Home documented

Here are just a few snapshots of the people I love. They made my weekend.

My family:

Brooke (my sister), Tony (her bf), Becky (Mom), Brady (me), Ben (my bf):

The hottest couple at the wedding, next to the bride and groom of course:

The very beautiful mother and father of the bride:

Former roommates who are also culinary queens:

Home

Being home since Thursday has kept me out of blogosphere, an excuse I'm happy to give.

I have to leave in three hours. My sister is still sleeping; my mom is working this morning. As I write this, the reminder of having to leave after such a brief visit is almost physically painful. I don't want to leave my family, and I feel guilty for moving so far for a job. In many countries, it would be unnatural to leave them. Children are charged with staying close and taking care of their parents. In Thailand, Ben and I met students who were obligated to attend college near their families and, after college, they didn't leave.

When I was little, I thought I couldn't leave my hometown faster. I was proud when I attended college in Minneapolis. Many of my friends didn't move to the "big city."
But now, I'm happy and very comfortable to be here. If I didn't have a job beckoning me and plenty of stories to write, I would gladly stay here an much much longer. I'd run a lot, go on evening walks, visit my mom's best friend at her coffee shop, meet with people I haven't seen in a long time, go to my aunt's store, and hang out with my family.

At least I've had the last three days. I've been fortunate enough to be a part of my friend's wedding, se Ben's family and stay with mine. I've seen aunts and uncles, cousins and my grandmas. Yes, I consider myself very lucky.

And as much as I don't want to leave my family, I know I'll be back. Never soon enough.

Family Matters

By this time on Thursday, I will be back in my Minnesota hometown.

Thinking about seeing my family gives me that sensation I had when I was a kid at Christmas time. It's like when you can't wait to open your presents, and you squirm until Christmas morning. You beg to open just one, but you're forced to wait. In this case, I can't wait for that first hug when I see my mom and sister. And as each day gets closer to Thursday, it gets harder to go to sleep. I'm too excited.

I often feel like this whenever I'm away. It can be a hundred miles or a thousand. No matter the distance, I want to be closer to home, where my family is.

Shopping Smarts for People on a Budget

For anyone who has shopped with me, they know my indecisive and sometimes frugal ways can make a trip to the mall hell.

But today, I think I'd make my shopping mentors (you know who you are) very proud. I indulged a little without abandoning my frugal tendencies entirely.

The day started with a bargain pedicure -- bargain by downtown Washington standards at $28 -- until I pitched in an extra $5 per big toe for a sparkly design. I also stormed the mall, but I won't itemize here what came home with me.

It ended with garbage diving. OK, not really. I was dumping my trash when I saw a few fashion magazines stacked near the shoot. I couldn't pass them up. And Ben, who has a few more dollars to spend than I do, said he'd probably do the same thing. My apartment is next to the garbage, so no one saw.

In the laundry room this evening, I saw a moving-out flier. Someone on the ninth floor was selling all of her books for $2 each. I normally don't give fliers a second look. This time, I got three books for $5.

The month is almost over, and I'm comfortably within my budget.

Thank God for people who move out and throw perfectly intact magazines away.

News from the kitchen

This just in: Management at the apartment found and dispatched pest control today!

That's the good news. The bad news?

I came home to find all my kitchen cabinet doors open, a free bait trap that I couldn't get to work and three ROACHES!

Ah, it must take a while for the poison to kick in.

Discipline

Discipline is good for the soul. It can be empowering and rewarding.

Usually, for me anyway, discipline comes in the form of refraining from something or introducing something new into your life. During the next three months, I will do both.

When I've trained for half-marathons in the past, I've run when I want at the distance I want. Not this time. Starting this week, I will adhere to a training plan to improve my pace. Maybe I'll finish the Baltimore half-marathon faster than my best finishing time of 1'58". Then again, maybe I'll cross the finish line 10 or 15 minutes slower. I don't know what elements the weather will bring that day. But I want to commit to a plan that will make me feel good about myself at the end of the day. When I trained for the Twin Cities Marathon, I felt empowered with the knowledge that when I had to run 15 miles, I got my butt out of bed and did it.

