Love Notes? Or God Notes?

I write this post with some hesitation - not because of what I will say, but more because, in doing so, I will have to admit that I listen to "Love Notes" on the local soft rock station. Yes! It's true! I like soft rock! Please don't judge me.

Anyway, after rockin' out to some quality Bryan Adams, Delilah, who is the host of "Love Notes," interjects with an on-air interview. You all know Delilah, I know you do! I am NOT the only one. That soft, melodious, reassuring voice... haha. Little did I know that she had an agenda.

A woman calls in with, of course, a dedication. She wants to send a song to her husband because their marriage is falling apart. She says that her husband is never home. He's always out with the guys. He comes home very late and he's always drunk. He doesn't spend enough time with his wife and their young child.

Sad, right? You know what Delilah's advice is? Pray. Yep, pray. These are rough times, she says. But surround yourself with people who love you, see a counselor if you can, wait... and pray. He'll grow up. It'll get better. I'm like, what the f***?

Keep in mind I had just listened to Goodbye Earl on my way home, so I'm in a completely different frame of mind. Praying is great, don't get me wrong, but I think there are some other, possibly more effective, solutions. At least she got the word "counselor" in there.

During the same broadcast, in between some Shania Twain and some classic Phil Collins, she comments that she is here for us to find "our path" and our meaning in life. How do you wake up in the morning? What do you live for? Live for HIM. I'm thinking, for who, exactly?

Upon further research on her Website, I learn that she's not so much an outward religious fanatic, but rather somewhat closeted. A 16 year old girl wrote in, asking what do because she was pregnant and she was scared. Delilah's first tidbit of advice, "Take care of that baby!" Seek medical attention, and then decide if you want to consider an adoption service. I'm thinking, yes, adoption is wonderful, but there are other options - other "choices" - before that step. And this girl needs to at least be presented with them.

I have no problem with God. In fact, this past year, I've found great inspiration in the music of Yolanda Adams and Kirk Franklin, who, by the way, is a self-proclaimed Jesus freak. I'm not against spirituality. I'm just against the misrepresentation of choices, and the truth.

But I still support soft rock.

There She Is, Your Ideal

What does it mean to be a princess? Is it a good thing? Or a bad thing? Does it mean you are of a noble class, a lady? Or does it mean you are of the spoiled kind, a pompous brat? Why do little girls want to be princesses? Is it because they want to feel special and adored? Or is it because they just... want?

Odd questions, especially coming from me. I was a tomboy and a nerd (actually I prefer the term "dork" because there is, at least, some element of cuteness there). I played with legos and blocks. I liked the occasional stuffed animal. But Barbie? Ewwwwww. And princesses? Um, yeah, no.

So, 20 years later, I'm walking to work. It's a great spring morning. I get my coffee and yogurt loaf and I'm about to enter my building. Then I hear the popular DC sound of sirens. Police cars. The motorcade. Again. I'm a little curious, and not in a huge rush, so I stop. Is it Cheney? I hope not! I'm wearing my camouflage bag and I forgot my bullet proof vest today.

No! It's not Cheney! It's not Rumsfeld. It's not Dumbshit. It's... the Cherry Blossom Princesses? Holy crap, it's totally the Cherry Blossom Princesses. In a bus that says, appropriately, "United States Cherry Blossom Princesses."

FYI, according to the National Conference of State Societies Website, "the Cherry Blossom Princess Program is a weeklong cultural and educational opportunity for young women from across the U.S. and around the world. Women between the ages of 19 and 23 are chosen by the 50 state and 5 territory societies and the international embassy community for their leadership, academic achievements, interest in social, civic, community and world affairs... the Princess Program continues to spawn women of accomplishment."

Haha... spawn.

Anyway, it's like Miss America invades DC. Miss American dignitaries. Women "leaders" who are told to wear certain attire, certain colors. They all look the same. They all promote an image. They are our "role models." Role models in high heels and pastel gowns. Ha. The next Laura Bush? Condi Rice? Actually both of those women would be honored by the plastic hair styles.

Well, who am I to judge? I am friends with a former CBP, and she rocks. Shout out to Oregon.

