From Me to You

Happy Halloween. I hope you have spent 44 dollars--the estimated amount per household--on candy this October. And, 10 months into the year, I will assume you are well on your way to eating the 24 pounds of treats--the per capita consumption of candy by Americans per year.

(This is not an original carving. Statistics courtesy of The Biggest Loser.)

Great-Uncle J

Before the sun revealed itself on Thursday morning, I was wide awake... on the streets of my neighborhood running. In complete darkness I was coated in a soft rainfall--it was the peace I needed to prepare my heavy heart for a sorrowful weekend ahead. Following a shower, quick breakfast, and a stop by the kennel (to drop Louis off for his first stay. Sigh.) Mom, Dad, and I were Michigan bound.

Last Thursday, October 21, my Great-Uncle J passed away. The past three months, proceeding multiple-bypass surgery, have been extremely difficult for him... and much of the extended family too. After a lifetime full of living and loving, his body was tired. And somehow we, following our own trails of grief, will have to accept his passing. For now, I am thankful to have known him for these 24 years. I am grateful he was given 90 precious years of his own.

Even if you can look back on a lifetime brimming with memories, losing someone is never, ever easy. Here I am, sipping chai tea--the time is nearing 8 pm on a Sunday evening, short on words to express myself. To say this weekend was tough sounds redundant and weak. My relatives are aging, suffice it to say their health is beyond my control. These people are the foundation of me--I want protect them from the elements, keep them close to me.

There are too many wonderful pieces of Great-Uncle J's history to share. I will remember him as a storyteller--born in Czechoslovakia and raised on the Mississippi River--with some of the greatest tales to tell. He was a kindhearted soul who adored both his grandsons. A wise man who valued education, spending much of his career as a school principal.

I'm torn up inside accepting he's gone, though more so when I think of my Great-Aunt B--the wife, of 56 years, he left behind. Throughout the past six years of my letter correspondence with Great-Aunt B, I have learned what a dignified woman she is. She represents all that is good, living a life of grace and compassion. In all of our time together, she has never disclosed an unkind word. Likewise to Great-Uncle B, she dotes on her grandsons, maintaining a central focus on family. For as far back as my memories date, she has always been glad to see me or happy to receive a letter from me; she has taken a genuine interest in my life. And her most redeeming quality, is her unfailingly cheerfulness... so to see her this weekend, broken and sad was awful. I have never experienced the sound of sadness.

The phone just rang, it was Great-Aunt B calling--wanting to thank each of us, individually, for attending the funeral this weekend. And tomorrow, she's going to dive right back into the pool and continue her swimming routine. This is the type of woman she is, uncomplaining--able to endure and overcome.

My cousin A started his personal reflection with a Mark Twain quote the audience agreed was an accurate depiction of a life we will forever remember and honor. I will leave you with these words, "One can be a hero to other folk, and in a sort of vague way understand it, or at least believe it, but that a person can really be a hero to a near and familiar friend is a thing which no hero has ever yet been able to realize, I am sure."

(This is a non-traditional post... but tonight... I needed this.)

Idealistic to Realistic

At one point my need for purposeful friendships and community was huge. My passion and devotion to the environment was almost as much. To temporarily wrap up my series on 'where I am at today' I thought I would hit one last note--my cynicism. Where to begin.

Throughout a large portion of my being, my affinity for Earth and my belief our planet could be saved defined me; I poured my heart and soul into protecting the environment. I changed my diet. I properly disposed of waste... and did not let food become waste. I carried one of my four Nalgenes everywhere I went. I never ever used plastic bags. I used alternative modes of transportation for the to and from school commute and carpooled--automobiles, buses, planes, and trains--whenever possible. I learned first hand the importance of water conservation while living in Africa. I quit washing my hair to avoid adding toxic chemicals to our earth. I read non-fiction earthy literature (on my Kindle) and participated in 'Students for Environmental Awareness' throughout college for fun. You get the point. (For the record, this establish lifestyle continues, very much intact.)

Raised in a half-hearted environmental house where the basics--recycling, leftover eating, composting, two-sided printing, growing vegetables--are covered, college brought first-hand exposure to the ignorance in America. I had the energy and desire to tackle the insurmountable war ahead. I started by educating my roommates on the basics of recycling. If you want to tell me that wasn't a big deal... I'll fight you. Somewhere along the way, encountering a debacle with the university over campus recycling, particularly at football games.

I wanted the earth I cherish to more than last... I hoped my generation could make it flourish. Each new hurdle became a conversation... another battle to overcome. I was an idealist--one person can make a difference. My intensity increased, just knowing together we could solve this mighty problem, reverse the done damages.

