This one thing probably never goes away; I think this one thing is always supposed to stay

- the Tragically Hip


I've been thinking off and on about dating and relationships for a lifetime, really. Since I've been back in DC, those thoughts have picked up a lot. As I've said here before, the rest of my life is going so smoothly at this point, the radar's free and clear for the rollercoaster of love (say what).

When my dad was thinking about dating and then actually out there, he hit some points of frustration: he wanted to know what he was doing wrong. Because I'm a good daughter and he's a good dad, we had some good talks about relationships and all that jazz. I thought his frustration came from feeling like a failure, like dating was pass/fail and he kept missing key questions.

I'm understanding his thought process better now, as I myself guess and date and second-guess and date... and run for the hills. For me these days, love's not pass/fail. It's more like a geometry proof that I'm attempting to solve. But I don't think I'm getting solution process right, I must be missing a step. Enter overthinking and total abandonment of dear ole St. Francis de Sales' advice (see yesterday's post).

I go into full Vince Vaughn monologue mode, Wedding Crashers style. Maria (as in, a problem like) must have done something good to win Capt von Trapp; it follows, then, that I must be going horribly wrong somewhere. Am I approaching the right guys or is my taste really this bad? Am I going to the right places? Should I abandon my favorite local pub for, ew, Georgetown bars? Do I need to seek a wing(wo)man on Craigslist? Should I be less funny or less banter-y? More funny and banter-y? Am I committing self-sabatoge and in desperate need of a therapist or that creepy VH1 date guy? Are my pheromones defective???

Deep breath. Whew. Maybe I just need to build up some more good karma: make more baked goods, start volunteering with the homeless, and the librarians, and the high schoolers, and the elementary schoolers, and the Catholics. Or maybe I should try a different proof (grad school? a year in France? a cure for the hanta virus?) and come back to this one at a later date. Maybe I'm just not a geometry person. Maybe I should take my C+ and moooove on along.

I hear "everyone" goes through this? Clearly I'm just the naif who blogs about it.

Shake it like a ladder to the sun

- The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

I can be high-strung sometimes, which is a shame considering that I was raised in the Salesian tradition, which goes a little something like this:

Have no fear for what tomorrow may bring. The same loving God who cares for you today will take care of you tomorrow and every day. God will either shield you from suffering or give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace, then, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginations.

Through May, I felt a little too hurried and anxious and overly-thought-y, so I decided to take a break from planning. Anything. For the whole month of June. My best friend J. came to visit for a week at the beginning of the month, and I planned our activities mostly for that - but I did it in May! And while she was here, if I felt myself getting anxious - "where should we go to brunch? how much can we fit it? will can what how where ahhhh?" - I just stopped. Enjoyed. Ate. Drank. Rinsed. Repeat.

June was a breeze. I had plenty to do, surprisingly. People came over to hang by the pool when they had time, or suggested drinks; I did my kickballing and volunteering; lunched with friends, happy houred, partied with my coworkers. You mean I can have fun when I'm not orchestrating people's lives???

I loved June so much, I think I'm going to take the backseat on fun-planning a little more often. Organic deliciousness isn't just for gardens anymore. Now applicable to a happy hour near you! (well, me, but you could be next)

Will I catch the moon like a bird in a cage? It's for you I swoon

- Wilco


I love music. Actual love, by conventional or romantic comedy definition. I fall asleep listening to music, the first thing I get excited about in the morning, my constant companion during the day. And I love everything about it: classical, classic rock, bluegrass, country, hip hop and rap (to my parents' disbelief), and especially that hipster stuff the kids are always talking about. I pride myself on knowing who's who across the wide swathes of musical deliciousness out there.

When I was younger, I just idolized my groups of choice. Rivers Cuomo from Weezer was totally dreamy in his geek glasses, Art Alexsakis from Everclear was my punk rock idol, and Veruca Salt was all clever names and asskicking girl power. I've gotten better about knowing the stories and the people behind the music, thanks to the masses of articles available on the magical web.

All this is to say: I know music, I love music, and I love quotes like the following from articles like this:
“I just talked to this journalist from Germany who told me our record had a distinct advantage because it was written by a prophet,” says Tweedy [of Wilco], shaking his head in disbelief. “Hilarious.”

