No Martha Stewart

I have yet to master the culinary arts. Here's proof. I made sugar cookies tonight. They taste about as bad as they look.

Finding comfort in rituals

I like my coffee every day around 11 a.m. That may seem late for a coffee break, but I start the work day at 10. By 11, I'm no longer damp from the walk to work, I'm up to speed on the latest news and I'm still a little groggy from the Tylenol p.m.

I spend almost $2 every day on this ritual. If I saved a few weeks' worth of coffee money, I could invest in a fancy maker and bring my own cup to work. I'd rather throw away money every Monday through Friday.

There's something comforting about having a ritual, whether it's reading the newspaper with your breakfast, reading at night before you go to bed, meeting the girls for brunch on Sundays. I look forward to rituals.

This past year -- when it wasn't Lent season -- I would go to Cupcake every Sunday morning and get a frosted pull apart, ginger pear scone or some kind of Danish. And on weekdays after my in-depth reporting class, my friend Anna Leisa and I would get coffee with crappy lids from D'Amico's. If I felt a little daring, I might get a muffin or snickerdoodle cookie. (I'm now realizing my rituals are usually associated with food or coffee)

I look forward to these rituals and, without them, I feel lost. It's not obsessive compulsive. It's a sense of belonging, regularity, normalcy in the crazy world of entering adulthood.

I like my coffee. With a little skim milk and three packs of caloree-free sugar. Every day at 11.

Dependence

I consider myself a fairly independent young woman, but not when it comes to running. Or at least, not when it comes to running lately.

After I ran the Twin Cities Marathon, I began running with someone. And for the next six months, we ran 90 percent of the time together. Whenever I wanted to get a few miles in, I called on Naomi. She was always there. And when I didn't want to run, she was there to motivate me. We were compatible, able to go the same distance at the same pace.

We rolled out of bed at 8 a.m. on Sundays to squeeze in a few hours of running before managers' meeting at the Daily. Through the winter, we wore tights, long underwear and four layers of shirts. During one particularly cold run, our snot froze to our scarves. We didn't care that it was only 7 degrees out. We let our toes go numb during the Reindeer Run. We battled hail this spring and overcame the heat on unseasonably warm days.

Now as I desperately search for a running group that fits my needs and meets in locations accessible by metro, I realize I've long relied on a running partner. As I grudgingly climb the treadmill after work, it hits me that it's hard to run alone. The treadmill is hell on a belt.

I have to recapture the independent running soul, the one I had when I first started running a few years ago. The one I had when I embraced the treadmill, because it was my escape from stress.

I have to discover that liberation I felt when I trained for the marathon...alone. No one was there when I got up in the wee hours every work day and ran around Lake Winona. There wasn't an extra pair of feet when I ran in the boonies last summer. Well, there was that one time when I conned my sister into running to Walnut Grove and back home to Tracy -- 14 miles total. She hadn't run in months.

It'll be back to training later this summer. I'm running the Baltimore half-marathon in October.

Of course, I won't be going it alone on race day. Naomi will be there.

R*** is a bad word

Rain has become a bad four-letter word.

Last night and during the wee hours, we got more than 7 inches in the district, which translates into flooding and soggy basements. The office was emptier than usual today, one of my co-workers had to rip up carpet in his basement before it grew mold.

Someone asked if I had to swim to work. Today I walked. Tomorrow may be an entirely different story. It's been raining for the last several hours.

I should be sleeping right now

It's 2 a.m. and instead of sleeping, I'm writing about roaches. Not because they're interesting subject matter, though a friend said I should take pictures so fellow blog readers can name them. We probably shouldn't be naming them, growing close to them, when they should be zapped and out of our lives in a matter of days.

I bought eight bait traps on Thursday, thinking these suckers would be gone by now. Remind me not to buy generic bait traps in the future to save a few bucks. I can't help but think they'd be gone, if only I had forked out the extra dollars.

You should never be stingy when it means the difference between a good night's sleep and a restless night of beer drinking, watching TV and blogging nonsense.

