Literature Czar

Last weekend during the National Book Festival, the Washington Post asked authors this question: If you were named literature czar and could make all Americans read one book, which book would it be?

What a great question! More than any other hypothetical – more than wondering what I would do with a million dollars or what first law I'd pass as president – the book czar question put me in touch with my inner power tripper. It was an easy call: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. A book about loyalty, adventure, humanity, and personal moral compass (and a hilarious read, no less). How cool it would be to turn to the person beside me in the grocery store and ask, “So what did you think about that ending? Did Huck fail Jim, or did Twain wimp out?” As book czar, I’d hope that the entire country would be kept awake at night obsessing over questions like that. (I’d be an eeeevil book czar.)

I posed this question to a cross-section of people today: lawyers, fulltime moms, Marines, business owners, professors, creative professionals, students, etc. Their responses were immediate and enthusiastic. These are my friends, family, neighbors, and colleagues. I look at our collective list and wonder: What do these books say about us? What do they say about our views of America?

All the King's Men
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
The Great Gatsby (2 votes)
To Kill a Mockingbird (3)
Ferdinand the Bull
The Last Tortilla and Other Stories
Rise to Globalism
For the Common Defense, A Military History of the United States
The Illustrated Man
Huck Finn (4)
The Giving Tree
Amazing Fantasy #15 - Marvel Comics
All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
Fahrenheit 451
Where the Red Fern Grows
And one deserate plea that the book be anything but Grapes of Wrath.

Your turn: If you were named literature czar, which book would you want Americans to read?


And until that glorious day when my reign begins, enjoy this preview:

"It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened."
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain

Why English?

During my twenties, I assumed that work would provide all the intellectual stimulation necessary in life. If I worked hard enough, I thought, I’d grow wise and become the kind of wit who regales crowds at cocktail parties. Not quite. The longer I worked, the dumber I felt.

The fault wasn't with the job. I’ve been fortunate to work in web development and design, a creative career that forces the left and right halves of my brain to play nice. The deeper I dug into my field, however, the more shallow I felt beyond it. I was smart at one point, right? Didn’t I once think, you know, like things and stuff? I decided to do what confused people do: go to grad school.

When I told my boss that I wouldn’t be able to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays because I started my Masters, her eyes lit up. She reached for the company’s tuition reimbursement form and asked what program I began: IT? Business? “No,” I replied, “English!” Hopped up on idealism and three cups of coffee, I shared my vision with her: nights of discussing Shakespeare or laughing over Twain, reading great books and hearing wise professors! Didn’t it sound like so much fun? She supposed it did and then took back the tuition reimbursement form.

Some of my well-intentioned colleagues attempted an intervention. Why English? Did I know that choosing a degree in my field meant that the company would pay for it? I did. Did I realize that this degree offered no hope of a raise and only qualified me for a teaching career which paid woefully little in NC? Yep.

The friends who got it, though, really got it. One friend smiled and replied, “Good. I think that when people go to school for the purpose of making more money, we shouldn’t even call it education.” Ouch. (But amen.)

The following three years were exhausting, stressful, and absolutely wonderful. I felt like me at my best. My professors were among the most inspiring and knowledgeable (and funny!) teachers I've had. Class discussions were so engaging that I’d come home too excited to sleep. My paper on Moby Dick was published, making me feel as if I made my own small contribution to the world of books. Most importantly, I awoke my brain.

The morning after my final class, I awoke early out of habit to begin my time-to-make-the-donuts routine. Still half asleep, I made coffee, let the dogs out, grabbed a pen, and sat at the dining room table where a slew of open notebooks, journal articles and books awaited me for the past few years. Not this time. The books and papers on the table were closed and neatly stacked. I was done. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation, perhaps it was sentiment, but either way, I looked at my closed books and cried. I cried because I was sad to see it end; I cried because I pulled it off. I recalled one of my favorite lines from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which reads, “Eyes changed after they looked at new things.” Grad school took me on walks along Walden Pond, shipped me off with Ishmael, sent me running away with Sethe. Grad school introduced me to so many characters and places that I’d otherwise need ten lifetimes to know them. Grad school changed how I saw the world, my future, myself. So why an English degree? If there’s a better use for time or money than that, I’d love to hear it.

The Non-Traditional Student

As an undergrad, few things annoyed me more than sharing a class with a “non-traditional student.” I figured the term was a nice way of saying, “too old to be here,” which I supposed was kind, supposing non-traditional students were probably sensitive to other concerns, like their crows’ feet, trick knees, and impending deaths. Nontraditional students usually popped up in evening courses, and if you didn’t spot them by their old person smell, you could identify them by the way they inhabited the front row and kept their hands raised. They were obnoxious, annoying. They were those students who would ask an in-depth question five minutes before class would end. We traditional students would stare daggers into their gray little heads during the four extra minutes we were detained in class. The only reason we took once-a-week evening classes was to make the rest of our weeks easier, not to actually learn at night.

Fast forward ten years, and the predictable occurred. It began easily enough as I discussed my course of study with my grad school advisor. She said that my time in school wasn’t very long considering I was (wait for it…) a non-traditional student. Ho-leeeee crap. Me??? Until then, I convinced myself that I fit right in, that a 31-year-old full-time working professional blended right in with the 23-year-olds who have never written a resume and still live with Mom. Yet it became so horribly clear that I had “non-traditional student” written all over me: I’m an overeager student who sits towards the front of the class and who is no stranger to the end-of-class question.

I’ve since realized that the difference between traditional students and nontraditional students is largely a matter of math. While traditional students may deal with student loans, those are checks that magically appear with no concept of how hard one must work to repay them. We nontraditional students, however, have done our share of work and can do the math. I can name countless other ways I could spend the $20,000 I’m forking over for this degree. I’ve calculated that each night’s class costs approximately $90 and how much I have to work at a job I don’t enjoy in order to earn the privilege to attend each one. Younger students ask before class if I’ve finished the reading; you’re damn right I have. And if I have a question to ask at 9:14 p.m., you’re going to hear it.