But is this the image we really want to give our children?

I have a friend who is getting married and she refuses to be treated like a princess, even though we all insist she deserves it. No special treatment though. No silly crowns. No extra attention. Got it, ok. But in this case, I want to treat her like a princess. The good kind.

It's funny how we can accept something's good qualities and ignore the bad ones. I want to be a princess! But not in any bad way, of course. I will be a "good princess." A Princess Diana princess, if you will. But how do we separate? Maybe we just shouldn't judge at all. Who knows, maybe underneath all the hairspray and pastel there lies a princess who will change the world with a radical thought. Or maybe she'll just wave and make all the little girls smile. Or hurl. You know, whatever.

Stressing about Paper

What do you stress about? Oh, excuse me, about what do you stress?

Obviously, grammar would be one of my answers. Ha.

Lately, though, it’s been very refreshing to realize one simple thing – it is useless to stress over things that are out of my control.

In any given situation, I’m starting to consciously think, “Ok, what can I realistically change here? What do I want to change, or have the right to change?” Turns out that most times it comes down to ME. That’s it. I can’t change what someone says or how someone is acting towards me. What I can do is perhaps choose to leave the situation … or change the way I allow myself to feel and react to it.

In this crazy high-anxiety world, there is a tremendous peace in that.

It used to really stress me out when coworkers didn’t put the whole ream of paper in the printer. The point of a ream of paper is that it’s made to fit perfectly in the printer drawer. Just the right amount of paper. Sure, it looks like too much. But it’s not. Just put the whole damn thing in there, people. I swear to god it will fit. And you’ll be a lot happier because you won’t have an awkward extra bunch of sheets lying around.

That’s a perfect example of how my mind used to work. OCD. Scary. I know.

But now, even though I still support using the full ream, I know that I can’t change the way other people feel about it. What I can do is maybe add the sheets myself, if I feel so inclined. Or I can send out an email to the team enlightening them of my ream knowledge. But if they don’t care, what can I do?

I know reams of paper are not that important. But my other option for an example was “fear of death” and how we shouldn’t stress about dying because we have no control over it and can’t prove one way or another whether it’ll be good or bad. But, it’s a Friday, so I went with the ream thing.

Happy New Year

To all of my good friends, family and, yes, even the random mean guy who sends me nasty comments, Happy New Year.

New Year’s kind of baffles me to be honest. It’s just another night… and then another day. But, for some reason, we use it as an excuse to “start over” … to make the imminent New Year’s resolution. It’s funny how we need that. How we need to feel like everything has an end, and therefore a new beginning. The thought of trudging through life without certain periods ending and beginning is almost unbearable to us. We think, great! New Year’s is here! 2005 is over! 2006 is here! And, oh the possibilities…

Possibility is a great thing, don’t get me wrong. But it’s the build-up that gets to me. The expectations. We quite literally count down to a moment that is just like the moment where we started.

It’s supposed to be a magic “poof” kind of moment. Out with the old and in with the new! But, you know what? It’s still me.

So I wish everyone not only a Happy New Year, but a Happy Right Now and a Happy Forever.

Do you get my point? I’m not really sure I do. In any case, it was nice to see Dick Clark up and working again.

A Bit Better

I saw Santa Clause this morning.

A man about six feet tall, wearing big boots and a red puffy jacket, sporting a white beard and a wind-burned nose, walked past me as I rounded the corner of 19th and K streets. He was jolly looking. A slight belly and a delicate grin. Almost a smirk. And we made eye contact, at which point his smirk blossomed into one of the most comforting smiles I’ve ever seen.

Now I’ve never been a huge proponent of the merit of “signs,” but this one struck me. In a city where few barely look up and where everyone seems to be in a constant rush, a sincere look can touch you, and can make you stop.

I actually turned around and watched him walk in the opposite direction for a few seconds. And then he magically disappeared into thin air. Just kidding! I don’t think he was really Santa Clause, but I swear to you he resembled him. Maybe he was an elf, like the ones in the mall.

In any case, that moment reminded me that a simple gesture can change someone’s day, perhaps even unknowingly.

Emerson...