The march is on

Yes, you read it correctly folks.

The march is on. The roaches have arrived. Truth be told, I've only found one, unless the one I found this morning was the twin of the one I saw last night scurrying across the kitchen floor.

It was small and reddish brown, not as disgusting as you might think. I imagined that when I would see them, they'd be crawling out of the sink in thick hordes. Maybe all those horror films have given bugs a bad rap.

This morning, I finally put in that work order for the apartment to be sprayed. Apparently there was already a list of people who needed the same job done. Unfortunately, pest control only comes twice a month. I've got another 10 days before these suckers are killed.

My officemate, ever wise, reminded me to buy those roach traps she mentioned earlier this week. I bought eight. They're in the kitchen and bathroom, equipped with bait.

For those of you who are squirming at the thought of cockroaches in this apartment, you can squirm a little more. They fester inside the walls of D.C.

The best I can do is armor myself with bait traps and let pest control make monthly visits.

So march on little friends. The bait traps are waiting.

I want to be a hermit crab

That song "Bad Day" comes to mind when I think about my week. Don't even try asking, because I won't elaborate.

I'll only say this -- and not one more word -- the song "Bad Day" could be this week's theme song in the life of Brady.

OK, I'm weakening.

While that song's playing in the background, I'd like to be a hermit crab, hiding in my shell.

If only I believed in reincarnation.

It rained like...

I bring my umbrella to work every day. Whether the forecast says 10 percent chance rain or the weatherman predicts an afternoon storm, I bring my umbrella. I bought a purse that was big enough to store one for inclement weather, deodorant for when I'm not feeling fresh and comfy shoes so I don't have to re-live my first day of work and suffer blisters for two weeks.

But today, I didn't heed the words of that Channel 4 weatherman, who promised afternoon showers that might turn heavy.

Boy was I stupid.

About 15 minutes before I left work, I asked my officemates if it was raining. It was pouring. Lucky for me, someone had an extra umbrella.

You know that expression "It rained like cats and dogs"?

It did just that. It was funny, really. No umbrella in the world protects against the downpour I endured on my way home.

Half-way home my pants were soaked. I smiled. But the guy pushing a stroller with his six-year-old running alongside him wasn't the least bit happy. He wore that laugh-and-you're-dead smirk on his face. He didn't have an umbrella.

I laughed when my foot slipped out of a sandal. But it barely registered a 2 on the funny-o-meter to the passersby.

And I thought this rain isn't so bad when I stepped off the curb and into a pee-warm puddle. It's the same sensation you get from a dip in a pool after kids have been in it all day.

Tomorrow I'll remember by umbrella.

So much for being a tourist

I fully intended to be a full-blown tourist this weekend. But the oppressive heat and the tourists had me running back to my apartment for reprieve -- after a stop at Borders for the newest addition to my book collection, Stiff.

Here's a picture of how far a tourist gets when it's 90-plus degrees out.

So much for being a tourist.

Intrepid

Intrepid: fearless, courageous

A fellow reporter called me the intrepid intern today. I'm not sure I deserve that name. To an extent, I'm brave. But this mojo goes only so far.

I liked being called intrepid. And darn it, I'm going to live up to my new label.

The intrepid rookie.

March of the roaches

Before I moved here, the former intern and inhabitant of this place briefed me on the apartment's quirks -- its atrocious rent, small space and lack of privacy.

He failed to mention the late-night noises and the roaches. Yes, roaches.

Today, I asked him whether the racket behind the fridge kept him up at night. He said it did, and apologized for not mentioning it sooner. He also warned me to beware of the roaches and to keep the kitchen counter clean.

They come "in waves," he wrote. When he found one -- always in the kitchen with the exception of one encounter in the bathroom -- he notifed the front desk, someone would then spray the apartment and made "everything better" for a while.

I don't want to have wait. As I walked home today, I feared that I would come home to a roach-infested apartment. I thought they would be crawling out of the kitchen sink, covering the walls and, worst of all, nesting in my bed.