I’ve begun to detest traditional students with the same ire that I once reserved for the nontraditional ones. They whine about having no time to write papers, but then say things like, “Oh my god, do you watch Rock of Love? I’m, like, obsessed with that show.” I haven’t had the time or opportunity to be, like, obsessed with any show during the past few years. I don’t know what Rock of Love is, who’s in it, or what channel it’s on. Young students bemoan all-nighters and how they, “seriously, have NO time at all,” but then discuss Grey’s Anatomy with more insight than they use to discuss assigned books in class.

And I know I sound like someone’s grumpy old Depression-era grandparent, bemoaning the cost of bread and decrying the state of kids today. But perhaps we’ve judged those cantankerous old souls too quickly. For if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that those whom we judge might very well be those whom we become. Ten years from now, I just might be standing on my front step, hoisting a rake and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Ten years after that, I’ll likely have a drawer full of wrapping paper I’ve carefully saved after each holiday. Because if I can become an ornery old non-traditional student, anything is possible.

If It's Sunday, It's Meet the Press.

Around my office, Monday morning means several things. It means wasting time writing status reports. It means pretending to review new numbers that were crunched from the week before. And it also means the after-action report that my boss and I share over the previous day’s Meet the Press.

Although Meet the Press is watched by a good deal of the DC area, I only know my boss and I to be the non-politicos who have a near-obsession with the show. We’re one step away from becoming Meet the Press groupies. My coworkers referred to Tim Russert as my boyfriend, bemused over how the joking would make me giggle and blush. Many Monday mornings, my boss would call and we’d passionately discuss that week’s show and guests.

The call she made last Friday afternoon was much different. The phone rang shortly before 4, just when I learned of Tim Russert’s death. “Are you seeing this?” she asked. “Ugh. This sucks. Bad,” I said, losing any shred of professional demeanor. We sat at our respective computers, staring at our CNN Breaking News banners, willing them to change. It’s not often that a stranger’s death can make such a personal impact.

I met Tim Russert at a book signing in 2004. I think I scared him. Suffice it to say, he was unaccustomed to such enthusiasm on his book tour. During the reading, I grinned like Charlie Brown in the presence of the little red-haired girl and cherished my front row-center seat as if I were at a Stones concert. When Tim Russert signed my book, I gushed about how much I admired him and enjoyed his program. He was very gracious. I then asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I got a picture with him. His gratitude soon turned to wariness, and I realized that I just weirded out my news crush. But we got our picture, me and my kinda freaked-out hero. I brought it into work the next day. My boss taped it to her door.

When I see the tributes being paid to Tim Russert, I get all the more angry that he died. He was a good one. We needed him. The style he gave to Meet the Press was more productive, civilized, and thorough than almost any other news show on television. Plus, he just seemed so damn nice. But the coverage is taking a turn that appalls me. What bothers me about the recent coverage of his death is the interrogation into matters of his health. His doctor has been on television all day, defending Russert as a “model patient” and insisting he enjoyed cycling. I hate that. It seems like whenever someone dies, we look for ways to prove to ourselves it won’t happen to us. If someone dies in a car crash, we want to know that they weren’t wearing a seat belt or that they were drunk. If someone dies of lung cancer, we need to know they smoked. The questions only seem to show that in a time of tragedy, we seek reassurance regarding our own survival. How horribly egotistical. We want death to make sense in a way that will allow us to use our wits to escape it. So when Tim Russert died of a heart attack, the questions quickly began: Did he watch what he ate? Did he exercise? Did he listen to his doctor? We seek explanations, reasons, causality. When death really comes down to a matter of this: someone is no longer with us; it’s sad.

And in this case, we lost Tim Russert. And it sucks. Bad.

Mr. James and Me

When I’m feeling masochistic, I’ll start something that is likely beyond my desire to complete, but will force me to finish once I begin. Once I made my mom a quilt for Christmas, having never quilted before and thinking that two weeks would offer sufficient time; another time I told Jimmy, “Let’s do it!” when he proposed we hike Croagh Patrick in Ireland (those who know of my horrible fear of heights will know the following hours were pee-in-my-pants terrifying); and when I was asked for a topic for an independent study course last semester, I suggested Henry James.

How adorably naïve I was then.

I love Henry, I do. But in retrospect, I realize what he and I shared over those four months was a dysfunctional relationship: I spent hour upon hour with him, waiting for something to happen, for a plot to emerge, and then nothing. But he’d write something pretty —I’m talking a gorgeous sentence—and I was putty in his hands again. It became routine: I’d wait for action, he’d string me along with pretty words, and then I’d start another book for the same treatment. While I was reading, Jimmy would innocently ask what the book was about, and I’d snap, “NOTHING! It’s about NOTHING! I don’t know what the plot of this damn book is and I’m on page 500!” But once I’d finish, I’d get it. I’d get that the books weren’t about what happened, but about how humans interact with life, with others, with themselves. I’d look back upon the book fondly, with the rosiest of glasses, and look forward to reading it again. If I didn’t love Henry James so much, I’d hate him. A lot.

One cannot skim Henry James or breeze through his books whilst sipping lattes with friends in a coffeeshop. While he may spend pages upon pages describing the expression on someone’s face, he will kill off a major character in a dependent clause, mid-paragraph. I would read each novel in absolute silence and solitude with a steady caffeine intake, forcing myself not to blink. But he rewards you greatly for this attention: once every few pages or so would be a string of words so pretty that I’d have to read them several times to fully savor them before moving on.

So the result of my masochism is this: Each Christmas, there lies a quilt in my mom’s house that I cannot look at without suffering post-traumatic stress disorder as I recall fourteen days of quilting hell. Laying beside my desk is a walking stick from my hike in Ireland, the memory of which is both endearing and empowering. And overtaking one shelf in my bookcase are thirteen books by Henry James, who—after so much intimacy between us—now seems like my literary husband. And although my temper flares with him, I’ll continue to settle into my chaise from time to time with Henry. And a strong cup of coffee.

The quilt (as almost done)	The hike
The semester

Hail to the Nachos

I’ve gotten into football this year more than any past year. Years were spent faking it, through cheering on the Redskins and the Hokies while merely staking out the chili and nacho options. I might’ve shown up to the game, but I was there for the food. Football fans know their food: they know that a cheese dip just isn’t a dip unless it includes sausage, or that the only way to improve on good food is to deep fry it. While I show great self-restraint during the week, it melts like Velveeta at the sound of John Madden.