[Folksy music idol] stars are just like us - they punctuate statements with "hilarious" and "awkkkkkward" and "true"!

She turned away, what was she looking at?

- Stone Temple Pilots


+ I'm going to remember Michael Jackson like the second video posted here; his voice is recognizable anywhere and those dance moves really are something to stock away. RIP, crazy dude with an addiction to plastic surgery, abusive parents, and talent that we'll never be able to discover in the digital era.

+ Friend A. pointed out the Feats of Summer challenge to me. She's hitting it hard, but I'm just thinking that it would be nice to do a cartwheel again, and take a day for silence, and time my mile run, and remember what it's like to rise to a challenge. My roommate's going to get tired of me saying "wasn't that a good one? c'monnnnn" pretty soon. I don't know if I'll complete 20 of the 27 items, but it'll be fun trying!

+ DC is having a rough summer: the Holocaust museum shooting, the worst Metro incident in history, and now the Real World is living here. Ah well. We'll always have Greek Deli and the board games at Rocket Bar.

+ Beautiful London was once home to treasure riots: true. Great story, found via Mental_floss.

+ Milkteef is cute but not yet book worthy. Show us the kitsch!

+ I want to frame my three Ansel Adams prints for my birthday, but can't find anything cool/worthy/artsy enough for my tastes or for the gorgeous shots. Suggestions for decorating blogs? HGTV is out, since I cannot make this on the apt porch...

We're terrified of one another, and terrified of what that means.

- The Antlers

Last week I was running scared for a few days; it's so alarming sometimes to be without a purpose. But I've reminded myself that my purpose is living honestly, and being 24, and wreaking some good natured havoc while I figure out how this whole growing up thing works.

In the meantime, my shortest-Metro-commute-ever continues to bring me great pleasure. 15 minutes of Metro gaming includes:
- Is he married or single? Don't look for the ring until I've made a decision, obviously. I'm pretty good at this game.
- Hottest married dude: Finished at the conclusion of the married/single games
- What's s/he reading? I never win this one, surprisingly. People read weird things on the metro, including romance novels or trashy Stephenie Meyer books. Really? REALLY? She's no JK Rowling. Leave those for the pool, everyone.
- Intern or new to the city? No way to judge this, unless the intern's so helpful as to wear their intern badge on the train. Good thing interns love wearing their badges!
- How long can I stare at you without you noticing: this is a new one, and bestie J would not approve of it - impolite! But in the morning, people love avoiding eye contact. I'm getting some good mileage out of this, particularly with people obsessed with their Blackberrys.


And sometimes, fun games just present themselves. This morning, I was entertained by watching people try to get comfortable with the masses of people crowding around them. I don't know if it was "Free for New Riders!" day or what, but I saw a lot of confused faces on people (not interns!) unsure about which side the doors were opening on. My short attention span loved every second of the awkward no-eye-contact shifting and loud "EXCUSE ME I NEED TO GET OUT HERE"s. Thanks, guys!

Nothing is perfect. And that's okay.

- amaglamplaysmusic [apparently this band only exists on the one song in my itunes, but it's great pop]


I bake [today it was Molly-cake, French-style lemon yogurt cake with olive oil] for the same reason I run: they are redemptive for me. Penance for missteps, misadventures, bad decisions. I know, God loves me even if I can't make it to mile 4, even when I'm overeager with the lime zest. No, Father and Grandmother, I'm not confusing these acts with church attendance. But in doing battle with the hills of Arlington and watching today's mollycake steam with fresh citrus scent, I'm earning whatever grace I still possess. I spy God in sore muscles and cake much more easily than I find God in myself, sometimes.

One two three four tell me that you love me more

- Feist


Since seeing this comic, I've imagined my very blue eyes to be lazer eyes. (sometimes I'm a touch narcissistic) But I realized this morning, after trying very hard to lazer the intern who wedged herself in front of me, red badge aflyin' and her not-suitable-for-work "My Flat in London" Paris-Hilton-esque bag tapping against my waist: I'm not well-suited to lazer eyes. I'd kill people (horrible intern stereotypes that kill all hope for cool interns) accidentally on purpose all the time (all summer, every morning, and then steal their coffee to boot).