Then, through my experiences, I became overwhelmed with the need and injustices in the world...

and the word 'population' kept coming to mind. Population grows until a certain point when it uses up all the resources, and then it dies off. This is the understanding I was left with after pursuing a degree in the 'science of life and living matter' at dear ol' Clemson anyway. The only hope for this planet, is us finding another planet. And, of course, we cut the NASA program.

I am cynical--our planet it doomed; I truly believe this.

The environmental fight is not over, this is the beginning, and I'm altering my mission. In a gigantic universe I am only a spec; instead of paralyzing myself with angst, I will keep my focus self-centered. Though my environmental flaws are many, I do the best I can within my knowledge base, means, and skills. I am constantly researching ideas for simplifying and living a more sustainable life... and this alone will be enough (for me). I will forgo chastising people for their 'ignorance is bliss' behavior from here on out. 

Defending our planet is a tireless job. There is no way to get used to the it, the longer and harder and more effort exerted, the more it eats away at me. I can live a meaningful life, valuing the people and planet I care about, without playing an all-consuming role.

We are entitled to one life... and it's up to my internal editors to decide what to do with it. My time is precious--I want to spend it with intent. And if intent is working that job where I get to leave my positive mark on our planet in an office or field of equally passionate people, I would be happy. But it might not--it might far less meaningful, but necessary, say answering phone calls and filing papers or building block towers with children. A job is not a life, it's part of one.

Basset Hounds Running

I came across this link featuring excellently photographed basset hounds running on a blog recommended by a friend. The webpage has become the topic of conversation around our house for much of the past week. My family--basset obsessed--is on our third hound in my lifetime. There is no getting around it, this is the breed of my parents subscription.

If you do a little click, click, clicking of your own, you'll find several minutes of the purest laughter you have had in a long time. And if you find otherwise, you're dead inside; my sentiment anyway. The photo below, an imperfect image of dear Louis doing a little "running" of his own, is an half-hearted attempt to provide an indication of what your experience entail.

Laugh on.

Saturday, In My Life

Friday evening I hung out with C.R.M and O.D.M while their parents went out on a 'real' date. We ordered pizza, baked cup"capes," watched Cinderella, pretended to be spooky ghosts, took baths, and read books all before bedtime. (Human-sitting Tip #1: Never take movie-night for granted. Be infinitely grateful for the 85 minute break planned by the parents.) After six hours of human-sitting, Mom and Dad came home. Life has been chaotic on both ends--allowing us little time to catch up; we took advantage of the opportunity, though late, and talked away the next two hours. It might have been 1:30 am, but my night was not over, in fact, my morning had just began. I am in charge of the dogs living in the M's basement (Nana's apartment) for the week. These are two high-maintenance dogs--refusing to do their business unless they are walked, so we set out for a 15-minute brisk stroll. Quickly after we returned, I dozed off in hopes of a decent night sleep.

But the day began at 7:24 am, after roughly five hours of sleep, when C.R.M.'s little fingers and raspy voice woke me from my slumber. Bless her heart, she has come downstairs each morning this past week looking for me, succeeding for the first time Saturday morning; I had either been out running with Latte Woman or already out walking the dogs. (She normally enjoys breakfast with her Nana--I am a horrible substitute.)

I was up and not exactly happy about it. By 7:30 am, almost five-year old C.R.M. was demanding waffles... and delightedly playing fiesta music from the boom-box for some dawn ambiance. Right after breakfast, C.R.M. lost a tooth, which meant she lost interest in me(!!!). As she headed back upstairs to show her parents, the dogs and I were off on our extended morning walk. Upon return I realized...

it was Saturday--long-run day, and as badly as I wanted to skip out, excusing myself for accumulating four hours less sleep than my normal nine-hour requirement, I shutdown my brain... and hit the road running, soaking up the glorious fall weather. My non-running mom recommended a loop-route awhile back, equipped with courage and a bit of excitement, I had the time to give it a go. I have been craving a new route, after all the out-and-back hilly recent runs. Hills are manageable if you run up them, down the backside, and then far away from them... or to the next, more painful, one, which is not the case on an out-and-back course.

So I'm running and running and running and running (down a picturesque road--crunching gravel beneath my heavy feet surrounded by reds, oranges, and yellows with deer literally trotting alongside) and wondering when I am going to reach my turn point, confident I have not missed it. An hour had passed when I could see 'my light' in sight. Only it was the wrong light... and I had to keep running, about a quarter mile further; eventually I made it to the road of my left turn... and quickly there after ran out of gas. (I had four more miles to go, and I am not in shape.) When has my mom ever correctly estimated distance? Oh right, never. 