For years, sports enthusiasts freaked me out: people who spurt facts and figures of teams long gone, who analyze plays past the point of making it ten yards for a first down. In the past, I believed this to be a character flaw, a mismanaged use of a great memory and critical thinking skills. It made me uncomfortable when such people used mysterious words and phrases like “special teams” and “blitz.” I used phrases like “extra cheese” and “does anyone know if I can find some jalepenos around here?”

The more seasons passed the more I learned to appreciate football, although initially not as a show of athleticism. I enjoyed football for its ability to bring people together. Some people I otherwise had nothing in common with could be my big ally in the Monday night game. Any other day of the week, we might struggle through forced conversation, but during a game, we’d yell and cheer and high five (or moan and whine and commiserate). Noticing its ability to bring people together, I started to ask my football guru friends to give me one analysis of a big game for me to memorize and pass off as personal opinion, repeated ad nauseum through the week. At the coffeemaker at work, I’d nonchalantly recite my rehearsed opinion of a team’s running game, secretly fearing that someone might ask me to define running game, exposing me as the fraud I was. No worries. People would launch into a diatribe on the subject as I stirred my coffee and nodded. A friendship was formed. They’d see me around the halls and I suddenly was more than just that web developer who sat in the corner. I was a football fan. I was one of them.

The most dramatic example of the power of football came a few years ago during a conversation with my father. At the time, he and I weren’t the closest pair and found little in common. During one quiet family dinner, he casually mentioned the Steelers game that evening. He hails from western Pennsylvania, where the Steelers rank with God as entities one must have faith in. Coincidentally my memorized quote of the week, courtesy of my coworker Rich, was about the Steelers. I hid my smile behind my pizza and said, “You know, it might’ve been a long run, but sticking with Cower really paid off.” I had no idea who or what a Cower was (a coach, apparently), but I knew my father would. His mouth dropped open, his pizza fell from his hands, as he looked at me with a combination of awe and admiration. More than any other time, more than the ballet recitals or the graduations, I impressed the hell out of my dad. Football can do crazy things like that.

Football is capable of all sorts of miracles. While sitting in stands, I lose my taste for a nice dry cabernet sauvignon and crave a light beer. A light beer. Even in DC, where people can’t agree about anything but the traffic, a touchdown has us all on our feet and singing "Hail to the Redskins," suddenly a group of 90,000 friends. Nothing makes me smile like two strangers high-fiving. What else could provoke such unrestrained signs of enthusiasm? I have a theory that football allows some men to break down their barriers, to reach out to new friends. That theory earns me a lot of eye rolling for turning a sport into a sociological study, but next time a game is on in a bar, watch the men. While otherwise most would sit within their own surly bubble, football gives them a shared interest. It sparks friendship between men who otherwise fear that initiating conversation with a man they don’t know renders them ineligible for any military service but the Navy.

This year, I’ve enjoyed football for football’s sake. Occasionally, my take on the game is quickly echoed by the commentator, telling me I’m getting things right. I know what a running game is, I know a crap call when I hear one. I’m still not getting everything right, though. Even when the opposing team wins, I still say things like, “But just imagine how happy their families are right now. Doesn’t that make it OK?” Apparently, it doesn’t. Other than this sense of compassion (to all but Terrell Owens), I’m beginning to understand the strategy, to know that these aren’t a bunch of big oafs running into each other, but part of a well-calculated system of plays.

Still, however, my favorite part of football isn’t what happens on the field, but in the stands, at the watercooler, or in my home. My favorite part comes when my couch is full of friends, laughing and cheering together, or when people who have a hard time opening up to others can do so because football provides a common interest. My favorite part of football is the sense of camaraderie it creates.

Well, that and the nachos.

Jury Duty

I finally got nabbed: a letter came in the mail a month ago notifying me that I was up for jury duty. While this letter is opened with a groan by normal people, for me, it was greeted with cheers. Illustrating my current level of job satisfaction, the only thing I saw was a ticket out of work for a few days, no matter how boring the alternative.

Things like this bring out the grandiose dreamer in me. It’s like buying a lottery ticket; I rarely do so because it emotionally exhausts me. Before the drawing even occurs, I’ve not only determined how I’ll use the money, but also who's not getting a penny of it. My planning continues until I’ve become stingy with hypothetical money! Who does that? I do; I see the warped potential in every possibility and plan accordingly. My jury duty letter evoked similar grandiose visions. I could see it: sitting in a trial involving a constitutional crisis while I call for order and reason in the jury room, shouting, “Now let’s everyone just settle down here!” (Doesn’t everyone dream of yelling something like that?) Law and Order would make an episode based upon my skills as a juror. September 17 was to be my day for legal greatness. (dun-dun)

I arrived, curious to see what a jury of my peers looked like. Apparently, my peer is a sixty-something white woman who dresses in colors otherwise only seen in sherbet, and totes one of those overpriced quilted bags. It was like walking into Stepford, forty years after the fact. Of the 68 of us, 64 were white; I counted one Indian woman, one black man, and two black women. Soon, I deduced that I was the lone liberal in the room. We five pariahs sat near each other in the same corner, with an unspoken pact that when the time came, we'd go down fighting.

The man sitting in front of me chatted with the man to his left, sharing his aborted plan to wear his most offensive t-shirt so he’d get dismissed. He asked his new friend if his “Kill All The Gays And Democrats” t-shirt would do the trick. The other man supposed it would, and they enjoyed a good-natured chuckle. Good times.

Then there was that guy. He had thick, silver, neatly parted hair and a voice that naturally (and unfortunately) bounced off the walls. He was a DJ and suffered from the egomania that accompanies local fame present in a person who rarely escapes the metro area. He bragged of his appearances in parades, his casual friendship with Larry Sprinkle, the chief meteorologist of the NBC affiliate. Beside him sat a gaggle of women who craved to be charmed as much as he craved to charm them. I telepathically begged them to stop; they were only encouraging him. To pass the time, he asked the gaggle to hand over their purses so he could go through them and announce what was in each. Apparently not accustomed to saying No, they complied. They handed over their purses and allowed him to reveal their contents. Things got a little awkward when he asked, “So what do you need the prescription medication for?” Suddenly we all found a reason to examine our shoes.