It's for the best that I continue to commute with them everyday. Jesus saves, after all. And besides: what would Captain Picard do? Insure the safety of his ship and his crew, and then complete the mission, and make himself a better person. Applicable to everything!

We can pickle the pain into blue ribbon winners at county contests

- Yeasayer


The current president of Wake Forest University recently wrote about friendship in the Raleigh News & Observer.  Why I can't possibly imagine why he was writing in Raleigh's paper and not Winston-Salem's, let's focus on his key point: "Powerful friendships do not just happen; they require sustained investment."

A truth, and not an easy one.  Even powerful family relationships require effort on everyone's part; I'm close to my dad, his wife, the Brothers, even The Wife's family because I work hard to send notes (digging for my cards as I write that) and make calls and exclaim over the good things and pat backs over the sad things.  Not to say that I don't have relationships with the other members of my family, but I'm sorry to say that they don't fit Natty O's category of "powerful" in the way that they could.  There's enormous potential, if only cornucopias of time and money abounded everywhere.  True of so many things in life!

If I didn't have to choose between relationships and material things, my life would be a lot less stressful.  Student loans, what student loans??  Let's go sailing this weekend, I don't have to stare at my account balances!  And, ahhhhhhhh, pants that fit!  Life would be infinity easier to handle in a well-fitting pair of jeans, or a skirt, or shorts, or really any bottom of the correct size.  But: I'm so much happier knowing how much the people in my life add, how valuable their time and energy is, how much I enjoy making them laugh, how much I enjoy being made to laugh. I pick Vanderslice tickets over jeans every time.

So: I'll try to stop moaning about my clothes.  In return, please keep me around: we'll drink cheap beer by the pool, dance to free music in the sculpture garden, and watch free movies all summer.  K? 

Enlightenment: March 17, 2009 or, the first time I ever cried on St Patrick's Day (absurd statement, and possibly untrue)

[Ed note: I've been sitting on this post for a while, thinking it over, as you can see from the title. And I'm going to sit with the idea a while longer. My goal is to spend a few afternoons a month writing about Mom, but for me the best-laid-plans are oft-forgotten. So, I'm letting this one lie for now while I pursue grad school and 5ks and summer in the city. But... I'm here. And I'm writing. And thinking. And writing more.]


Surely as a toddler I cried every day. Isn't that what toddlers do? Holidays and nationally themed drunkfests be damned? Anyway.

In the aftermath of losing my mother, I worry most about forgetting her. The way she talked to me, what she said to me, the way she spoke to others and how she treated them, how she made blueberry pancakes or cranberry bread that I hated or stuck up for me to my father or used that sharp tongue when I misbehaved or how she listened. The listening. She listened to me swear, pray, boast, beg, complain, whine, cry, yell, rage till I was red in the face, love.

Today Molly Wizenburg told me that she was so relieved (maybe not the word she used) when she wrote her book, when she scribed the stories that her father had given her, the good and the bad. She was relieved because she knew she wouldn't forget them; for all eternity, those moments with him, for better/worse, are written down.

I want to do that. I want to do that for my family. For myself, mostly, though. I am a youngest child and, while I like to think that a lot of the time I can step back for the big picture, the Mom stories: they are mine. My brother have their own, my father has his own, our family has their own. But we all know my memory sucks. I need to remember my mother for me, and what better way than with my written word? [That thought feels selfish, and it looks selfish on the computer, but I'll get over it - I'm the youngest for a reason.]

We won't dance, we won't sing, we won't talk: we just gonna watch how it bends

- Harlem Shakes, "sunlight"


Friend A.Bomb remarked recently that my mommablues seem to be cyclical. I think she meant, they come once a month for about a week [which, by the by, magically corresponds with a scientifically approved desire for CAKE]. Which is somewhat true, I'm on board with that - my time in the red tent is often spent thinking, "why don't i have a mother, mrrr" and "life was so much easier when she was around!"

But I miss her with embarrassing frequency at other times as well. Yesterday I went to buy underwear, and found myself with a dilemma: cotton or nylon? What's the difference? Should I care? Normally, I'd just call my mother. Mothers know these things. No offense to best friends, but they are less well-versed. And my aunts generally welcome odd queries, but it's rude to ask a one-off question without engaging in a proper conversation and, frankly, they have their own kids to deal with.