I switched my iPod from the iRun playlist to an audio version of Harry Potter and my gears to power-walk mode. Two hours after departure, I was greeted by two frisky dogs awaiting another walk. The clock read mid-morning--I was in desperate need of a shower and a cure for my wretched stomach ache.

I headed to my home where I proceeded to nurse the screaming pain from my stomach while watching the first half of the Clemson game. Expecting a win, I allowed myself to doze off for an hour during the second half. (Clemson University has exceeded my expectation--undefeated at 8-0, go Tigers!) After the game, the dogs were walked for the third occasion of the day.

I rejuvenated with carrot sticks and chai tea...

and realized the extent of my unproductively throughout the day, considering it was four in the afternoon. I booked plane tickets for upcoming journeys, sent a couple of emails, wrote a letter... convincing myself those were items of importance to cross off the 'to-do' list I am painfully behind on.

At 5:00 the dogs needed their dinner and another walk. And at 6:00 when that task was accomplished, I needed dinner myself. The rest of the night included words of affirmation between family and friends, more football, of course, including a Michigan State Spartans win, and, you guessed it, even more dog walking.

All was not prefect... but, honestly, life happened here today. I am recovering a sense of 'normalcy' in just doing life with my people on the day-to-day.

Craf-To-Ber

I am jobless. This translates into two concepts: First, my personal finances are sparse. Second, I have infinite spare time. My material fill for the year is over two months away, and I need gold glitter TOMS, size eight, stat. For those with an abundant wallet, I could use Hunter wellies and faux UGGs--ones that don't inhumanely harm a flock of genuine Australian sheep in the making--as well.

When (shoe) consumerism bogs me down and society waves instant gratification in my face... I forget about the 'hooray for independence' and the unique satisfaction that comes with providing for myself.

To my benefit, Mama H is all crafty--stitching together Halloween costumes, constructing holiday wreaths, and scrap-booking. At one point in childhood, she had us home-make candles at an age when children should not be sculpting hot wax. To demonstrate the insanity I have scars. This crafty phase has slowed as her children have become less appreciative aged, but she's still super diligent about purchasing supplies.

Mini Martha may not be willing to purchase my shoes; for this, I am upwards of 90% thankful. However, she is not at all above helping her daughter find a means to an end. In the midst of my need, she flagged me down for viewing when she saw Martha Stewart whip up sparkly shoes on one of her seven daily shows.

Credit to Stewart on the idea; Thanks to Mom for the supplies; Props to me for capitalizing.

My discount shopping, courtesy of Target, led me to these nine dollar white sneakers. Total savings: 45 Washington's(!!!).

These craft room staples: masking tape, Martha Stewart glitter, Mod Podge, a craft stick, and paint brushes--pulled me through.

And an hour of magic in conjunction with a day of drying got me these! [The craft supplies were lacking in gold glitter... I am setting the trend with green.]

SO unemployment has turned me in to a savvy DIY girl.

Pets Over Children

In all areas, sans shoes, I have self-control when it comes to shopping. When I hopped off my parents payroll for the big wide world of independence I learned the true price of materials. Hooray for "making it on my own" and being responsible! Yeah--not so much, or at least not all the time. I quickly began translating everything to hours of human-sitting.* At this point, my career was well underway--I was making eight whole dollars an hour, 13.3 cents every minute. Parents don't be late.

*I prefer this term to babysitting because in this age of the helicopter parent, with half my life of experience, I am rarely trusted with actual babies. By the time I am left in charge, they are hardly children--they're tipping on the verge of teenagers. More excellent than making money for being a (topnotch) big sister is landing the mother's friend, ahem mother's helper, gig. There is nothing is more fulfilling than having Boss Mommy ignore my loaded resume--equipped with positions from full-time nanny to camp counselor to normal human-sitter to after-school-care-worker to church nursery experience to academic tutor. As a matter of fact--I am incompetent; there is only way to prepare Cascadian Farms Organic Cinnamon Crunch Cereal for Johnny's mid-morning snack. I have certainly ruined the chance of any future human-sitting employment. No? I am still for hire, if you want to pay me--I'm yours. To the original point, each age class--whether mother, teenager, child, or baby--can be safely categorized into the 'human' group. Let's agree on that too.

As I sat down to write this post I had a clear direction: arts and crafts. And now I am 280 words deep, having wrapped up my rambling, urg ranting, on the proper terminology for watching mother, teenager, child, or baby while parent(s) stay in or go out. Instead of admitting I have lost my voice--I will change direction to equally fascinating, semi-related, realization. 

The going rate for pet-sitter is higher, much higher, than that of human-sitter. This says a lot about our society. That is all.