Now for the sacrifice, I'm giving up candy. Knowing the bag of M&M's I ate this afternoon will be my last until Oct. 14 is hard to accept, but I have to say goodbye to candy, even hard candy (this is where I cheated in the past). This will be especially hard and necessary, because I sit next to the communal candy stash at the office. Ouch.

With discipline, as I wrote earlier, comes empowerment and rewards. And I'm very open to rewarding myself. If I run especially hard for a few weeks, I'm inclined to buy a new pair of running shorts. Who doesn't love an occasional pedicure? It's good for my battered feet. And I won't rule out sweets entirely. I still need my snickerdoodle cookies from time to time. If I cut candy, you can bet I'm going to buy a pastry to go along with that cup of coffee.

Ahh, discipline is good.

Roach Report #2

I've got some very bad news.

I woke up in the middle of the night and again this morning to find three roaches in the kitchen and one in the bathroom. And I know why.

Pest control didn't show up last week. I thought they had, after a 36-hour reprieve from the bugs. But after seeing the bugs this morning, I knew either pest control had failed to show or they had come and did a piss-poor job. (My mom would say it isn't lady-like to use that language, but dang it, I've got a bug problem).

I learned pest control hasn't been showing up, after management put in orders. Management here at the apartment is looking for a new pest control company. In the meantime, I'm stuck with roaches.

Happy Sweet 16!

Dearest Cassie,

You're a few days shy of turning 16, which means you soon will be taking your driver's test. And as your older, wiser cousin, it's my duty to prepare you for this big day. Consider the following advice an early birthday present.

Rule #1
Turn right on red does not mean you can roll through a red light without stopping first. I learned the hard way, doll. I was a few blocks away from finishing and approaching a red light, when Ben's voice popped into my head, "Turn right on red." I paused briefly, looked to the left and right, smiled and continued on to the finish line. The big guy sitting next to me with a white mustache yelled and was likely a few Whoppers away from cardiac arrest. He failed me. I sulked. I'm not sure if running the red light was an automatic failure, or if the general inability to park contributed.

Rule #2
Don't let the supervisor tag along. You're doomed before your hands even touch the wheel. This happened to me for driver's test No. 2. Any mistake, even the micro ones, result in red ink. The guy in the front with you is under extreme pressure. He has to be extra observant. And for what he would normally let slide, he ends up taking additional points. Sans supervisor, the post-test conversation would go like this -- in a perfect world:

Driver: I'm sorry about hitting those orange cones.
Tester: So the parallel parking and 90-degree backing up were challenging? That's OK.
Driver: And I didn't mean to drive over the curb.
Tester: That's OK, too. I'm passing you anyway. I believe young drivers learn by experience, so here's a license to give you just that.
Driver: So you don't care that I almost ran over that lady in the crosswalk?

In a perfect world...

Rule #3: Third time's the charm, my dear. It was for me anyway. If you must test a third time, I recommend going to Ivanhoe. There are no stoplights, no opportunity to run those annoying red lights. Heck, the town -- or should I say village -- has very few stop signs. It's hard to fail in Ivanhoe. The only point where you might encounter trouble is trying to locate the car you came in. Know its unique features -- license plate number, dents, random items inside the car. That's what helped me when I realized I was sitting inside the wrong green Ford Tarus. I knew my great aunt Dorothy did not own CDs. And her car certainly wasn't dirty when I left it. Who knew Ivanhoe had so many green Ford Taruses sitting in front of the courthouse?

Getting your license will be one of the happiest days in your life. When I heard those magic words "You passed" six months after my 16th birthday and a few days before my permit expired, I rejoiced. I ran to the courthouse, hugged my mom, jumped up and down. I almost cried. It was beautiful.

If you heed my words of advice, I'm sure you'll be just as happy the first -- and for your sake I hope the last -- time you have to take your driver's test.

Love,

Your big cousin Brady

Being sentimental

This is the first in a series of posts, odes really, to the people I care about and love.

I've been feeling particularly sentimental, likely a symptom of being home sick. Every time I'm away -- it happened when I was in Thailand for four months, too -- I think about my friends and family more than ever. It's like you don't realize what you have until it's gone. I even miss Tracy, not a person but my home town.

