A pageland eulogy.

Thanks to my editing gig, I don't write much for work these days. So when I was asked to write an essay about the end of the 200-year-old U.S. House of Representatives Page Program, I jumped at the chance. (I also almost yakked before the thing got posted, but that's another story.)

Here's my short piece on the year I spent as a high school junior living and working on Capitol Hill and how it changed my life.

Enjoy.

- Noodles, whose cover is officially blown by posting a link to something with my name on it. But that's OK.

On books and tree rings.

I’ve spent the past few days puttering around my condo during staycation. Staycation during the winter means you don’t really LEAVE the house. (Have I mentioned I love staycation? You can stay in jammies for days, people. DAYS.)

The pragmatic side of me knew I had to use this time to organize, which is how I found myself spending a good solid hour tidying my book shelves. Before you fall over the fact that I spent a full-on 60 minutes playing with books floor-to-ceiling shelves, you need to know that at my core I’m a word nerd who’s never once been without a library card or a list of books to read. (Sidebar of a true story: I was such a delinquent book returner in my youth that in kindergarten my mother gave me a lecture about my overdue books, telling me that one day, if I continued my wayward habits, they’d destroy my credit rating. Take this time to imagine the blank stare a pig-tailed six-year-old gives to someone after this lecture.)

But I digress.

While I was moving shelves, sorting books, dusting and declutterring, I realized that in a way my bookshelves tell the story of my life. From photography to progressive theology, bookshelves are like tree rings that tell a story of a tree and its environment. There’s my entire collection of Paulo Coelho’s works translated in English, which I managed to accumulate after a friend gave me The Alchemist as a college graduation gift. There’s my father’s old photography books, that he gave me to me when I got my hands of my first SLR. There’s some of my favorite children's books, both from when I was kid (hello, Misty of Chincoteague) and some I’ve picked up along the way because I wanted to have them on my shelves. (Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.) There’s vintage sewing books, feminist theory, Irish literature and some American poetry anthologies. There’s the Jodi Picoult I love to read on vacation along with books on yoga, journalism, politics, public health and tons of fiction that I just haven’t been able to part with over the years. (I have a rule that book collection cannot expand beyond the confines of the shelves that hold them, so I always prune a few times a year.)

There was a New York Times essay a few years ago that talked about how bookshelves can be used to judge a perspective date. It was snarky and sometimes snotty, but at its core is this pretty important truth that we are what we read. Or, maybe it’s that we read what we are.

I guess for me, the books I hold on to after sending off a pile to Goodwill are the books that sort of mark the stages of my life.

What do you think?

Portrait of a young artist

When I went home for Christmas, my mother dug up a little treasure to remind me that I've always been a wee bit crafty. Or, at least, had ambitions about being crafty. Or was simply a deranged child.

Witness: The puppet I "made" one day when I was in kindergarten. You'll note that in this case, "made" means attached-yarn-to-a-sock-with-lots-and-lots-and-lots-of-tape.



Keep in mind, this wasn't a class project. This was me. One day on a weekend. (Apparently sock puppets are what happens when you're an only child in rural Maryland. Except not the kind that lend themselves to puppetting because you forget to create a face that allows for the hand to bend. My puppet could only look shocked and move her head left to right.)


I think the lace trim at the bottom of the sock shows a certain finesse well beyond my years.

I would like to note, however, that the fact that almost 25 years later, the yarn and tape are still firmly attached. Solid craftsmanship, eh?

Summer fades to fall.

The leaves are changing. I smell fireplaces burning at the huge houses down the street. The air is crisp. (So what if it was 80-something yesterday?) It's fall in Chicago. And fall is, by far, my favorite season. Sure, sure it's my best wardrobe. And who doesn't love the return of boots and sweaters? But I love the circle of life that comes with fall. I love the idea that just like leaves, we shed the things we've outgrown and no longer need, take time to hunker down and be and rejuvenate, and then bloom, renewed when we're ready to shine. It's corny, I know. But to me, fall is powerful. It's always been.