An Escape

Excluding the 10-hour bus ride, 14 hours of the Columbus Day weekend were spent riding in the car with a beloved friend and random variables of her family. The trip was tossed together last minute to escape the millionth day of rain and savor the last little bit of the Southern summer. I had no problem leaving the job hunt behind for another opportunity to go-go-go.

The majority of scenery was observed from the car--over real and honest conversation. We managed to contain our words for a couple of short periods of Taylor Swift, Dixie Chicks, and Natasha Bedingfield. Because K.N.K.F. would have it no other way--she is basically the only person who gets a music pass. One can only tolerate so much of her preference.

A huge portion of my story took place in South Carolina. I may have revisited familiar places on this trip, but the travel still broke up life--evoked old and developed new memories.

As K.N.K.F. and I crossed the border from North to South Carolina, I commented on the affordable cost of living and price of gas (at only $3.13--we would eventually see gas for as low at $2.97--something each party, paying over $3.50 in our respective places of residence could appreciate). She immediately provided perspective by remarking, "The financial cost of living in South Carolina may be low, but it's the emotional toll where they get you." Spot on. This would be one of our many points of reflection.

The highlights were an Octoberfest party on the pond--including a nighttime paddle boat ride, joint-parenting sweet Baby C, uncovering the history of my second mothers' younger years, an evening beach stroll, cheerleadering for K.A.K. and his Clemson Club Tennis mates, delicious meals, late nights and early mornings.

We, K.N.K.F. and I, could not be at further ends of the spectrum of mid-twenties life. This friendship works because we accept and learn from our differences; we are intentional regarding our relationship. She is baby mania and settling down and navigating the ropes of young and married. There is stability and comfort. This, to me, is limiting. I want to continue to explore the world. Travel reminds me to live an adventure and inspires me outside the confines of my town. Travel is a way to encounter compassion, to renew my respect for the ease of daily life. I want to meet new people while closing down the town. This, to her, is unsettling.

In the midst of my friendship soapbox, pausing to reflect on this precious bond was important. This weekend challenged me to further appreciate this unique friendship. 

Catch-22

In my writing yesterday I touched on the challenge of modifying friendships. There is more to say...

I am on the mind of several people of importance to me--the continual emails, offers for me to visit, phone calls, and text tell me this much. I know many of them are sincere and willing to listen or discuss anything I want, but I have this impression--it's sincerity until a point. (Although I am aware of what happens when one makes an assumption, there is adequate evidence to validate the statement.) When I don't bring anything up, neither do they. My guess is various friends and even my family are in a rotten situation. They recognize the hurt and messy emotions and see I am stuck in a rut, while assuming I am not ready to talk about it (topics from previous post) with them, and that I may never be. It's a catch-22 I am responsible for placing them in. They can't bring it up and talk about it, but I want them to acknowledge this happened. So both sides act like everything is normal and nothing happened, and just ignore the giant elephant in the room. 

This is the reason very few are let in to see what is actually going on. When I answer phone calls, I give no indication that anything ever occurred. I appear the exact same me from November 2009. But I have changed. How could I possibly be the old me? Shutting out people and putting on an act, especially for my friends, is absurd. Maybe I should open up, like not talk about everything, but also not talk like everything is fine. Few people have seen through the shield I have held up for the last year. This has been a protection mechanism; I am not sure what side I am protecting... odds on them. I would hate to make anyone uncomfortable. Though I have faith, if they ever realized this, several of them would hate themselves... feel like bad friends for "allowing" that. They want to be here for the me I am today. Least of all, they would like a chance to try.

Problem being the root of much of my hurt is my inability to bring it up, not knowing where I would begin or how I could ward off the tears. Hashing out all the emotions to the virtual world has been the best therapy; writing as opposed to vocalizing is the easier route. There is nothing that can be said to amend the reality. I went to Africa and witnessed the unexplainable, from my day-to-day life to the murder. Before I left, and confirmed when I returned, a friend told me she was most worried I would have trouble finding joy in the routine America after living in Africa and being exposed to this unique culture and lifestyle. These extenuating circumstances, no one could have predicted or controlled, brought out a side of humanity I never wanted to experience. The worst of humanity robbing the best of humanity--of life.

I am here as a 24-year old, college educated, adult living at home in a world where everyone, frequently--me included, pretends September 3, 2010 and the incredible months before never existed. My Peace Corps adventure was a dream, and T.C.M. is a long-lost friend.

This past weekend the change was blatantly obvious, and for the first time, everything felt right. 

I relied heavily on many of these friends to get me where I am today. For our time together I am infinitely grateful. At the same time I am confident in my remodeled self and my ability to continue to mold new friendships.