To laugh often and much,
to win respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children,
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends,
to appreciate beauty,
to find the best in others,
to leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a
redeemed social condition,
to know even one life
has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Around the corner

I've decided to stop being a complete slacker... more posts to come. ASAP... by COB. :)

Disposal Cheese

I just realized that my disposal has a name. You know, the disposal, as in the thing that chops up all the food you don't want and flushes it down your drain. Yeah, mine is called, "The Insinkerator."

You too can become great

Person 1: I went to the concert last week.
Person 2: Oh, you too?
Person 1: You were there?
Person 2: No, why do you ask?
Person 1: You asked if I was also there, as if you were there too.
Person 2: No I didn't.
Person 1: Yes, you did.
Person 2: Let's just forget it. I'm tired.
Person 1: Me too.
Person 2: So, you too?
Person 1: Yeah man, why do you keep asking me if I'm also something that you are? It's really annoying.
Person 2: Dude, you need to chill.
Person 1: Oh yeah???
Person 2: Yeah!
Person 1: Well so do you!
Person 2: YOU TOO!

And so U2 continues to create controversy and incite deep thought... both on a bigger political level and on a very personal one, such as above.

Ha. Point? U2 makes you think. At least they made me think. My seat was in the upper level of the MCI center, to the left of the band. I could still see Bono well enough to be completely moved and affected by the music, which seemed to fill the stadium and rise above the distractions that dared to present themselves... such as the drunk people a few rows in front of me. How can you have a loud drunken conversation during "One?" Seriously... it's like using your cell phone in church. Disgraceful. Oh well. It's all good. After all, we've got to carry eachother... carry eachother.

Ok, so I got a little "into" the concert. But it was U2! Not only can they still completely rock out, but they have a higher purpose. Some say it was a little over the top, a little cheesy. Well, I say bring on the cheese! What's wrong with a little cheese when you're promoting human rights and an end to poverty? What's wrong with a little cheese when you're fighting for what should be such a simple concept? I say the cheesier the better. Well, except if you're lactose intolerant. Then you might want to take it easy on the cheese. But you get the idea. Take some lactaid and rock on.

Together, we can end malaria in Africa. We can support a greater effort for human rights for ALL people. We can end poverty and disease everywhere! We can all COEXIST.Yahweh, Mohammed and Jesus... together again. Sunday Bloody Sunday? No more! Peace to all my brothers and sisters of the earth! Screw Hillary. Bono and Edge 2008!

Haha, ok, so through my sarcasm I hope you can see that I also admit to a slight "over the top" element. However, you have to give them credit. You have to admit that their campaign is a noble one. And, without idealists and social activists, where would we be? Sometimes we need to be inspired, to be challenged. End malaria in Africa? Is he for real? Well, according to Bono, it's possible. So maybe you look into it. Maybe you go to onecampaign.org and look around. Maybe you sign the petition for human rights. Maybe you give some money. Maybe one kid, just one kid, in Africa doesn't die because he had the right medicine. Maybe you feel good about that. Maybe you let an old man take your seat on the Metro. Maybe you go to work on Monday with a better understanding that the world is not just in your five mile radius. Maybe this knowledge calms you down with a deeper sense of what is real. Maybe that calm actually causes you to smile.

Idealist? Maybe. Did Bono have lunch with W the day of the concert. Yep. Did I eat too much bad stadium food that night? Oh yeah. So nothing's perfect. But a little inspiration never hurt anybody. I'm a cheeseball, what can I say.

The Romantic Cynic

What have I become? I've been talking to a guy recently who believes in the fundamentals of romance. Cuddling up to watch a movie. Sitting by a crackling fire on a snowy night. Listening to waves crash on the beach. Etc.

I'll be honest, these things make me want to hurl. Can you say cheeseball?

But then I got to thinking... this guy is sincere, as far as I can tell. Have I just been conditioned by society to think that romance is dead? Am I that bitter? Do I really believe that if a guy were to do any of those things that he's only after one thing?

How sad is that? Am I really that cynical when it comes to old fashioned romance? I feel like Carrie on Sex & the City.