Of course, in Chicago fall lasts approximately 3 weeks before winter sets in. (Truth: my first year here I was at work and got sent out to cover an Oprah taping with Bono on Michigan Ave. for the kick off of Project Red. It was Oct. 6. And it snowed while we were waiting in a scrum outside the Gap.) So when it's this gorgeous weather in between the stiffling heat of summer and the too-cool-to-sleep-with-the-windows-open of late fall and the early hints of winter, one of the single purposes of my life in the Windy City is to be outside.

Which is why I found myself in Oak Park three weeks ago hanging with some of my best friends in the world, cooking out, sipping wine, letting the puppies go nuts and basking in the awesomeness of the changing seasons.

Here are some pictures of a simple-yet-lovely afternoon.






And so my bloggy peeps, what about you? Is it fall in your world yet? What do you do as the temperature changes? What do you love about the season?

Being a grownup. And puppies.

In light of great recent conversations with The Modern Gal...
And the fact that I didn't win last year's Real Simple Life Lessons essay contest...
Which means I can now publish this little not-winning essay entry of mine...
And because with every passing day I'm increasingly convinced that maybe, just maybe, my life is one that's meant to be filled with fur babies instead of not real ones...
Which is totally fine and dandy, despite what society says... (For a great post on that, click here)
And because there hasn't been a post about the Mutt Princess in a while ...

I give you last year's essay for Real Simple on the topic of when I knew I was finally a grownup. Feel free to add your own "eureka" moment below. (With apologies to my mom, who made me promise I'd never write about her on the blog.)

___
My parents preferred a purebred. My heart was set on a mutt.

It was a few weeks after my 24th birthday and I was still unpacking boxes from my recent move to Indianapolis _ a new and thoroughly Midwestern place where I could hear the roar of the engines at Speedway if the wind blew just right. This was corn country, far from my East Coast roots and the lush mountains of Tennessee where I’d spent the past three years soaking up southern culture (and some moonshine) as a newspaper reporter.

I’d moved to Tennessee right after college, loading my little Civic with whatever it would hold and renting a furnished apartment in a falling-down Victorian house from an elderly man who recited Bible verses and made me promise not to let men stay the night. I didn’t intend to stay longer than six months. But I fell in love with the place and the people, and somewhere along the way it became home.

When the offer came for a bigger and better job hundreds of miles north, I knew turning it down wasn’t an option. But after three years, uprooting my life seemed almost unimaginable.

In Indianapolis I had a house to call my own. Two whole bedrooms _ and a fenced-in yard _ that I could decorate however I wanted. But new places can be impenetrable when you’re young and unattached and unconnected to the community. My office was small and my coworkers were older. I didn’t have any friends there or know where to find new ones.

I was alone, and bored, and 100 percent homesick for the life I’d left behind. So, I did what any girl would do. I decided to get a dog.

At the office, I alt-tabbed my way through Petfinder.com. I wanted a small female dog _ not small enough to ride daintily in a purse, but small enough to comfortably sit shotgun in my aging car.

My parents always had purebreds. First, it was an English foxhound who, according to family lore, anchored herself firmly underneath my crib and let out a headache-inducing howl the second I began to whimper. (Bonus: no baby monitor for me.) Later, it was a small, scruffy border terrier whose breed was selected through a multiple choice questionnaire devised by my mathematician mother. I wasn’t convinced one way or another what breed of dog was right for me. But I knew there were dogs that needed a home. And I was ready to open mine to one who did.

She was honey yellow, with a curly tail and mismatched ears, and her name at the time was Sasha. She was a puppy, but housebroken. She could fetch. And, when I first saw her at the pound, she snuggled on my lap like it was the softest pillow ever.

It was love at first sight. My heart melted. I named her Macy Mae, loaded her into my car and headed home to begin life as a team.

Twenty-four hours later, I knew something was wrong. My new sidekick wasn’t eating and couldn’t keep food down. By the next morning, she wobbled when she walked. I held her in my arms when the vet told me the bad news. She had parvo, a usually fatal intestinal virus. By that point she was too sick to even stand.