I in no way intend to write off old friends. I want to ask for patience--not hasty emails and voice mails. I want you to acknowledge this time period is part of my history, acknowledge the fact there are nights I still can't sleep because I hear gun shots fired at my closest volunteer friend and me. Ackonwledge your advice is not always merited. And in the meantime, I will understand that no one will ever be able to relate, to comprehend this experience from the grave loss to being a volunteer to the bureaucratic procedures of our government.

The test of time and trials exemplifies which friends are true. 

The Rebuilding

I had this illusion of my future and the Peace Corps was the key to it. I would join the Peace Corps after college, serve the two (or more) years and then I would be able to either get a job with them or another government agency through this connection, eventually winding up in grad school. This is why I could not quit on Lesotho during the tough moments, or when my health began to suffer. The Peace Corps was my way of contributing, to see the world, to help other people, to help the environment, to educate children, and to make a difference--regardless how small. This is what mattered most to me, serving was following my passion. So when T.C.M. was killed, I not only lost my friend in a terrible way, and almost my own life, but I lost a future. This is an unbearable lost, most people can not fathom. But this is what happened to me. And this is why it's so hard to see everyone moving on--I haven't been able to pursue the future I planned. I know this was not in my control. T.C.M.'s death and Peace Corps acting in my "best interest" threw me far from my track. This is (now) my life. This is my (new) future. And it's more. Many days, I feel as though I am living for two. In the back of my mind, whip-tee-do, I may have lost a future, well T.C.M. lost his life. I must forge on for both of us. It's the only life I have from here on out. I will always have bad days. There will be nights I can't sleep. There will always be time I need to cry and feel miserable and sad and depressed. That's never going to go completely away. No one, T.C.M. least of all, wants me to give up on my goals and dreams and live a life that doesn't make me happy and fulfilled. Easier said then done--it's hard to move on, to find a job, to leave my parent's house, to go through the motions of the day when I would rather be locked in a room alone upset. But it's what I have to do. I have to keep applying and applying and applying until I land a job. And even if it's not the one I want, it's a start. A way to renew life again. A way to reconnect.

There is hardly anyone in my circle who can relate. And, I hope they will never be able to. What I went through was terrible. And knowing I will never completely recover is scary. But I can't let my bad days or weeks rule my future. That will turn into bad years, and a bad life. I will never stop grieving, but recognize I need to push through the grief, and the pain, and the loneliness, or it will consume everyday. I have a good start at this. I pick up random jobs and visit friends... despite not feeling immediate relief from either activity.

For the past four months, and honestly much of the last year, I have had extreme difficulty relating to the majority of my friends. I am not sure they have noticed. I see myself as a soundboard--someone for them to bounce their tales off--in our conversations. They occasionally succeed in making me laugh, sharing in their annoyance with society, or getting me to discuss a hot-topic.

My friends are content. They're employed in their fields of passion. They are busy pursuing advanced degrees. They are this and that. And I am not. I strive to be each and every friends biggest supporter; I love these people, but keeping up with 13 regular phone calls is draining--not to mention the other ones in between. Though they continually ask how I am doing, it comes off quick and easy--similar to the way one would ask their neighbor when both parties happened to cross paths outside the home. These friendships, which have been building for as much as eight years, are faltering. 

After moving, you quickly learn friendship is not eternal. I am okay with letting go; not entirely of friendships--but of releasing myself from the old me persona. I have to, it's time. In all honestly, it's past time. I can no longer feign interest. I can no longer pretend to relate. These wonderful people came into my life, each friend more incredible and incomparable than the last. I do not want them to wait for me, wait for a time, wait for a friendship that is not returning to normal.

Most friends are for seasons... few are for life. Love it of leave it.  

In Motion

Yesterday, I glanced at my watch, only to realize it was already the 10th of October. It was a complete surprise--October 2011 is one third underway.

This month has been whirlwind thus far. I have been on the move, slumbering in a new place for each of the past seven nights...

• October 4: in the queen sized guest room bed at my home base in Northern Virginia
• October 5: in a shared queen sized bed at the home of the S family in Durham, North Carolina
• October 6: alone in a double bed at the K home in Columbia, South Carolina
• October 7: on an air mattress in Jackson, South Carolina visiting Papaw K
• October 8: in a shared queen sized bed in a hotel room in Charleston, South Carolina
• October 9: on an air mattress at the apartment of the newlyweds in Raleigh, North Carolina
• October 10: in a king sized bed across the street from my family's home in Northern Virginia

The rest of the month is filled with many more nights of dog sitting, so I will remain in transit. 

A Story of Love, Loss, & Found

First, I hate eating in front of people, especially new people. Second, I like my food cold or at least room temperature. Third, I was vegetarian, worried each innocent vegetable was contaminated with chicken broth or animal fat. Fourth, I was in a very different environment.