This was the kind of guy to supply answers to questions never posed to him. During one of the brief, blessed silences, the man loudly asked the gaggle, “Do you know why your husbands never listen to you?” No, I silently begged them, don’t bite, ignore him, just don’t ask, “No, why?” Yet this was precisely what they did. He proceeded with a rehearsed monologue of sexist stereotypes (women as emotionally unhinged talkers who don’t understand the logic of men), and the women couldn’t get enough. Unbelievably they’d prod him with, “That’s so true! That’s just like my husband!” He ate it up and sat back in his chair, folded his arms, no doubt dreaming of the story he’d have for Larry Sprinkle during their next parade.

My immediate neighbors provided no relief. The man to my left was absorbed in a book by Newt Gingrich. Surpassing his questionable taste was the man to my right, who spent most of the seven hours with his fingers in his mouth. Biting, sucking, removing them to evaluate, then shoving them in again. I’m slightly germaphobic as it is; this KILLED me.

Proving that this was shaping up to be a laughably horrible day, beside me on the wall hung a picture of George W. Bush, smirking at me. It was a knowing smirk, it was a “Who’s your daddy now?” smirk. I wanted to say, I’m not here for you! I’m here to get out of work! But alas, the smirking continued; I was in his house now. Then that guy turned on the television, which held such promise as a tool of distraction. No such luck. The consensus of the room was that FOX News would be the perfect background noise for my hell. All they reported was the OJ scandal and the possibility of a Britney Spears custody battle. Later I learned that during this time, Bush tapped his new AG and Clinton unveiled her healthcare plan. Both went unmentioned, but I did watch a 7-second clip of OJ standing up then sitting down in a courtroom at least 82 times.

As always, I had a book with me, ready to escape my surroundings and hide in the pages. It was Walden, the ultimate in escape books. Yet there is not a less suitable environment in which to read Walden than a boxy room packed with chairs and right-wingers, with Dubya lurking over my shoulder. When I read Thoreau’s line, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I cried a little.

At the end of the seven hours, the judge summoned us to the courtroom, where he told us that the defendants had just pleaded guilty and our service as jurors would not be needed. He also told us our seven hours sitting in a waiting room made us model Americans but I can’t remember exactly how. All I knew was that I was able to go home and return to the comparably pleasant experience of work the following day.

The Houseguest

She found us. My friends and family might not believe this, but she found us. We are not keeping her, we have no room for her, we will not name her (and I shall repeat that to myself as many times as is necessary). But I’m getting ahead of myself…

While helping his sister move Saturday morning, Jimmy noticed a puppy wandering towards him with no tags (purple collar, no tags). He took her to houses in the area, but no one recognized her. He took her to a vet, but she was not microchipped. Having to return to the business of moving, Jimmy left the puppy home with me. (Imagine my glee.)

Envisioning a child inconsolable over the loss of the family pet, I pushed my research paper aside to help these poor people who were surely hunting down their puppy. The Humane Society suggested I call animal control, who told me they would pick her up shortly. I hung up with a nagging feeling. I called again to ask what exactly they do with found dogs, and the answer was none too reassuring: “We wait 72 hours, then we do something with them.” After I asked if that “something” involved eternal sleep, the man sounded amused at my naivete: “We do it all the time, ma’am.” The pick-up request was promptly cancelled and I placed a found report instead.

Repulsed by animal control, I began a mission to track down the owners. I put an ad in the local paper and on Craigslist. Jimmy and I posted flyers around the neighborhood, and drove around looking for "LOST DOG" ones. We walked her, asking all dog-walking passers-by if they recognized the dog (we dog types tend to know our neighbors’ dogs’ names more than our neighbors’). No luck.

It’s been two days, and no one seems to be looking for her very hard. I imagine what I’d do if Murph or Scout went missing: the posters, the ads, the skywriting, the sandwich boards I'd wear on busy street corners while screaming their names and throwing Snausages. I often hail the difference of dog people versus the general population, and these owners aren’t helping me make my case.

As I type, the puppy’s sleeping across my feet. She’s a precious dog and deserves to be missed by whoever put that purple collar around her neck. Where are they?

“In the meantime” is a phrase that we use frequently to describe this little dog. In the meantime, we’ll give her Murph’s old crate. In the meantime, we’ll get supplies for her from PetSmart. In the meantime, we’ll call her Darcy.

Dammit.

Can beauty transcend the ordinary?

Never before has the Style section been so painful to read. Even more painful: honestly asking myself if I would have stopped. I think I would have, I really do. I think...

No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?

It didn't.

So go and notice something pretty where you don't expect to find it. I'll still be here angsting over what I would have done.

What I Know

I spent my early twenties regurgitating the happy-hour wisdom I once received: that while your twenties are spent thinking you know it all, thirty shows you that you don’t know anything. For some reason, I found comfort in that; it seemed a defense against any stupid decisions I'd make in my twenties, knowing that thirty would be the ultimate do-over. Now here I am, mere months from my thirtieth birthday, and only now do I really understand that little theory.

I’d like to create an addendum, though: not only does turning thirty make one realize that they don’t know what they’re doing, it makes one realize that no one knows what they’re doing. Even worse.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I unconsciously assumed there was a super-secret grown-up club and one day I would get a manual, learn the handshake and get the decoder ring. In the manual would be a long series of “if-then” statements dictating what to do in any given situation, from how to fix a refrigerator to when to leave a relationship; it would include the code to turn off bad habits like procrastination or messiness; it would include the secret to that smooth hair all women but me seem to have. As children, we assume adults have it together and a supreme order reigns. Now I look around thinking, you've got to be kididng, we're all just winging it.

So no manual exists; instead we’re flawed creatures making flawed decisions, creating a very messy world full of loose ends. It seems we’re very much the children we once were, only making much bigger decisions. As a kid, I imagined I'd live my adult life with absolute certainty, like all adults presumably did. Back then, when I felt overwhelmed I wrote little lists titled, “What I Know.” Underneath I'd list everything I was sure of, no matter how minor, and it made me feel better. So what do I list when I don’t know what I know?