It's bittersweet. I'm sad to be away, but oddly refreshed at the idea of how much I love people and how good it feels to have them reciprocate that.

I miss my old schedule and what it meant -- being surrounded by amazing people. They're probably why my last months at the University were some of the best.

I got to work with a brilliant veteran journalist every week. He taught me more about the craft than I learned in any class. I also had the very best running buddies a girl could ever ask for. Anna Leisa and Naomi are beautiful young women who are sincere and almost always there. Another good friend called Brittastica, who I talk to almost as much as my mom throughout the week, went on reporting excursions with me outside the cities -- only to have the door slammed in our faces. And God, it felt good. Because even though the not-so-friendly landlord didn't want to talk, I could feel good about making every attempt for the comment. There's my cousin Stef, who was one of my best friends in college. When I didn't have a life, especially last fall, she gave me one. She came over to do laundry, watch movies or TV, eat.

This isn't the last of the mushiness. There's plenty to go around. And for the people who don't get an ode, that doesn't mean I don't love you. I do. You might not get a story, because I'm suffering from writer's block. If you want an ode, you can leave a comment, and I'll try my best to fulfill your request.

The Roach Report

A young woman killed a roach in her bathroom Tuesday morning. She was fed up.

It was slow, and she outsmarted it by anticipating its next moves. Using a tissue, she grabbed the roach and dropped it in the toilet. No crunching involved. The roach died by drowning.

As of Thursday, her apartment was supposed to be roach-free for the next several weeks. So far so good.

Until the next roach sighting...or until she comes up with something insightful to write.

That's Ms. Brady to you

This probably won't come as news to you, but I have a boy's name. Or should I say, what's wrongly assumed by the general public to be a boy's name.

Yesterday, I tried to use the women's bathroom to no avail. Twice, I had to pee and was locked out. The women's bathroom was some guarded chamber, and I wasn't allowed in. My key card worked everywhere else. I had no problem getting into the office. I only encountered difficulty after drinking too much water.

It was my first day in the new office, and I didn't want to bother people working in administration any more than we newbies already had -- tours, key cards, meet-and-greets. But my bladder could only take it for so long. Anxiously holding it, I asked the nice lady behind the big desk if she knew why I wasn't being granted access to the bathroom.

It was because I was a boy, or at least the security system thought I was. When she created an account for me, she put me down as a man.

I don't think she'll be assuming anytime soon.

A desperate act

Loneliness makes us do funny things sometimes.

For the last several weeks, I've been searching for running groups to join. Co-workers have sent me links for various ones, but none work for me. I either need a car to meet them or they meet at a time when I'm working. I'm damned no matter what I do.

Despite what I wrote a about my running dependence, I don't want to join a group for extra motivation to run. I've rediscovered it. I need one for my sanity, so I have some people to talk to. And gasp, maybe a friend or two I can hang out with outside running. Beer anyone?

A few weeks ago, I got so desperate to join a running group that I looked into and, shamefully, joined the national group See Mommy Run that has plenty of sub-groups in D.C. Embarassing and completely wrong, I know. It's an exclusive mommies-only club.

It hit me just how pitiful I was when I e-mailed a mom in the neighborhood to ask about running times and distances and to let her know I was new to the district. Apparently, she also had recently moved to D.C. but was holding off on running until the fall, when it's cooler. But she said if I had a three-year-old, a group of parents reguarly meet at a local park.

I'm still looking for a running group that fits my needs.

Soon to be a full-fledged insomniac

Tonight on the way home from a fresh produce fix, I saw something that will haunt my dreams for nights to come. No sleeping pill in the world is strong enough to rid my head of this image. Because if I'm not thinking about what I saw tonight, I'll be thinking about its relatives still hiding out in my kitchen and bathroom.

I think you know what I'm writing about.

It was about an inch-and-a-half long, by far the biggest I've seen outside a museum. Imagine stepping on it. There'd be no cleaning your shoes. They'd be ruined. One crunch and you might as well toss them in the garbage. And to step on one barefoot? I won't even go there.

Now that I've seen how big they can get -- and probably have the genes to get a good half-inch longer -- I'm truly scared. I might as well get used to sleepless nights. Going to sleep at 4 a.m. will be normal.

