet. I did carry an umbrella to protect me AND my rolling briefcase from becoming drenched. And I paced myself, I didn't run or race down the sidewalk to beat the parking garage gate as I usually do.

I wore heels and jumped carefully over any puddles while maneuvering the uneven and flooded sidewalks of DC tugging a rolling briefcase behind me. Today was my first rain day and I prevailed. I think my attitude made all the difference (of course, I didn't really have a choice), and I owe that to Paul Newman and Robert Redford: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

And so there you have it. Today I met a Sumo wrestler, felt rain drops on my head, talked to the sun, sang in the streets of our nation's capitol, went puddle jumping in heels and trained for the Olympics. All for the cause of freedom. How many people can say that?

Just another day in DC.  Tomorrow I'm buying galoshes.

Disenchantingly Enchanting

DC is a strange world of its own. It's a melting pot. It's a humid place in the summer. It's a cold place in the winter. It's where our President lives. It's a destination for a global audience. It's not part of the United States, and yet it is. It's our nation's Capitol. It's where I live - well, within a few miles since I am actually living in Virginia. It's where I work.

And it's gray. Gray streets. Gray buildings. Gray suits. In this fashion year, gray purses, gray shoes. Lots of gray hair mixed in with the bold and bright colors of the young and restless. Sometimes (often?) gray sky.

But still, there's something about this place that can't help but grab you. The history. The monuments. The power. The people. The possibilities.

I drive by the Washington Monument every day. I cross the Potomac twice a day. I walk the streets and wonder who might have just walked there before me, or who might come along after. I marvel at the lighted monuments when I pass them at night. I shake my head in wonder as I turn left or right to avoid the heavily guarded side entrances to the White House grounds on my way to work.

Oh, I'm still sleeping on a futon (now covered in two layers of quilts and a just-bought Beauty Rest egg foam mattress pad). And my furniture has not yet arrived so comfort is not at the top of my daily experience, but I am somehow, somewhat enchanted in this land of disenchantment. Where people fight for power, lie for admittance and deceive for votes. My physical discomfort is somehow, somewhat strangely balanced by the warm emotions I feel as I experience daily the amazing reminders of freedom that surround me. Books, papers, speeches, monuments, testimonials, experiences and stories of those who fought, those who advocated, those who sacrificed, those who taught, and those amazing souls who continue to fight the good fight for liberty. In Washington, D.C., in the surrounding areas, and in my office Atlas Economic Research Foundation. Pictures and papers from the archives of Atlas telling a story of courage shared by so many as together we work toward global liberty for all mankind.

So, my enchantment comes from the root cause of everything that is DC - liberty. The ability to be who you want to be, where you want to be and how you want to be. The freedom to choose your life with respect for the right of everyone else to do the same. The freedom to hold hands in public, uncover your hair, breathe fresh air without the interference of cloth, walk on the streets without fear, share ideas without restriction, own property - both intellectual and physical without threat of government dominion, express personal faith and beliefs without prejudice, and more.

So, disenchanted as I may be at times, every day that I am here I become more enchanted. More here. And less "there". More grateful and less melancholy. More excited and less overwhelmed.

Today I am loving my life in DC and I am looking forward to many more days like this, celebrating and promoting and encouraging freedom around the world.

Gray can be beautiful. It's just not a shade I wear too often. I think I will have to experiment a bit. It is, after all, one of those neutral colors that goes with anything, even a redhead.

Ciao. From DC. With a smile (and a new gray suit).

Wishful Thinking

I wish I may, I wish I might...remember when that little mantra, whispered quietly as you stood in your front yard and gazed up at the stars, used to work?

It probably does still, and the the stars probably align at times too, but today I am not wishing upon any more stars, aligned or not. I'm kind of over stars right now.

"One day more" turned into one week more; one week more turned into two weeks more, and two weeks more is still mid-morph.  But I am here, in DC, smiling and wishing and thinking about how lucky I am to be here.