Last night, my professor recalled a quote that the opposite of faith isn't doubt; the opposite of faith is certainty. I realized that the people I've grown to trust aren't the ones claiming to have the answers, but ones who can admit uncertainty yet decisively live their lives and pursue their truth anyway. Never did I think of that as faith, yet now I can't think of it as anything else.

Something trivial happened this week offering symbolic hope: the refrigerator broke. Jimmy and I have many talents, but home appliance repair is not among them. Although we didn’t have the super-secret grown-up manual to consult, we did have the fridge manual. With the help of that, Google and a good guess, we figured it out. We fixed a refrigerator. So on the eve of turning thirty, my new, pared-down “What I Know” list looks like this: I know I have a great partner in Jimmy; I know I have a brain, a heart, and good intentions; I know I'll never know it all. I’ll just rely on faith and figure the rest out as I go.

My Bestest Friend

I was lucky enough to stand before the altar (or the mantle, in my case) with two soulmates. One I married, the other held my bouquet as I said my vows.

It is fairly representative of the role of best friends in our lives. With the romantic significant other, we get the wedding, the big trips, the fancy anniversaries. But the best friend is the eternal, quiet support in all of these: the one who helps choose outfits, calms nerves and allays insecurities, and reminds us that no matter how sexy a four-inch heel is, we’re going to regret it later.

Today is Tricia’s birthday, my bestest of friends, and this calls for an Ode to Tricia. She’s 29, and our relationship is now 15 years old. Early on, neither of us had any idea of the strength of the foundation we laid during the years of note-swapping and slumber parties. We later realized how truly precious a best friend would become: I can’t count how many times we have said, whether through laughter or sobs, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.” We’ve had more change in our lives than we foresaw or hoped, but one thing hasn’t: when big stuff happens, the other one has been there.

Tricia and I haven’t lived in the same town for eleven years, but we keep up to the point where we can make a pretty safe assumption where the other is at any given moment. We know each other's backstories, so explanations can be conveyed with a mere look or tone. I’ve gotten some ribbing from others about using the title “best friend,” as if it should be retired to the high school lunch table, but there’s too big a difference. To call her a friend would be akin to calling my mother a mere relative.

I have never understood why people allow friendships to fade in the midst of a relationship. What a waste. It has been a must that our SOs “get” that we’re a package deal: that we spend too much time on the phone, that we consult about minor decisions, that we have no desire to change either habit. Jimmy has taken a strategic approach: not only does he “get” it, but also appreciates it. If Tricia’s there to field the “what shoe looks better with this skirt?” and the "does my butt look big in this?" questions, he doesn’t have to. If I ask him such a question, he just shakes his head and hands me the phone.

Tricia and I stopped calling each other best friends years ago. Realizing how much we grew up together, we figured we deserved a promotion and now refer to each other as sisters. The use of “sister” gets us some confused looks (the hues of our skin are a big indicator we don’t share a mother), which amuses us every time. I carry with me so many mental snapshots of our sisterhood: celebrating our first “real” jobs and “real” paychecks; other times, being so strapped for cash we literally dug out change in our car seats so we could go to Taco Bell; whimpering our way through colds because we share the belief that people don’t give enough pity for the miserable common cold; and even talking for hours on an uneventful day about anything and everything. For richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, it’s always been Tricia. With best friends, the vows are never taken, but assumed.

Maybe as a culture we don’t emphasize best-friendship enough. It’s a lifelong bond that has somehow eluded Hallmark’s grasp. Or maybe that’s what makes it so special: that the relationship will always be there, not amid celebrations and fanfare, but in the quiet contentedness of the everyday.

Thanks, Tricia, and have a very happy birthday.

The Cutsy Book

It takes something pretty spectacular to make chick lit seem intelligent, but something has -- the Cutsy Book. You know these books, often found under the "Great for Gifts!" sign in Borders, the oh-so-adorable hardbacks hoisted before us during each quasi-holiday, full of nothing but stock photography and cliche-ridden "wisdom"? I hate them. HATE them. Rather, I hate how many people not only buy these books, but go on to tout them as "good" or "touching." They're not good, they're not touching; they're tripe. These books are an affront to anyone who actually aspires to publish something saying anything at all.

I could spend the rest of my days writing from the depths of my soul, as many writers do, and be ignored from big and small publishers alike, as many writers are, not seeing a dollar for the effort. However, I could spend five minutes putting together one of these Cutsy Books, and ta-da! I'm published! It's sheer formula. I shall create such a book right now, before your very eyes. First, I'll select a holiday to ensure my crap will be sold year after year. Minor holidays are best, offering minimal competition; I could corner the market on sentimental Flag Day reading, which might spill over onto Memorial Day, 4th of July, and Veteran's Day (dammit, I'm brilliant). Then I'd do a stock photography search for images of flags -- flags in soft focus, flags before a brilliant sun, flags held by children, flags held by baby monkeys (that'll be the picture to really bring it home). Alongside these pictures would be words meaning absolutely nothing, like... "A flag. My flag. A country. My country." "Wake up to each new sun with love for your country." Mix up the fonts a little (the monkey would not lend itself to a serif, obviously), and voila! A book has been created without a single thought put into it. People in Books-A-Millions all over the country would call to their shopping companions, "Hey, Martha! Look! It's a baby monkey holding a flag! Do you know who would love this?" and proceed to give it to friends in lieu of putting actual thought into their gifts.

Has anyone actually benefitted from one of these books? Has anyone gone through life miserably, until that one glorious moment when one of these books just changed everything? Does anyone else notice that the people who buy these books tend to be the least happy people? The only way I'd make one of these books is if all the pictures were of lemmings. Sad, sad lemmings.

It's lowest common demonitor marketing. The second you say something, you lose someone. If you say nothing at all, the people are enchanted. (See also: Politics: American, 20th Century)

Ireland.