Adapting to the food Lesotho had to offer was a challenge unlike any I had ever experienced. I had traveled, so not the same. This was foreign, people handing me food on a platter and staring at me while I ate. This was a carbohydrate-heavy meal, three times a day, at exactly 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:00 PM for 10 straight weeks. This was not fruit in the morning, vegetables for lunch, and a protein-rich dinner. 

What felt like letting go of me was tough. 

Eventually I grew to be a tiny bit more adventurous... sampling a spoonful of samp, one evening I felt particularly famished. This was one variety of the "staple" food of the country I had chose to spend the next 27 months of my life in. I was underwhelmed as the samp was loaded with butter, my least favorite food, next to pickles and sour cream--both of which I lived blissfully without for 10 months(!!!). Samp, round two, came at the end of Community Based Training celebration. My job was to help prepare the samp for the entire village, meaning I did a lot of watching other people sort and clean and stir. In the midst of being too occupied to work, I scooped out a sample of samp before the gallon-sized tub of butter was added. Four bowls, at least, were put down during my shift. The other volunteers were aggravated--exhausted, hungry, sweaty... and lacking my wit. I had stunned the trainers with my Sesotho skills--spouting "I'm lazy" during this time of physical labor. This got me off the hook for at least a week. Locals thought this was funny, very very funny. Yes, those 10 months were great for my self-esteem. 

(Serious Side Story: Being lazy is nothing to pride yourself on in Lesotho, a country where people are literally fighting for life. I caught them entirely off-guard--the reason this statement was comical.)

So I'm feasting, prior to the feast, on samp--can't eat enough to satisfy the void--watching fellow volunteers slave over the hot pot under the relentless African sun; relishing in the fact, there is something I could survive off, for over two years. Not only was I hysterical, I was going to be full. 

I never learned how to cook samp; the process was long and tedious. When I wanted samp, I requested it from my host family. (For the record, I would usually make them popcorn or let them watch a movie in return. No, this was not a remotely fair trade.) I never even took the time to learn what samp was. I knew it was a derivative of corn, and I knew the corn in Lesotho was a different than ours here in America. I was lazy, geez. 

Who could have predicted I would come back to America and crave samp from time-to-time? Not I. There was no way for me to explain samp to anyone. Not that I tried. 

In my new learn-how-to-cook-so-I-can-survive-as-a-vegan lifestyle I tackled a dish that called for hominy. I had no idea what hominy was but knew it could be purchased in a can at the grocery. I was chopping and sauteing, prepping for the hominy moment. I opened, drained, and rinsed. Then like all good chefs, I sampled. I nearly melted in my tracks: SAMP! You found me(!!!).

Since the house was empty--and Louis was not at all interested in the my news--I danced a jig, temporarily forgetting about my burning vegetables. I also scarfed down half of the can before I remembered the one in charge of those charred vegetables to which the hominy belonged was me. I got my act together and finally, the meal was complete; the taste--wonderful. 

Turns out, hominy is corn that has been processed to remove the hull and germ. According to the intense food dictionary my parents rely on to decipher the ingredients in their mile-long recipes, samp is coarsely ground hominy. Either Americans or Basotho have it wrong: hominy=samp. No extra processing necessary. And with my Southern roots, I never paralleled hominy grits and papa--finely ground samp. All this time I thought the word 'samp' was not of the English language, and instead Sesotho. I do not belong in the kitchen.

If it took going vegan to guide me to my reunification with samp, it was the Best! Decision! Ever!

Latte Joy

The world (or maybe just America?) has a national holiday devoted to coffee... I missed the memo, but c'mon everyday is drink-coffee-like-a-champion day. Further googling I learned February 27 is National Chocolate Cake Day, National Kaluha Day, and National Strawberry Day. (And all my life I had been convinced the only thing worth celebrating on this day was Uncle J’s birthday. Lame.) There is not a day without a food item to stuff your face with in ordinance of the holiday. Misewell stop writing menus immediately, there are daily celebrations to dictate your life. This is soooo ridiculously American, I can't stand it. 

The one exciting discovery in all the hoopla is July is National Picnic Month. I could be into that; I do love me some picnics. A mere nine months away there is something to look forward to--July 2012, and every July following, will be the month of picnics--I envision myself doing some serious picnicking in obscure places. Yes, it will be grand(!!!).

Beyond National Picnic Month, I will declare my own occasions along the way, and consider the possible expansion of National Coffee Day into a month, or everlasting holiday…

Onwards. I was discussing coffee... and how I devour a cup, or four, everyday--brewed in almost any way. At present, and most often, my preference is black iced coffee. I recommend a cup to finish the post--stop right here and go brew yourself one of choice--whether reading this in the morning, at lunch, or nearing midnight. I've established coffee consumption is a constant throughout my waking hours.