Good things don't come easy, but this move to DC has been a bit more difficult than I could have ever imagined. It can only mean that great things are ahead....right?

Life has taught me to be strong, tenacious, determined, forthright, but that being said, futons are not all they're cracked up to be. And sitting on the floor leaves a bit to be desired too.

It's amazing how a simple experience, such as a terrible move, can make you appreciate the little things. And I do.

But still, I wish I may, I wish I might...sleep on a real bed tonight.

Soon.

One Day More

One more day.... that's all I have until the movers arrive and I am transported to DC and my role at Atlas Economic Research Foundation. Working for freedom and liberty.

One day more.... I can hear Valjean and Cosette singing those words in Les Miserables. And Marius and Eponine. And everyone.

One more day.... will we ever meet again?
One day more... another day, another destiny.

One more day.... tomorrow I'll be world's away.

At the barricades of freedom, when our ranks begin to form, will you take your place with me?

The time is now, the day is here.

One day to a new beginning.

Raise the flag of freedom high.

One more dawn.

One more day.

One day more.

Day Dreaming about my Dream Day Job

Who could have guessed that the process of accepting and then arriving at my dream job would be so convoluted? Not me, that's for sure.

From those first conversations in Miami through this very moment, I have known exactly where I wanted to be, exactly where I needed to be, and exactly what my dream job would look like. It's been the rocky trail from that first conversation through this moment that has been the challenge. And I'm still not THERE, not physically anyway. I am certainly there in spirit, in desire, in hope, in emails, by title and in my dreams. But I am not there, I am in Albuquerque..

...daydreaming in the midst of stacked and taped boxes, wrapped furniture and rolled rugs, while my enthusiastic colleagues work cheerfully at their desks in the decorated offices at Atlas.

What's wrong with this picture? I'm not in it!

I am supposed to be there, in the picture so to speak. But I am waiting for a moving van that is headed my way from Tennessee and due to arrive on Wednesday (originally Friday or Sunday). And I am working online and by phone, but it's just not the same. I want to be THERE! In my office. With my colleagues. Sheesh, this is nuts.

My dream job is waiting for me to arrive. And here I am in Albuquerque.

At least I can day dream until I am really there.

DC - Shaken, not stirred

So this CA girl is heading to DC and it appears DC is getting ready, but with a 3.9 quake last week, I am hoping that all preparations are now complete.

A little shaken up, but still DC, and with another redhead in our nation's capitol you can be certain the shakin's not over.

I can hardly wait.

License Plate Blues

It's official. I'm headed East. The Atlas Team has invited me to join them (again) and I am both ecstatic and grateful! Honestly, I couldn't be much more excited.

In fact, right now there is only one thing that might be more exciting, and it's suddenly become unattainable to me. That's right, an impossible goal, the Don Quixote moment that will never come.

All I have wanted (beyond the job of my dreams, which I now have!), was a DC license plate. You know, the one that says in big bold letters "Taxation Without Representation". I love that plate...and not for display in DC, but to make a statement wherever I drive because the statement rings true in all 50 states, not just the obvious District of Columbia (where residents do not have a vote).

But is the Holy Grail of pre-pressed license plate messaging to be mine?!? NO!

Why, you ask? Why can’t I have the license plate of my dreams?

Because I will be living in Arlington, Virginia. In Courthouse, Arlington, Virginia to be exact. Where the license plate is framed in autumn leaves (or some other ridiculously gaudy non-messaging design).

And almost worse, I won't have time to get the fabulous and newly designed New Mexico centennial plates (2012), with turquoise background, yellow lettering and a red-centered Zia proudly displayed in the middle. I’m moving to VA so I can’t have this one either.

So, I'm dancing in the halls about my job, but there will be no bouncing in the driver’s seat of my still Utah-licensed car.

I'm moving to DC Virginia, and I've got the License Plate Blue-uues.

Ohhhh yeahhhh.