I don't want them to make themselves at home. They don't pay the rent, afterall. I do. I'm the one with the checking account that gets nearly wiped out after one, little (big) check.

I'm hardly psychic and, fortunately, I didn't come home to roaches, though I'm sure they're lurking, somewhere. Probably behind the fridge.

But I won't be taking any chances. First thing tomorrow morning, I will see if this place can get sprayed, before the march of the roaches.

Sleepless in D.C.

I'm sleepless in this town.

I've tried beer, late-night snacks, books, TV. Nothing seems to help. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind starts reeling.

I can't stop thinking about the men and women who sleep on park benches, nap under the sign at the Catholic church next-door, rest in the park all day long.

I think there's a homeless shelter nearby, or at least it used to be one. I read an article about its impending closure, but couldn't find a date. As the summer heats up, the shelter's windows open and I can see bunk beds inside. Tonight, a security guard watched over the place. Maybe it isn't closed yet.

Across from the shelter is a park, where this weekend several dozen people made it their home. I think it's their territory. I haven't read anything making it official. But I walk by there every day, whether it's on my way to work or for a run. They're always there.

I can't shake the images. Several people asked me if I had culture shock moving here from Minnesota. I thought it was a silly question and still do. I moved to the coast, not another part of the world, which, by the way, I've done before and didn't experience significant culture shock.

But every day I see them. When I go home at night, ready to unwind, you'd think I'd forget. But I don't. I remember the person who every early evening can be found just down the street. I recall the woman in her lawnchair, petting a stranger's dog this morning.

I want to know their stories, what circumstances and choices in their life brought them to this place. Maybe it's the journalist in me.

Yesterday, I pulled articles off the Internet about homelessness in D.C. What I found were stories of despair, kitchens that were no longer serving, downtown shelters closing.

I learned they have a newspaper, called Street Sense, where they earn and give their two cents, or something like that. They pay 25 cents for the paper and re-sell it for a $1, making a hefty profit, depending on the number of sales. It's filled with their stories and poems.

IThese cheap words do nothing for the people I see on the streets of D.C. every day. But selfishly, I hope they help me get some sleep tonight.

Signs of Adulthood

I write this with some trepidation, because I'm fast on my way to becoming a full-fledged adult.

Sign #1: I called my temporary health insurance company -- temporary because I'm no longer in college, yet not enrolled in a full-time job -- to find out whether a claim had been filed on my behalf for a recent check-up. The day before I had received a $246 bill, indicating I had less than 30 days to pay up. The company hadn't gotten anything. So I called the clinic's billing office and asked whether they had sent anything. They hadn't. Two minutes later, I was verifying the insurer's address. I have an addition 30 days to make any payments, giving the insurance company adequate time to process the claim and, I hope, pay up for me.

Sign #2: For the last few weeks, I have wondered whether I actually graduated from college. That probably sounds incredibly stupid. Of course Brady graduated, you're thinking. But I checked this report today, an audit of the classes I've taken and requirements I needed to fulfill. A note in small print at the top of the report indicated I had to contact my honors advisor about possible additional or different requirements. I freaked out, probably began to sweat a little. I e-mailed my advisor, thinking I wouldn't hear back for days. You see, the U of M is this bureaucratic maze and there's no such thing as a quick response. Boy was I wrong. Within 10 minutes, I got an e-mail, saying the paper work had been completed on May 17 and as far as my advisor was concerned, I was done at the U. Wohoo.

Sign #3: My mom and sister sent me this thoughtful care box packed full of goodies. It was a steal -- fill it with anything you can for $8. They sent me an old running shirt (it's actually Ben's, but I stole it so it's mine now), candy (Bit 'O Honey chews, my fave), chewy peanut granola bars (to die for), gum, a candle, an investigative resource book that I had forgotten to bring, and a vase. I felt a little guilty about getting such a nice package. I'm an independent career gal, right? I shouldn't have to rely on such packages from my mom and sis to make my day and make me feel less lonely. Just because I'm an adult doesn't mean I can't enjoy being a kid at the same time. If that makes any sense.