Instead of trying to just get over it, I think I've come up with the explanation. Especially living in a big city, where everyone is basically here for their profession (in one way or another), there is a strong emphasis on power and getting ahead. And for women, it's even more important to focus on that goal. We are trained in many circles to make that our number one priority... not to be distracted by foolish sidebars like romance. Romance makes you weak... romance makes you vulnerable.

That's it! Aversion to romance is totally a defense mechanism. If I allow myself to give into it, I make myself vulnerable to emotions that might distract me from what should be my goal. After all, I am not here to clean a house and be a baby factory. No siree. I must prove my worth in more important areas... like memo writing and budget management! Ha.

So I protect myself from being emotional, from being hurt... and I laugh at romance.

But this sort of thinking causes a paradox in my head. What is a relationship without romance? Just a friend of the opposite sex? Just the physical gratification?

Nah, romance is alive. We just have to let it back in. The more I think about it, the more I believe we can have the best of both worlds. Someone just told me not to give up. Keep trying. You get hurt, so what. Get back up. Try again.

I cry at the Mighty Ducks. I lose it during Hallmark commercials and Beaches. That is me. I love to see people love eachother... holding hands, a warm glance, a kiss when they think no one is watching. That is romance. And it's out there.

My mom and I were part of larger conversation a few months ago. We started talking about marriage versus being on your own. Someone said, men, what good are they? Who needs them, right? And my mom turns to me and says, "I hope you find love. I know it's out there for you."

And so giving up is no longer an option...

Bring on that fireplace on a snowy evening! I'll get some champagne and strawberries. Just no heart shaped vibrating beds. That is one step too far, I'm sorry.

Speed Living

So I did it... I tried speed dating. Yes, it's true. And it took me a whole three weeks to write about it, not because of embarrassment, but more because I had to let it all sink in.

For those of you not familiar with the process... you walk in, sign your name, get a name sticker, apply your name to the sticker, apply a random number to the sticker and then apply the sticker to your "lapel area." That was great - right off the bat you're a number. Individuality denied. But that is the trick - to express your individuality through a sticker and several very quick four-minute conversations.

Best part of the evening. I go to the bathroom to, I'll admit it, give my hair one final once over before making about 20 first impressions. I'm in the stall and I hear about four girls, giggle sequences in full throttle, taking about the aforementioned name stickers. They decided that they'd get much more attention if they applied the sticker to their "breast area." No doubt that their method was a good one. Except they didn't take into account body lotion and perfume - two anti-sticker substances. Boy did this cause a problem. How would they ever get dates with no sticker? With no number? Bet they figured it out. Ha.

My friend and I (this was a bring-a-friend speed dating party) proceeded to the bar, did a shot and continued to ease the tension with a cool refreshing Miller Lite out of a very classy plastic cup. Nice job DC Young Professionals.

I won't bore you with every detail, but I'm sure you can picture it. Four minutes per "date." Move on. Four minutes. Move on. Four minutes. This is fun! Four minutes. Man, this guy is wasted. Four minutes. Man, this guy is a dork. Four minutes. Didn't I just talk to you? Four minutes. Another lawyer. Huh. Four minutes. Getting bored. Four minutes. Losing my voice. Four minutes. Haha. Your number is 69. Dude, that's awesome. Four minutes. Is that your real name? Four minutes. You came all the way from Maryland to do this? Loser. Four minutes. Is this over yet? Four minutes. Need another beer. Four minutes. I can't believe my friend left me with a guy named Sparky. Four minutes. You're old enough to be my father. Four minutes. Ding ding ding!

Yes, there was a bell. Like cattle, branded by numbers and herded with a bell. Was this really happening? Yes, yes it was. And I did this purely of my own volition. But I have no regrets. I met some "interesting" people, had some amuzing conversations. Like the conversation about late night highway construction. That was a real page turner, let me tell you.

Ah, the single life... full of ups and downs. And when you live in a face paced city, speed dating seems to fit right in. Speed dating stems from speed living, right? We are very caught up in the little details of life and we forget about the big important stuff, like relationships. So we try to squeeze them in. Four minutes, that's all we get? Sometimes it's better to take it easy... chill out... lathargic dating. That's my next adventure.