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.