If Macy could survive _ a big if _ getting her healthy would be expensive and cost far more money that I had, especially after such a big move. They told me to consider putting her down.
I knew a dog was a responsibility _ financial and otherwise. But I wasn’t prepared to pay $2,000 for a furry little critter who stumbled into my life two days before. I was sobbing by this point, as I held her and looked into her big, brown eyes. I did the math, said a prayer, and gave them my credit card.

I was her only chance. And in a way, she’d turn out to be mine.

The fight that followed with my family was one I’m not sure I’ll never forget.

“You should have gotten a purebred,” my well-meaning mother said on the telephone a time zone away. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone to a breeder.”

That was when I hung up the phone. I probably blamed the dropped call on a bad connection. But I was angry. Furious. How could she think that? I loved this dog. She was my responsibility.
More than that, she was MINE. And I wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

It’s strange how some moments _ milliseconds, really _ completely change who you are.

Somewhere that day my reality shifted from being a girl alone in a strange place, who still asked her parents for permission, to being an independent woman who was firmly in control. Through my tears, I realized I was the one in charge of my life. I didn’t need an OK from my mother or my father. Or their validation. I just needed me.

Some people say they don’t feel grownup until they buy a house, get a 401(k), grieve the loss of a parent, or hold their newborns for the first time. For me, my first twinge of adulthood came that first time I realized that I was responsible for a something that depended totally on me, even if that something was a funny –looking pound puppy who most likely wouldn’t survive the night.

One week later, I brought her home. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, Macy’s ribs traced an outline through her fur. She still wasn’t healthy, but she’d eventually recover. My credit card balance never did.

Four years (and three rounds of yet-to-be-successful obedience training later), Macy and I are still a team. She may be genetically incapable of learning to stay, but she’s still managed to teach me a lot. She’s licked away tears cried over breakups and shown me that there’s such a thing as unconditional love. She’s taught me pet people are, for the most part, kind and generous; that dog parks are great ways to make friends in a new city; and any bar that lets you drink a pint with a furry friend in tow is going to be, unquestionably, fabulous. She’s taught me that the world feels like a better place after a game of fetch; that there’s beauty, even at 5:30 a.m., walking through snow drifts with a dog by your side. There’s bigger things too, about how you can surprise yourself with strength you never knew you had; that learning to be comfortable with who you is never easy and never quick, and that being a grownup means putting others first.

She's a constant reminder that someone’s pedigree isn’t what matters; it’s who they are today that counts.

As an adult, profound moments come when you least expect them. Mine just happened to come with a cold wet nose, a curlicue tail, and lopsided ears.

Hawaii Pictures. Part II.

I'm sure you're SO excited to see more of my Hawaii photos -- none of these are super impressive, but are all little snippets of what it was like to be on the island. In case you want more eye candy, Part I can be found here. Hoping to finish editing the massive collection this week!


Sign for a sort-of hidden beach off the beaten path.


This is what the beach looked like when you got there.


On Kauai, the Kilauea Lighthouse is famous. It's the most northern part of the state's most northern island.


Isn't the sky amazing? Speaking of amazing sky (or really, an amazing shade of blue) check out the color of the water here.


On my last day, I tooled around and saw a small sign pointing me in the direction of the oldest Catholic church on Kauai. St. Raphael was founded in 1841 and since I'm a sucker for churches, I stopped to take a bunch of pictures.


There were great icons and statues inside.


And there was also a great little cemetery nearby. Yes, I did type the phrase "great little cementery." What of it?


On Kauai, everyone said "mahalo" instead of thank you. This was possibly my favorite use of "mahalo" in print.