So you can only imagine my delight when a neighbor introduced me to her at-home latte tool. She enlisted my help in her new "sick-of-an-unhealthy-lifestyle routine." Her seeking my advice is a tad scary... little does she know how lazy the 34 days of rain has made me, not to mention my diet of soy milk and Oreos has gotten a tad out of control. At any rate, mid--rainy--run we were discussing eating habits when she casually mentioned she could not rid herself of her morning homemade latte.

Say what? I flipped out. And I made it crystal clear I had no idea this process could be done, quite easily, at home. She offered to prepare her speciality latte when we got home; I'm haywire at this point. Let's pick up the pace NOOOOOOOOOOOOW. I have coffee to attend to. 

The mug of joy she produced changed my life. Like a whole lot. I downed this latte as though I been tossing them back my entire life, instead of treating it as the delicacy it was. And as if I wasn't already going to dedicate the rest of my life to befriending this woman, on a sipping coffee from the front porch daily basis--she gave me one of her extra-fancy milk frother gadgets... to keep.

Now Brewing: Iced Pumpkin Spiced Vegan Lattes.

New York, New York

Last month I took a trip to The City, which I have noted here several times without ever recounting the getaway.

The trip started in the wee hours of the morning over breakfast with N.J.M. before a bus ride into the district. When I arrived in Washington D.C. the ground was saturated with the rain that is still falling--landing me at the Holocaust Museum. The thought to tour a museum solo never occurred to me until I was forced into the situation. In areas of interest, I indulged while cruising through the rest. From there I walked to Union Station as the sky opened--drenching my backpack and me. I engaged in the hussle and bussel of the lunch hour at this particular city center. When late afternoon rolled around, I hopped my second bus--this one bound for New York, New York. I insisted on walking the 4 avenues & 54 blocks to the apartment of my friend, where a home-cooked vegan meal awaited me. And lots and lots and lots of conversation. I was forced to bulldoze a few (too many) tipsy high, high, high heeled fashionistas partaking in Fashion Week on my way.

My pounding headache and I were equipped to seize the city on Friday. The first stop: Ess-A-Bagel. No time to stop and eat, we continued on our walking way towards South Ferry Building to catch the Staten Island Ferry, a recommended tourist attraction. Afterwards I ditched headache, and managed to spend some time walking around Battery Park before moving over to City Hall Park. Then I forged ahead up to Madison Square Park, where I temporarily paused. The next stop: Times Square. Here I listened to the voices of some singers I am told are famous in the Broadway circle. The day might have been coming to a close, but the night was young. My feet still had a few avenues left in them--taking me to the office of R.D.S., where we met and departed for Queens to cross Citi Field off my list. We caught a lot more conversation than baseballs... or ball-game. Let's face it though--the 2011 Mets/Cubs match-up did not have much potential. That is, until the exhilarating comeback walk-off hit in the bottom of the ninth. For T.C.M. and my penpal I cheered.

Crippled from the 'map-my-run' estimated previous day 14 mile tour, Saturday we took it easy. More Ess-A-Bagels. A street fair. An NBC Studio Tour. Housewarming party preparations. This entailed grocery shopping in NYC--holy high stress. Then, the obvious, celebrating all the hard-work of moving in New York...

Sunday, we did the (Off) Broadway thing--first trying unluckily for tickets to Book of Mormons and instead settled for front row tickets to Avenue Q, a show R.D.S., queen of (attending) performance(s) had yet to see. Thumbs up to that. Thumbs down to watching the Kansas City Chiefs pitifully kick-off their season to the Buffalo Bills prior to the show. I squeezed in a trip to H&H Bagel somewhere in there. Sunday night, allergy-ridden R.D.S. and I, with roommate, talked the night away.

Monday--out the door with the working girl... and on my walking way to Alphabet City, home to Ninth Street Espresso, absolute best cold-brew coffee on the globe. A calming breeze--coffee in one hand, book in the other, butt on a bench for the morning in Tompkins Square Park. There was even coaxing a random girl into a ping-pong match. I won. Duh. Backtracking to the workplace of R.D.S., I joined her for a lunch neither of us were hungry for. Then I was off to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. This was an unexpected, fun to-do, an experience I would recommend for all. Late that evening friend and I connected back at her apartment; unmotivated and still unsure of our appetites, we wasted away on her couch.