I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten attached to a place so quickly, so deeply as I did with Ireland. Usually after several days on vacation, I begin to miss home – my house, my dogs, my routine, my privacy. Even if I’m having fun, I love coming home. I didn’t have that problem with Ireland because, quite simply, it felt like home already. I believe that Jimmy and I could have moved into any of the eight B&Bs we stayed in, remained a year, and been perfectly happy. After staying two nights at one inn, we already established our neighborhood restaurant, our reading spot in the garden, and the dog even followed us around. It truly felt like home.

Ireland is full of God showing off. It requires your total attention to take in – all at once, you see endless green fields, interrupted only by wildflowers and large stones, mountains, streams and rivers, and big puffy clouds glowing against a brilliant blue sky. The land is too beautiful for words or even pictures to capture. You hear sheep baaah-ing, birds in constant song, water rippling by. I wanted to grab everyone I have ever met to say, “Look at it. Just look at it.” We would sit quietly, looking all about us, realizing the inadequacy of words. An Irishman told us that it was the tragic irony of Ireland – God gave them a beautiful land, but made the land unsuitable to live from. When you see the large stones everywhere – and I do mean everywhere – you understand. To shallow tourists like me, they’re a rustic touch to an elegant landscape. To farmers, they’re a hell of a problem.

Another irony is that Ireland’s poor economy seems to have been a powerful factor in maintaining its unique beauty. So much beauty is there to stumble upon; it’s not marketed. Old stone mansions, left crumbling to the elements, dot the countryside as nature reclaims them. The roofs are long gone, ivy climbs the walls, trees sometimes grow inside. It’s sadly, sweetly romantic. They’re only there because it cost too much to tear them down, and entirely too much to restore. Sometimes one of these old mansions rises from a farmer's fields, a reminder of the land’s past while the present persists around it. It made Ireland feel so much more authentic than the States. Most American beauty and romance seems manufactured; even when it’s found naturally, the accompanying billboards and gift shops and fast food franchises make it seem so… fake. If we have something beautiful, we know how to make a buck from it, to jazz it up in a vain attempt to improve on nature. It’s pageant beauty; once the make-up is over-applied, the hair teased, the boobs inflated, it’s not as pretty anymore. But Ireland. Ireland’s a natural beauty. Ireland’s the one you fall in love with.

Things are changing in Ireland; the mid-nineties marked its economic resurgence and interest to investors. What does one do with such beautifully preserved land? Develop it, of course. Word passes of Dublin-area farmers selling their land for millions to foreign developers; the farmers out west spoke of this with a sense of melancholy because they would probably reluctantly succumb to the Faustian offer as well. Not many of us could resist it. As the economy enters its boom, I envision a frightening flash of the Ireland yet to come… the remains of the old stone mansions torn down for townhouses, perhaps a McDonalds. The landscape interrupted by generic architecture, or God forbid, vinyl siding. The mere thought made me so sick to my stomach I could have vomited. Not here. Not this.

The people we met were as beautiful as the land. There was John, a bartender at a Westport pub who allowed a group of us to stay for hours after closing for free pints and unforgettable conversation. When one man discussed his new working hours, I asked him what his new job was, to his obvious discomfort. He was a graphic designer, which piqued my interest. But he said that people there don’t care about what your job is, and they don’t much like talking about it. It’s not what you do that matters to your friends, but how much time you have after work for a long dinner with your family and time in a pub with your friends for some craic (“craic” is the Irish word for fun, fellowship, and you hear it often: “it’s all about the craic”). The views I heard that night on American politics were so different than anything I’ve heard, so far removed from the American paradigm, that I still dwell on them (“The American god is money. American politics isn’t democracy, it’s capitalism.” “American imperialism far surpassed nineteenth-century English imperialism, only American imperialism was largely accomplished without a battle. The Irish just want to live their lives, they don’t try to make money by selling their lifestyle to the rest of the world.”). The discussion ranged from history to music to football (the real football, of course). The people were enviably smart and well read. I’ve never experienced such intelligent, friendly discussion in a bar.

And there was Linda, a pretty , light-hearted, twenty-something Parisian who recently came to Dublin for a new way of life. She works in a cheese shop, she travels any chance she gets. She’s part of a movement in Dublin to return to a slower life, a slower pace. When talking about people who spend life fretting about jobs or clothes or money, she would simply flick her wrist as if shooing a fly from her face, and exclaim, “Ugh! Victims of the worrrrld!”

There was Mary, who ran one of our B&Bs and was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. She told stories about people who had come to her inn, including the man from the States who has stayed there every year for fifteen years. He couldn’t make it this year, so he her sent a small framed picture of his hometown. It was an inexpensive plastic framed picture of the St. Louis Arch, but she displayed it in her beautiful breakfast room, along her china tea sets and trinkets, with great appreciation of this token of his generosity. “Look at it! Wasn’t it so nice of him?” When we complemented her inn, her food, she would beam. This was a woman with deep appreciation and gratitude. She mentioned she was looking for a girl to help her cook and clean around the inn, and I wanted so much to apply on the spot. Send the dogs over, Mom! We’re not coming home!

Each morning would start at the B&B or farmhouse with a killer breakfast, and if we were lucky, we’d meet fellow guests and hear about their trips. During the day, we would tour castles, abbeys; hike wooded trails or even up a mountain; explore a cave; walk along the coast; drive past indescribable landscapes, taking time to get out of the car to sit and attentively be in the moment. During the evenings, we sat in pubs for some craic, to talk, listen to music, and once again say, “Can you believe we’re here? I can’t believe we’re here.” The awe-struck feeling never ended… at a waterfall, mountaintop, in a garden or at a pub, it was always, “Can you believe we’re here?”

I suppose the best vacations are those that leave you a little changed. Anyone can go to a beach and feel un-stressed. But to go to a new country, to expose myself to a new culture, to fall in love with a land and its people… it wasn’t about experiencing a relaxing week but tasting a new life in order to improve my old one: to limit the role of work, to appreciate the importance of a weekday evening in a pub with friends, to spend less time preparing and more time doing. It makes past versions of myself, my past priorities, seem a little silly. (Agghhh, victim of the worrrrld!)

While in Ireland, I recalled a Joan Didion line, as I often do during important life moments. She wrote, “A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively.” And now I can understand why Ireland belongs so strongly to so many people. We were there for just nine days, but it partly belongs to us now as well. It was our honeymoon, the time of falling in love with each other all over again. Only ours was a ménage de trois – we fell in love with Ireland, and I think she loves us back.