One of the places I wanted to visit was Lumahai Beach on Kauai's north shore. It's where they filmed part of South Pacific ("I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair!") It's a hike to reach the beach, and it's also one of the islands most dangerous in the winter time. That's because the steeply sloping sand create a strong undertow and the waves crash right on the shore. You actually have to hike down a pretty steep dirt trail to reach the beach and along the way, there's all sorts of signs to reminds you that you're about to risk life and limb. At least three of the six signs ended with "you could be swept out and drown." Noted, Kauai. Noted.


But Lumahai is actually pretty awesome in the summer time when the waves are gentle. We saw an amazing beach wedding take place on the sand. It was just the bride, the groom, and officiant, a photographer and a guitar player. No guests. No family. No ridiculous party full of details no one will remember, but that probably overshadowed the point of the wedding -- you know, to be MARRIED. It was, quite honestly, one of those moments that restored my faith in people. It was a ceremony that was just about the two people and not about what other people thought or what other people wanted. Somehow, the bride hiked down the path in her dress. When she got to sand, she tossed off her shoes.


And last but not least, this is a picture of the sidewalk at the Kauai Coffee Company. With more than 3,100 acres, it's the country's largest coffee plantation. And note, to travelers: unlimited. free. samples.


And last but not least, a bird of paradise flower.

Hawaii Pictures. Part I.

Hello, bloggy peeps. So check it: I went to Hawaii! For a week! It was awesome! Beyond words! So much so that all I can do is talk in exclamation points!!

Anyway, since I'm a rather huge freak, I managed to take something like 1,800 photographs during my week on Kauai. That, of course, means the editing process is going to be nothing short of a beast. But I started today and made a dent.

Here are some of my favorite shots from the first batch.

Enjoy!

_____

After a storm, I spied this double rainbow over Shipwreck's Beach. That's dad in the swing, taking his own pictures. Did I mention the light in Hawaii is effing stunning?



Fresh papayas, for sale in Hanapepe.


Sails of a catamaran, cruising in the Pacific along the Na Pali coastline.


Sunrise over Poipu Beach, by our hotel.


Random graffiti along a back road.


Flowers on the edge of a cliff looking over into a valley along the Na Pali coastline.


Plumeria flowers were EVERYWHERE. I wanted to take them all back home with me.


Awesome warehouse painted like a dive flag just off the dock in Port Allen.


More to come.

Taking on the Aughts

My lovely pal Ginny wrote up a list of the ten most important milestones she achieved in the past decade and e-mailed it out to some of her closest friends. I loved what she said (among my favorites: "Met the South.") and decided I'd play along too and look back at the past decade.

So, my beloved readers ... here you go. In no specific order: Noodles v. the Aughts.

1) Graduated from college and entered a career with what was probably an overabundance of optimism.

2) Fell in love with that career. Recognized the early signs of burn out. Realized true love comes with a backup plan.

3) Made new friends, but (for the most part) kept the old.

4) Moved to, for varying amount of times: Washington, D.C; Wichita, Kan.; Tampa, Fla.; Belfast, Northern Ireland; Chattanooga, Tenn.; Indianapolis, Ind.; River Forest, Ill.; and Chicago - starting over from scratch almost every time.

5) Adopted a dog, then proceeded to spend copious amounts of money on her medical care, food, toys and subsequent peace offerings with the neighbors who quickly grew tired of her squirrel-fueled barking.

6) Fell in and out of love, breaking a few hearts. Including my own. Several times over.

7) Learned more than I ever expected about myself, my craft, my world and the people whom I love.

8) Bought a condo. Promptly regretted buying a condo.

9) Grew up and became my own person, only to realize that this who growing/becoming thing is a process that will probably never, EVER be finished.

10) Found my faith and became _ I hope, anyway _ a better person for it.

What about you?

I'm going to sing, sing, sing....

I have been singing and humming to myself all night. What's with this uncharacteristic dose of happiness?

Flashbacks, baby.

Yup. I'm thinking about muggy nights, color wars, arts and crafts, awkward dances, even more awkward first kisses, jelly fish stings, wind surfing, lanyards, volleyball, vespers, gong shows, dining halls, ridiculous skits, cots, sleeping bags, Bible studies, rafting, tents, cabins.