The final day I got my first early start, in order to cross a couple more 'to-dos' off the list. On second thought, Central Park and a book presented themselves as more welcoming. In my final hours, I scurried over to Top of the Rock, where the tourist quickly scared me away. In desperate need of coffee, I discovered Stumptown Coffee Roasters for more (expensive) deliciously cold-brewed coffee. Then I pretty much fell in love with the atmosphere at Ace Hotel, adjoining the coffee shop, and sat comatose there. On my way out-of-town, I stopped by Loving Hut, a international vegan chain, to pick up what would become breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The authentic conversation. The bagels. The coffee. The distance covered. The time spent in the parks. The churches. The show. The escape from the day-to-day. The 10th anniversary of 9/11. The people. My NYC memories.

Under-18

C.A.H. feels he is underrepresented on the blog, or that C.D.H. is discussed more. I had thought the exact opposite since exactly half the time my web-story has been in existence I have lived under the same roof as C.A.H. Neither of us cared enough to sift through over 300 posts to settle our debate, and the new Blogger format makes it complicated to search. I will strive to incorporate him more.

Note to the younger-younger brother: We will absolutely have to spend more time than watching the last four minutes of Modern Family together over dinner to develop our story, unless you want me to share your childhood moments (refer to our favorite inside joke: Milky Way). I rarely get the approval of C.A.H. so I'm going to run with this high compliment (= he actually follows my ramblings)...

and celebrate his most recent run..

C.A.H. is under-18 on the cross country circuit(!!!). At the Glory Days Invitational he claimed a new personal record at 17:43. For the folks that means nothing to, it translates into three and one tenth consecutive miles at 5:43 pace. On the rainy, rainy, nasty, muddy, cold, rainy Saturday... he was having his moment. Being one of the greatest spectator courses he runs, I got to cheer from seven select spots--only managing to capture one photo; he is that fast.

Helping an exhausted team to a third place finish was exciting too. Part of me would not mind being unemployed in six weeks to see where the state-bound Raiders end up!

Strong and talented and speedy. He is my (awesome) little brother. And I am proud(!!!) of the accomplishment.

Run C.A.H., run. Close that gap.

The Wrong Side of History

Four and a half hours into game 162 of the regular season MY Atlanta Braves walked out on their postseason opportunity.

It went something like this:

• An 8 1/2-game National League Wild Card lead on September 5.
• 18 losses in the final 26; ending on a 5-game losing streak. 
• Craig Kimbrel, who established a Major League rookie record this year with 46 saves, could not contain his emotions in the bottom of the ninth...  
• sending the Braves to their 26th extra-inning game, the most in all of Major League Baseball, of the 2011 season,
• which would close in 13 with a score of 4-3, in favor of the Philadelphia Phillies.
• This meant a franchise record 102-wins in the regular season for the Phillies. Vomit(!!!).

I find myself playing sports reporter for the second time this week. These stats can be found elsewhere, my story (three paragraphs below), on the other hand, can't.

This game will mark the historical collapse of the 2011 Atlanta Braves. It was a matter of one more win, which would have actually been two since the St. Louis Cardinals handedly beat the Houston Astros. (Perspective: The Braves were playing against the best record in the majors; the Cardinals were playing against the worst. That's besides the point.) There are plenty of areas to point fingers at for the final slump, or any of the 73 losses. This year is history, quite literally; time to learn from these mistakes and concentrate on 2012.

This monumental flop was only historic for a matter of minutes--the Braves were outdone.

Beginning the month with a nine-game American League Wild Card lead, the Boston Red Sox concluded their season by throwing the pitch of a two-out bottom of the ninth walk-off. The equally tragic finish came slightly after the Braves--thanks to their 86-minute rain delay. Near identical season closures. Both teams within reach--up on their opponent 3-2 in the ninth--failed to seal the deal.

Baseball may not have the replay option while I unfortunately do.

I was in my not-even-twin-sized bed (The normal guest suite has a temporarily malfunctioning television.) at 11:49 PM on September 28 when the waterworks began. At first I was crying. And then I was not crying, I was sobbing pillow-soaking tears.

This was a problem. In my 24 years, I have never--not once--shed tears over a sporting event; I do not intend to start now. I have convinced myself these tears were rooted in an area way deeper than baseball. Trying desperately to console my dire situation I turned the channel to something safer, Lifetime. My fingers could not resist returning to SportsCenter. This to and fro from ESPN's SportsCenter to Lifetime's Dance Moms back-to ESPN's SportsCenter to HGTV's House Hunters International back-to ESPN's SportsCenter to TBS replaying The Office back-to ESPN's SportsCenter to MTV's Ridiculousness back-to ESPN's SportsCenter lasted into the wee hours of the morning. And was not easing the pain; it became certain--I am a glutton for punishment.

Three days, three games into the postseason, I am in recovery. Thank goodness for football, Clemson football(!!!).