They're in the walls, probably making babies right now.

The terror.

Tales from a Chinatown bus rider, Part II

Since I wrote such a novel for the last post, I'll make this shorter and hopefully less serious.

Each bus trip to NYC has become increasingly worse. The last trip was the ride from the depths of hell. Looking back, I smile about it and chalk it up to a character-building experience.

Here's a run-down of the trip. Enjoy. I didn't.

5:55 p.m. --I leave work in a rush, hoping the 6 p.m. bus will show up at its usually late time, and I can catch it.
6:15 p.m. -- Stop at CVS for snacks (i.e. supper).
6:30 p.m. -- People are still waiting for the 6 p.m. bus. Yes!
6:45 p.m. -- Find a nice spot under a tree near the alley to wait.
7:15 p.m. -- Still waiting for the bus, and word arrives that the bus is stuck and won't be coming for another 2 hours.
8:15 p.m. -- Find an alternative spot to sit. It smells, and I worry that if I get up, my butt will be dirty.
8:40 p.m. -- The bus arrives! Horray.
9 p.m. -- I'm on the bus, and it smells like a port-a-potty.
9:15 p.m. -- Someone sprays perfume to mask the port-a-potty odor and procedes to do this every 15 minutes.
2:15 a.m. -- The bus arrives in NYC. Somehow the bus that left D.C. after us, with the passengers who couldn't get on our bus, is already in NYC. How ironic.

I didn't mind the stinky port-a-potty smells. OK, that's a lie. It felt like I was sitting inside a humid port-a-potty for five hours. And I hated the intermittent sprays of perfume. It was a different fragrance every time. For the first 45 minutes, it was miserable.

But you find humor in situations like these. It means your sanity.

Tales from a Chinatown bus rider, part I

I witnessed the digital divide at its worst yesterday. It hadn't been the first time.

It happened on the Chinatown buses, the transportation of choice for students and poor folks. Me.

Anyone can take the Chinatown buses. But it's those with a computer who are the priveleged riders.

People can buy a roundtrip ticket to NYC from DC for a whopping $35, online or in person. I have always bought online, because I don't have the luxury of waiting for buses in case seats are sold out. Besides, I'm a planner. It would be highly uncharacteristic if I waited and bought a ticket in person.

Yesterday was my fourth time taking the bus to see Ben for the weekend. It's a 4 and a 1/2 hour ride, usually painful in some way. Every trip has been distinct. If you have any standards whatsoever, this bus isn't for you. I still think it's worth it.

When the bus arrives, usually late, those who have waited in their own opinion for far way too long tend to congregate closely around the bus' door. They barely leave a path for those still on the bus to get off.

Yesterday, the small congregation turned into a mob. Many had waited two hours for the bus, some had waited longer, because it had been -- surprise -- stuck in traffic between turnpikes. They were hot, tired and hungry.

Then, a man from Chinatown buses said only those with online tickets could board. People who had bought tickets in person had to wait.

This announcment has angered groups before. But this time was different. The mob was angry, and they weren't budging. They didn't care about the people who were waving their online tickets in the air. They weren't getting through.

I had put my luggage on the bus, skeptical but hopeful that I would make it on the bus. But as I tried to push through the group, it quickly became clear I would get nowhere. I had waited already for two-and-a-half hours. I figured I could wait longer. After I removed my bag, I tried to push through the group one last time.

Progress. A few big guys in the front were willing to help the small girl in the back squeeze through. Squeeze I did. I gently pushed people to the side as I moved my way toward the front. As I pushed forward, those around me continued to push. WHen I made it to the first steps, I dropped my laptop bag and the ticket handler grabbed my hand to pull me on.

I was one of the last with on an online ticket to make it. A straggler or two followed and a small group of people without online tickets got to sit at the back of the bus (more will be written about this in part II).

When the bus pulled away, more than a dozen people were left behind, waiting for the next bus. It wasn't the first time I felt bad about my good fortune. Because I had the Internet, I was able to get on the bus. Those without access were left behind.

In 2006, the digital divide has narrowed. But the gap has yet to close.