Ah, summer camp. How I loved thee.

Thanks to my exceedingly generous parents, I spent weeks every summer at different camps. Orchestra Camp (yes, I'm a dork.), Field Hockey Camp, Ecology Camp, and the nerdiest of all ... drumroll... International Relations Camp. (We debated NAFTA. Yes. We were rockstars.)

But my favorite by far was the one week every summer I spent at Camp Pecometh. Yes. Church camp. And let me tell you, peeps and peepettes, it was always, unequivocally, without-a-doubt, the Best. Week. Ever.

Pecometh, a Native American sounding name that actually stands for Peninsula Conference Methodists, was 90 minutes from home and a world and a half away.

That place and that pier. Sigh, talk about something, some place, and some time I'll never forget. Learning with windsurf. Learning to sail. Learning to shave. Meeting people from other countries for the first time (I seem the remember the Aussie counselors being seriously hot). Learning what it meant to "go out" with a boy. A few years later, having my first kiss on the camp's pier with a turned-out-to-be-crazy boy named Wayne. My first exposure to Nirvana and daisy dukes.

It was my dream to work there as soon as I turned 16 and was old enough to be a lifeguard. (Counselors were in college.) I dreamed about it: That awesome red Speedo, a gleaming metal whistle, a whole summer of freedom and romance and sun. It wasn't about God then. It was about learning who I was and who I could be, where I fit and where I didn't.

I never became that lifeguard. Instead, I spent the summer of 1996 as an oh-so-responsible high school intern at a local TV station. I processed promos, had a creepy shooter white balance on my ass (note to self, never, EVER wear a white skirt again), hung out on live shoots, organized resume tapes, close captioned segments and replied to viewers who just HAD to have copies of Mr. Food's recipe of the day. The next summer it was another internship at the local newspaper. And then it was about resume-building. I never looked back.

Maybe that's why I've been singing so much tonight.

Nearly two decades after I first stumbled into Camp Pecometh, I'm now an active member of a church that I love. While you'll never find me preaching about faith (Shoes? Yes. Grammar? Oh, hell yes. God? Nope.) I really am so glad and grateful that it's part of my life. It's where you'll find me every Sunday (and most Wednesdays), where you'll find so many of my Chicago friends, and where I devote so much of my out-of-work-energy.

It's because of that involvement that you'll find me at another church camp next month, participating in a young adults retreat. It's not Pecometh. Nothing ever will be. Still, it's a chance to get away from the city and everything that makes you so tired here. It's a chance to hang with people who've become some of my best friends. There will be s'mores and crafts. Bible study. (Unlike Pecometh, there will more than likely be beer. There's probably going to be a 100 percent decrease in making out. For me, anyway.) And if I have my way, there will be singing.

I didn't intend to blog tonight. Instead, I thought I'd search for titles and lyrics for some of the old Pecometh songs as preparation for the retreat gets under way, hoping to survey some other people and creating a songbook with guitar tabs for the event. That prompted a Facebook status asking my friends what their favorite church camp song were. One hour and 22 comments later, it seems like I'd really hit a sweet spot for people. I guess when you're a kid and you're learning who you are and how the universe works, songs and music are a great way to identify, connect with, and discover your faith and your view of the world.

So tonight, I'm humming songs like Humble Thyself, Sanctuary, Seek Ye First, I Will Call Upon You Lord, and that perennial camp number: Pass It On. I'm thinking about Wayne and camp antics. What it looked like to see the sun set over the river. Or the sound of a few hundred kids singing hymns by candlelight in an outdoor chapel.

What a blessing, indeed.

____
What's your favorite camp memory? Favorite song? Church camp or not, I wanna know!

A much-loved rabbit and a bear named Ted

Last month, I rallied the troops, hopped on the train and headed up to the suburbs to catch a live taping of Prairie Home Companion. The wine was chilled, the weather was perfect for picnicking and the company was even better the other two combined.