Why I Don't Miss DC

Allow me to preface this list by saying that there are many things I do miss about DC: Saturday mornings in the National Gallery, sitting on the Lincoln stairs at night (best view of the city, hands down), nights in Clarendon with friends, Adams Morgan mega-pizza after dancing, and my beloved Shirlington Guapo’s. I must admit, however, that I’m a much happier gal now that I’ve left Our Nation’s Capital and headed Down South. A few of the reasons why DC drove me crazy:

10. Before you know a person’s name, you know what they do.

9. The inexplicable 3am traffic jams. If I’m going to sit in traffic in the middle of the night (when, of course, I probably have to pee), there better be a damn good reason why. You could spend an hour conjuring up images of the scene ahead causing such delays, of a busload of nuns on fire, of a truckload of livestock overturned... but no, some dude in Lorton is changing his tire on the shoulder, causing all to slow down to look.

8. How competitive people get over who has the longest commute and most overpriced neighborhood. “So you travel two hours each morning to work at 4am from your half-million dollar outhouse in Orange County? Well, you win… I guess…”

7. Tourists standing on the left side of the escalator. Walk left, stand right, people. Some of us need to get to work, and the Air and Space Museum will still be there in ten minutes for you to get your astronaut ice cream.

6. Number one conversation topic? Work. Most common type of work? Government consulting. Yeeeeah.

5. Hill staffers barely pulling in 30k who live with six roommates in order to fund their Kate Spade and Coach habits.

4. “Tough guy” tourists who feel the need to do chin ups on the Metro bars. You can pull your body up five inches from the ground; we’re all impressed, buddy. Use deodorant on a regular basis, lose the fanny pack, and we’ll be even more wow-ed.

3. People using words like “synergy” and “result-driven” with a straight face.

2. “You know, it’s not the heat that gets you, it’s the humidity.” Seriously? I’ve never heard anyone say that before. What insight!

1. Acronyms.

I Wanna Rock 'n Roll All Night (and study every day)

When I was six years old, my mom gave me a cassette recorder, a microphone and a blank tape. It provided this budding rock star with the beginnings of her recording career and her mother with a few hours' peace and quiet downstairs. And what did this rebel have to express? An anti-establishment view of coloring beyond the lines or perhaps an angry diatribe against peas? Not exactly.

"I love school! School! School! School! I love school sooooo much, I wish I could go everydaaay!"

I've been a nerd all my life. It's only gotten worse.

After spending a year watching the clock tick down the hours until I achieved my big goal (in-state tuition rates), I finally enrolled in a Masters program in English here in NC. Last week I arrived on campus to handle all the business of starting a new school. As I pretended to gripe my way down my checklist, my face betrayed my attempt at cool indifference. The grin in my student ID photo makes the Cheshire Cat seem sullen, the expression of one secretary showed she wasn't accustomed to such enthusiasm in the parking permit line, and my stack of new school sweatshirts and regalia rivalled that of the freshmen parents'. When I entered the bookstore, the scent of new textbooks greeted me (say what you will, textbooks have a great smell), and it took every ounce of self-control not to run like a madwoman toward the books, arms flailing.

Despite my lifelong love for all things academic, I didn't fully appreciate college while I was an undergrad, especially initially. I'd focus on my lack of memorization skills in geography, my sheer hatred of geology lab, or how the writing in my head always seemed so much better than the words that spilled onto paper (my singing? very much the same, and I've got the cassette to prove it). Now when I walk on campus, I notice and savor all of it. It feels both exotic and strangely familiar, almost like a movie set of my college life, only with a different cast. I smile at recognizing these strangers, at recognizing past versions of myself and my friends in them: the tight pack of girls talking so quickly and excitedly that the only decipherable words are the occasional, "I KNOW!"; the guy sitting out on the dorm steps with a guitar, trying to impress women with knowledge of a chord; the two students smiling through that awkward yet wonderful friendship-falling-into-flirtation moment. Even the bulletin boards seem like movie props; someone needs a roommate, used textbooks for sale, anyone driving to Altanta this weekend? I walk in a near-daze, recognizing every inch of my new surroundings, but seeing them in a fresh way. I even view my class and its course syllabus differently; less in obligation and more in opportunity.

I love being a student again. It just fits. Humanity should feel grateful there still aren't cassette recorders around, because I've got the makings of "I Love School: The Remix" floating around my head.

Mawwage, that bwessed awwangement...

The night before our wedding, I admitted something to Jimmy I barely wanted to accept myself. I worried that I wouldn’t feel anything during our ceremony. After all, we’d just had a rehearsal that felt oddly normal. Our “normal” is pretty darn good – the night was full of laughter and smiles – but absent of butterflies. Where was the nervous energy? Where was the feeling of ohmygosh, we’re getting MARRIED? I can barely switch shampoos without inner turmoil, so how was I about to get married yet not feel a hint of a freak-out?

The morning of the wedding, people asked how I slept and seemed almost disappointed when I replied that I slept just fine, thank you. They’d ask how I was, in that creepy tone usually reserved for those who just received horrible news (“How ARE you?”), and seemed confused when I said I was just fine, and how are you today? I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of The Big Day, even as my hair was styled and make-up applied. So it was final: I lacked the Bride Gene. The editors of Bride Magazine were on their way to my house to repossess their December issue from my shelf.

But then four o’clock hit. The musicians began to play, the guests assembled in the next room. Suddenly I just had to know where Jimmy was. Was he out there, too? How’d he look? How’d he feel? Did I practice my vows enough? What if I choke? Holy crap, this is my wedding! The feelings rushed over me so suddenly that I feared passing out. Tricia, my sister, maid-of-honor, and doctor extraordinaire, was reduced to teaching me the technique of exhaling. Years of med school and residency, and there she found herself giving the lesson of “So after you breathe in, you have to let it out, OK?” Twenty-eight years of breathing, and I found myself wanting to write that tip down. It totally worked.