Sign #4: My journalistic soul mate and I talked tonight for an hour about our jobs. We've worked together for two years and interned in two newsrooms under the same editor. I miss talking nearly every day about story ideas and acting like watchdogs together, but that's part of growing up. You have to move away from your friends. Growing up is hard to do.

Auditioning

I won't pretend to think the following gibberish means anything to anyone.

Today, I was conflicted between working on an assignment that would put information into the very public domain -- which I think is a good and necessary thing -- and stepping on toes. The spotlight was on, and I couldn't help but feel like I was at an audition. I wasn't the only person to think this -- a colleague said this job is about making friends and leaving a good impression, so I have people in my corner when I look for the next gig.

I'm not sure how to follow this up, so I'll just stop here.

Taking it back

This is perhaps the most superficial entry ever, but...I take it back.

I love the purse, and it was definitely worth the $22. I enjoyed running all over D.C. this morning with the new bag in tow.

Addicted

It's been six months since I last bought a purse. That is, until I bought one again about 20 minutes ago.

As I walked over to the street vendor, I thought I was strong enough to say "no" and to not give in to the temptation of purse buying. In the last ten months -- before today's purchase -- I had bought only two, one at Target this August and my favorite purse of all time at a vintage store in Columbia, Missouri, for $6.

But for months, I have wanted a grown-up girl's purse, one that could hold a book, reporter's notebooks and maybe a pair of shoes (if you read the entry from the first week of work, you'll know why). A professional bag that would go with my work wardrobe.

The vendor first priced the big, black purse at $30. No thanks. I said I couldn't pay that kind of money. Right away he dropped the price to $25, saying he never sold this purse for anything lower. No way. I wasn't even in love with this purse -- I try to only buy bags that I'm truly, madly, deeply in love with. I should have walked away then.

I said I'd give him $22, and you can guess his response.

I stood there for about 5 minutes, going back in forth between trying on the bag and looking inside it. On one shoulder, an angel kept telling me to walk away. There would be other purses. On the other shoulder, a devil clad with a pitchfork, told me to buy the purse. I had wanted one for so long.

Gray clouds hovering above and threatening rain, the vendor said he needed to put the purses away. He didn't have time to watch me analyze the possible purchase. So he gave me the purse for $22. A steal, he said.

Purse over shoulder, it didn't feel like a steal. In fact, I felt guilty, like I had just done a very, very bad thing. I was ready to confess to a priest. Instead, I confessed my sin to Ben.

I can't help this purse-buying addiction. If I had it my way, I'd have a purse for every kind of occasion.

But as I write this, I realize how stupid this addiction really is. Publicizing it can only help, I hope.

Random thoughts of the day

1. Did you get the memo that 2006 planners are out and 2007 planners are in? I sure didn't, which is probably why I ran frantically around Borders tonight, perusing bargain racks and the stationary (aka, not a book, magazine or cd) section. To my dismay, the shelves were only stocked with 2007 planners. Where does that leave us poor souls who lose their $8.99 leather-bound planners mid-way through the year?

2. I fear kitchen utensils. Yes, fear. On my way home tonight, like on my way home every other day, I dreaded having to lift a finger in the kitchen. I have only mastered two dishes: my own version of a taco salad and noodles with Parmesan cheese. In the last nine months, I managed to make about five homemade meals. That doesn't mean I spent a ridiculous amount of money on dining out. Ever heard of Honeynut Cheerios and LeanCuisine. They're the breakfast, lunch and supper of champions.

3. As my near daily blogging shows, I need to get a life. It's only Thursday and I'm already excited about going to Target on Saturday. It's about a 30-minute ride on the metro to some unknown town in Maryland. That means an hour-long round trip for Tide, chewy peanut butter granola bars and a summerdress, if I'm feeling generous. And you know what? I can't wait.

4. A $3.36 watermelon wedge doesn't necessarily mean it'll be good. I was only a few bites in before I found the mush.