I also got to hang out with my favorite 2-year-old on the planet. (Who incidentally, is among the small-but-growing ranks of the few children I will voluntarily hang with. Kids don't like me. I think they can smell fear.)

Anyhoodles, little Miss Natalie brought her favorite toy with her, a much loved rabbit named , appropriately, Bunny.


All of this got me thinking about my favorite childhood toy. One of my first posts on this blog was about childhood books, which I could still write about ad nauseum. But favorite toy? Hum.

I'd have to say that was Mr. Bear, who later on was also known by the full name I gave to him: Ted E. Bear. (I'm clever, huh?) I'm not sure sure Mr. Bear came into my life, but I'm fairly certain I was 3. Or 6. Or something. Regardless, I got him while visiting my grandparents and he became a mainstay. I dragged him to summer camps and slumber parties, my high-school dorm room and my college apartments. Just for posterity sake, I even managed to smush him into my suitcase when I studied abroad.


Some 25 years later, Mr. Bear is still around, but in a way different capacity. His red bow tie is twisted has a big hole, thanks to an unfortunate run-in with the family dog. He's also sorta dusty, sorta deflated, sorta matted and sorta covered in errant Mutt fur.

A little worse for the wear, he's a great reminder of a terrific childhood. And he's something I'd love to pass on should I wind up having my own kids some day. (P.S. Should that happen, I hope they don't terrify me the way other kids too. That would go in the category of Things That Are Not Cool.)

So what about you? What was your favorite toy? Do you still have it? Do you wish you did? Spill....

In which I succeed.

There's a lot about this blog that I try to keep anonymous. My name. My job. What I look like. But tonight, I'm breaking the rule because:


That's me. And you know what? I just finished a freakin' triathlon. In 2:12:41. Yup. Me.

Me who thought trying to do this would be a way to prove something to myself, to the world. Me who had moments of inspiration. Me who freaked out and worried I wouldn't be strong enough. That I wasn't prepared enough. That I wasn't athletic enough. Or fit enough. Or skinny enough. Or determined enough.

But you know what? I WAS enough. I was tough enough for a half-mile open water swim. And for a 12 mile bike ride with hills, and for a 5k. And it was, quite simply, AWESOME.

I wasn't fast. And I certainly wasn't first. But amazingly, I also wasn't last. And during the whole thing, I was inordinately proud.

Of course, I almost cried twice. Not because I was so tired or exhausted. In fact, truth be told, I feel like I could have pushed myself harder, had my goals been something other than to a) not die; and b) to finish.

I almost cried at the start of my heat when Sally Edwards, a world-record holder in triathlons, waded into the water with us as we stared (OK, squinted) across the lake toward the finish line. And she gave us a pep talk. She said that today was a day that was about was sisterhood, and pushing yourself and being strong.

"When you see a girl struggling, you're going to help her. When you see that she's tired, you going to give her some energy. If someone passes you, you're going to say 'You go, girlfriend!'," she screamed. "Because you are a strong woman!"

And I almost cried again when I crossed the finish line. When I got high fives from the crowd of spectators and from the women who'd finished ahead of me. And when the announcer called my name over the speaker as I was coming into the gate. And when I got to claim my medal for finishing.

Writing it now, I'm still getting teary-eyed.

It all started before the sun rose, when we pulled into the parking lot at 5:30 a.m. It was cold. And I was terrified. We tied a balloon to the bike rack and got our stuff set up. We'd even made sure to leave the chalk messages on the ground to help us find our way.




We walked to the beach to eat breakfast and watch the elite women start just before 7 a.m. At 8:08 a.m., I was the one standing on the beach with my heat of 100-or-so girls, listening to the crowd count down to our start.

10...9...8...

Oh my God.

7...6...5....

Oh shit.

4...3...2...