I made a decision on the underwear by myself, like a big girl. And I didn't cry or come home and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream (seriously, Stephen Colbert, it's unAmerican to taste so good!). It has, after all, been two and a half years since she died. I cope. But I talk about her (probably an awkward amount), and think about her, and miss her voice in my life. Her opinion still matters, still matters, even though she doesn't have opinions anymore. In case my italics aren't conveying this well, I think that my thought process is insane - but I can't help it. She was my mother and she's really the only acceptable person in that role, so I'm making due with what's left.

So, yeah, maybe the mommablues are cyclical. But the abscence is noted frequently. Errrrrr. I wish there was something I could DO when I feel this way. Grief isn't solutions-oriented, sadly. Jerk.

Every time she told me she loved me, I said "no" back

- Ghostface Killah


This week's pop culture shout-out: "We wait three days to call a woman, because that's how long Jesus wants us to wait." Who doesn't love Neil Patrick Harris (aka Doogie)? Seems impossible.

If anything, I bling yo

- Beyonce


So tired tonight, from orange line antics and a little bit from life. Some linktasticness:

• This Coke commercial totally annoyed me, and I was happy for the Freakonomics explanation.
• This TV show totally annoys me (sorry, Grano, it always did), as does its OK! and People covers, so I was happy to read about parents who get what doesn't work.
• I'm oddly proud of the mean kid from "The Christmas Story" for being a working actor. He seems tool-y, but hey, good for him. Score another one for Canada.
• I never know whether to laugh or think thoughtfully about Exploding Dog comics; I laughed at this one yesterday, but now I'm re-thinking my response.
  
• Chimps can laugh? Oh sigh, there goes my advantage over them, aside from clothes.
• Seven years is actually longer than my friend average, probably... I'm hopeful that the average will get longer as I get older though! [and an almost happy seventh anniversary to all the people I met at Wake Forest in Fall 2002 - see you at the ice cream social in August? Yessss south campus!]

Everybody wants respect (just a little bit)

- Bodeans


It's probably for the best that my mistakes show up on my doorstep from time to time. They're in a different form, but I still recognize them. I'm not arrogant enough to think that everything's about me... but my mistakes are always about me. At least we have each other. Honestly, I'm grateful for the reminders that something's wrong if I'm feeling smug about my life.

So, universe, note taken (I've actually taken this note before, several times, and yet still haven't learned): be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.


Weekly mental goal, courtesy of St Francis de Sales

Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections, but instantly set about remedying them - every day begin the task anew.

I do my best but I'm made of mistakes

- Neko Case


Ooof, what a week. Work is blowing up, romance is dead, and I didn't buy Vekatimest while it was $4 on Amazon. Next time everything goes wrong in life, I'm going to check my birthday calendar: I forgot my father's this week. As in, failed to remember his birthday was even in May, blackout and woke up inside the chimp cage at the zoo, forgot. Wowza. Normally I just have trouble remembering what exact day his birthday is: whenever it's brought up in security questions, I provide a multiple choice answer - Daddio was born in close proximity to his father and as a kid those dates were indistinguishable. I've been bad with birthdays this month, and his for life: but this is an epic fail situation.

My mother was a pro at celebrating birthdays, holidays, and any other occurance that demanded or even lightly suggested a celebration. First communion? New rosary and cross at the ready. Easter? Basket, complete with candy AND an "easter bunny present," hidden somewhere in the house. Birthdays meant a dinner and cake of choice: homemade! ice cream! wasn't there a train-shaped one? I had a Minnie face for year 4. My mother and I share a gene pool, wouldn't you say? Sometimes a party, too. And the event was always accompanied by a well-thought-out, useful but awesome gift that you'd mentioned months ago, and she had remembered it better than you had.

I dread my birthday. It's not as upsetting as Christmas, but my mother's absence on my birthday is noticed, regretted, unfillable, benchmarking. [Side note: she was four months pregnant when she turned 25. I'm both thankful and regretful that that's not going to be my fate at 25. Oh, what a terrible feminist I'd make.] I'm a hypocritical, poor-planning child (daughter, for pete's sake, I'm supposed to be the intuitive one) for hanging my dad out to dry at the start of year 56. Even if he's drying out next to that cute new wife of his at a watering hole in Yosemite somewhere.