When we heard the cue, the opening notes of Canon in D, Tricia descended the stairs to the foyer below, and I would follow shortly after. I knew that once I made it down those stairs, Jimmy would be there, and I felt much more calm. When I rounded the corner and locked eyes with him, the nervousness ended and the tears began. Ohmygosh, we’re getting MARRIED. I discovered my Bride Gene the second I met him in the foyer and he raised my hand to his lips, and I saw a tear fall down his cheek. Many more tears followed, from Jimmy, from me, a hearty contribution from our moms, and even from the officiant and photographer. And in the biggest surprise, even Dan (Jimmy’s brother and best man) cried. It’d be an easier feat to make Dick Cheney giggle.

The ceremony was perfect. Sure, we had the little goof-ups – we kissed way before our cue and laughed more than Emily Post would prefer – but that’s not what I mean. I mean that how it felt was perfect, how it was to us was perfect. Jimmy and I each believed that we were the luckiest person in the world because of who stood before us, and felt in awe of each moment. I looked at him as he smiled back at me, and realized that this was the best moment of my life; it was absolute happiness.

We cried and giggled our way through our vows we wrote for each other. I promised to love, to value, to bake his favorite cookies and keep trying to like football and horror movies. He promised to always support my dreams, personal and professional, and to remember all the silly traditions that make us who we are, like our mac 'n cheese dinner each Valentine's Day. Our readings came from both the Bible and the Velveteen Rabbit, the sermon was penned by a Unitarian minister, the prayer given by a Methodist preacher friend, the blessing was the traditional Irish blessing as read by Jimmy’s Irish Catholic grandmother. The bits and pieces came together to create a ceremony uniquely “us,” and it felt exactly how I hoped. Perfect.

And now we’re four days married. Friends have asked if things feel any different between us. After all, since we've been together for ten years, a level of comfort and intimacy was achieved long ago. And I tell them that it still feels like us, only us on an exhale. It’s the jammy pants version of our relationship, and we wear it well.

The Cynical Bride

When it comes to weddings, I admit it. I can be snarky. Cynical. Easily nauseated. It's easy to dismiss the pseudo-drama of it all. Call it feminism, call it snobbish, but so often the giddiness over bridal magazines and china patterns makes me queasy. I'm not talking about all weddings, but just those that give the bride that crazy glint in her eye when discussing centerpieces. As someone who's saving and longing for my return to grad school, I want to cry when I realize that with the time and money some women devote to wedding planning, they could have a Masters in their chosen field.

So even though I've been with a great guy for many years, I assumed marriage wasn't for me. I'd be the Goldie to his Kurt. Not just the wedding rituals scared me, but also the expectations of the institution: the submissiveness, the passivity, the evenings spent in front of Wheel of Fortune. I'd hear women never referring to their husbands by name but by "hubby," or financially successful women exclaiming, "Oh, he'd KILL me if I bought those shoes!" I wanted to spend my life with him, but geez, I didn't want that. So we did what people like us do: we moved in together.

But a funny thing happened on the way to shackin' up. Having him as a roommate made me want him as a husband. We make a great, if not odd, team. We share the chores, write little notes, and have a weird penchant for National Geographic documentaries on architectural catastrophes. We talk to our dogs more than sane people ought, and he laughs when I express everyday emotions through song or dance (my theory is that people in musicals are always so gosh darn happy; maybe the rest of us are missing out). But it wasn't the happy or silly moments that convinced me he'd make an amazing husband. It was the bad times that really showed me what a great man he is. He listens and assuages when I stress about things that haven't happened yet (my specialty); he's seen me delve into despair and stuck around to see me out of it. When we argue, we fight fair or apologize quickly. He's a man -- and it's a life -- that I want forever. When I realized that I wanted to marry him, the idea was no less radical than had I invented the institution itself. I'd like to say that the discovery was full of hearts and flowers, but for every utterance of love was a, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"

And holy crap, we are... in just three weeks. But I still don't "oooh" over invitations (they're just paper, c'mon), I still read that the average wedding costs nearly $30k and cry a little. Bridal magazines only make me want to elope with their million synonyms for fiance: darling, honey dear, shnookie pie. Please.

So in the words of ol' Frank, we'll do it, but we'll do it our way. My gown has no pouf, the guest list only has 14 names, "hubby" will never pass through my lips. It won't be about veils or cakes or "the perfect day." It'll be about celebrating what we've already built, honoring what formed long ago. It'll be a vow of forever, with a whispered, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"

My first, un-blank page.

At the beginning of each notebook I own -- you know, those notebooks that us wannabe writers have everywhere, full of little bits of everything, sketches, bad poetry -- I leave a blank page. An English professor once taught me that the first page of each notebook should contain a quote so inspiring, so profound, that it would guide the writer to greatness on the following pages. I spent a week searching for that quote before giving up. When the professor asked why I hadn't written on my first page, I told her: no matter how crappy the rest of my writing was, I could look back and see that anything's better than the one week I waited for genius and wrote nothing at all. It soon became superstition.

However, that was about ten years ago, and my writing habits haven't improved. So I'm taking a break from the notebooks and starting a blog.

This is a thing for me, the whole blogging thing. I'm a privacy freak. I make the ACLU seem cautious. While most people believe Armeggedon will begin with the rapture or religious war, I believe it began with e-mail. We trust e-mail with some of the most intimate details of our lives, even while knowing information transmitted online is about the least secure form of communication we have. Can't you see it? Someone learning to open all e-mail accounts to a public search engine? Every word typed in anger, each note written thinking that only two sets of eyes would see it? Wars sparked, marriages destroyed, friendships ended, all of us fired for what we really think of our bosses? The college population would be picked up at their dorms the following morning by parents with shackles. The less posted online, the safer. My theory is that we should only write/buy/post online if we are comfortable that our children will one day see it, because they probably will. Sure, this sounds like a scenario conceived by George Orwell with a screenplay adapted by Oliver Stone, but it's my thing. A privacy thing.

So blogging seems like the last thing I'd want to do. And that was always my excuse: do I really want to post my thoughts and rantings online, where they'd be Out There? But then the obvious struck me...

I want to be a writer. If my worst-case scenario was that my words would be read, then maybe my ambitions are misdirected altogether.

So here I am.

Next up... something to say... (starting off with a blank page would've been so much easier)