I stuck toward the back of pack, hoping to avoid the thrashing and kicking. And got into an easy pace doing breast stroke. I actually surprised myself when I realized how far I'd gone, and how I wasn't even tired. I wasn't gasping for air. And I hadn't needed to stop, or even turn on my back to catch my breath and calm down. A swimmer named Jessica was on my shoulder and we actually chatted a bit during the swim. (Yes. I'm the ONLY person who would have a conversation with a stranger in the middle of a half mile swim across a big-ass lake.)

Sure, people passed me. OK, a lot of people passed me. But I passed a lot of people too.

From there, it was into the transition area to get ready for the bike. I was in the 19th heat to go out so by the time I got to the holding area, some women were done the bike ride (The super speedy elite athletes were done the whole race) but everyone was cheering and shouting. I cheered and shouted back as I rinsed the sand off my feet, put on my socks and shoes, t-shirt and helmet and then headed out.

The thing about biking in Wisconsin is that there's hills. Sure, they call them "gently rolling hills." But when your usual bike route takes you along the pancake-flat terrain of the Lake Shore Drive Bike Path, there's something disconcerting when you start to climb your first hill and your hamstrings begin to wince. And then there's something even more troubling when you climb your second _ and bigger _ hill and the wincing becomes a sort of dull scream. And then, when you get past that and see a sign that says "Mile 2" you're pretty inclined to shout out loud to no one in particular: "Are you fucking kidding me?" And then you will look at the writing on the bottom of the mile marker sign: "You're riding for all the women who can't." And then, you know what? You suck it up and keep pedaling.

All of which was exactly what I did. When women passed me, I shouted to them "rock on, lady!" When I passed women who looked like they were struggling, or who looked like they too were frequent Lane Bryant shoppers, I turned to them and said: "Hey! You know what? We kick ass!"

Suddenly, 12 miles just flew by. (For the record, I would have thrown in a high five but I'm not so much the balance and I didn't want to tempt fate.)

Then it was into the final transition area. I ditched the helmet. Threw on a ball cap, and headed back out for the 5K. Most people who do triathlons seem to be scared of the swim. Running is the easy part. Hardy har har. Easy that is, unless you're me. Because in case you missed it, running is HARD. Especially when you have lots of bits on you that are jiggly and wobbly. And quite frankly, I prefer not to bounce when I exercise.

But the run was OK. I jogged a bit. And walked. A lot. At some point, a group of women who'd already finished went back out on the 5k course, complete with a big boom box that blared the Dixie Chicks song "Ready to Run" and clapped and waved and cheered the women who were still going. I wanted to hug them. But I had another mile and a half to go.

I saw teenagers and senior citizens toughing it out. There were church groups. And moms and daughters. And cancer survivors. And elite athletes. There were waif-thin girls and hefty, hefty women. Also in the line up: an 87-year-old who finished in 2:08. (For those who are paying attention, that's four minutes faster than me.) And a 59-year-old woman finished after learning to ride a bike in May.

I was proud of each and every one of us.

Looking back I think the thing that stuck with me was when I listened to the announcer over the PA system at the start of the day. He was talking about the field of athletes that were competing. And there it was: Athletes.

The sun was rising on a perfect summer morning and warmed me up as I sat on the grass. The music was blaring. And it was like a moment of Zen when it hit me.

Athletes.

I was one of them.

There are a lot of adjectives I'd use to describe myself (sassy, smart, stubborn, sarcastic and even some that don't begin with the letter "s".) But athletic is not one of them. I'm not an athlete. I'm just a girl who wishes her pants fit better and her life wasn't so chaotic and her neuroses weren't so terrifying and her confidence wasn't so shoddy and her life was just a little bit more put together.

But on Sunday, I was an athlete. And it was indescribably cool.

P.S. Check out our medals. Sweet bling, huh? :-)

There, here, back again and everywhere.

It was four years ago today that my over-packed Honda Civic and I (along with my mom who was driving an equally over-packed rented Expedition) drove out of the city that I loved, Chattanooga, Tenn.

I'm a through-and-through East Coaster who grew up smack between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. But Chattanooga was the first place where I collected a real, adult paycheck at my first real, adult job. It was a job I applied to on a lark while studying in Northern Ireland. I got there expecting dueling banjos, and instead I found one of the most amazing and beautiful small cities filled with some of the most amazing and beautiful people I could ever imagine.

It was a place filled with stories and ambiance and atmosphere and soul. And I, without a doubt, loved it.

My friends there became my family. A college friend, who convinced me to move to Chattanooga in the first place, became after a series of stumbles, my best friend. Classical violin lessons that I'd hated in high school became a bluegrass habit I've never quite been able to quit. Chacos became the best footwear on the planet. Wrap-around porches shaded by magnolia trees became outdoor living rooms. PBR (which I firmly believe should never cost more than $1 for a tallboy) became as quenching as water.

And, during my three years there, I became an almost grown up.

It was 6 a.m. exactly four years ago when my mom and I left for our drive to Indianapolis. And it was beyond picturesque that morning. The sky was the perfectly blue and the leaves were the perfectly green and the mountains were perfectly dark. As we went north on I-24, we rolled through ridge cuts and along switchbacks and then over the Cumberland Plateau. I listened to the mix CDs Currer Bell made for me and then I said good bye.

(For the record, only an absolute idiot thinks it's a good idea to move to Indianapolis on the weekend of the Indianapolis 500, which is, in case you're oblivious, the world's largest single-day sporting event. Apparently, I am that idiot.)

I didn't last long in the Circle City. In fact, I was there just long enough to attend the next year's Indy 500 (and get swept up in Danica madness) before I was packing my car again, this time to head to Chicago.

At the end of this summer, I'll have called Chicago home for three years. Which, since it's the same amount of time I spent in Chattanooga, is making me draw a lot of parallels between my life now and my life then. I finally feel settled here, it just took me so much longer. You know what it's like... the further removed you are from home, and from college, the harder it is to make friends and put down roots.

It was tough, but now I run into people I know on the street. I have my favorite haunts. I've established a routine. And I'm finally starting to find friends who are on their way to being called family, too.

It's finally home, but it's different. (And by the way, it's flat. Very, very, very flat.)

Next weekend, I'll be reuniting with my Chattanooga peeps for our yearly reunion. We pick a different destination, rent a house, and spend three days playing music, bonding, drinking and generally doing our best to get our fill of each other so we can last for the next 52 weeks.

Every year we're different. There are new boyfriends and girlfriends. We know kids probably aren't too far off. We're a little pudgier, a bit better dressed, a smidge more cynical, a little more tired, and a lot less drunk every year. (In my case, I am all of those things. I am also a lot more blonde.)

There was, I swear, a point to this blog post. Of course, I now have absolutely no idea what it is. Other than that I'm a little nostalgic. And it's Memorial Day weekend. And every Memorial Day weekend I think about Chattanooga and my time there, and the day I left, and the amazing friends I have because of my time there.

So, in honor of the Boulder of the South, maybe I'll put on my Chacos, open a way-too-expensive PBR and flip through some old photo albums and play one of those CDs. And then, I'll think about the next four years.

Home and back again.

Photographic highlights from a weekend trip to Maryland and DC for the madre's birthday.


We spent a lot of time doing this:



We went over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, my favoritest bridge ever.



We went to D.C. for the day. I used to hang here.




Check it out! My high school was on the tippy-top floor here! Right by those square windows by the balcony.


I had to take this picture of the Court of Neptune fountain in front of the Library of Congress. Mainly because I thought it looked dirty from this angle. I know. I'm mature.


This bird made me smile and made me happy that spring is coming. The flowers were beginning to bloom in D.C., even though it's still a couple of weeks away here in Chicago.


Then we walked to the Newseum. I used to go to the old facility in Rosslyn practically once a month. But this was my first trip to the bad-ass new place. Of course, I also dug the gift shop. I'm a sucker for anything in typewriter typeface.


And check it out, the gift shop stocked my friend Jackie's book! You should buy it. It's good. And she's lovely.


And then, I loved this t-shirt. Almost as much as I love beer.