Joblessness

Twelve per cent unemployment is no sneezing matter. That, my friends, is what I'm facing in this city. With its reputation for cool and as the birthplace of the hipster, too many white, bachelor's degree totin', artistic twenty-somethings moved here too fast. Wanting to reduce their carbon footprints and live off farmers market produce and hate on motorized vehicles, they wish to reside in the city. Work in the city. And this means there aren't enough jobs for all of us. Plus, the word about Portland's myriad programs and cash for the taking got out in the homeless community. They come here in droves--most of them about my age. So when I say I'm new to town and jobless, people inch back from me as if the next time they see me, I'll be asking for a $1.00 to add to my hostel fund. "It's going to rain tonight," I'll say.

With redundancy the pool teems, so one's only hope is to be an expert at something. You're qualified to be receptionist, you say? Have you spent a year as a personal secretary to Harvard's Provost? How about time as a senior undersecretary to the governor? No. Alright. Perhaps I could count change at a bank, smile, and tell customers to have a splendid day. Well...yes, you meet the minimum requirements, they say. But our other applicants spent a collective 29,470 hours in environmental service. One developed a sign language pattern amongst penguins in Antarctica. Ok, I think. I can nanny. I've done it recently and with style, right? Yes...but we, the parents, would really prefer whoever watches our children speak fluent Portuguese, Spanish, or Mandarin. We might consider French, even. Also, we'd like you to be here as the kids wake up to make their meals and get them out the door, stay to pick them up from school (The house should be spotless when we get home, btw), make dinner, help with homework, wash them, and put them to bed. Most nights you'll be out by 9. We'll call you.

Since I haven't invested a three years in Cyrillic or composed a sonnet circle on the merits of a cherry blossom, I am still awaiting returned calls.

Ever more plain, my lack of control over my own life. Care and keeping of, yes, but control belongs to He Who Sits Above. Know what? Praise to Him for that! I'll keep applying, but I know His hand must open those doors...no matter how many endangered species I regenerate from bone samples.

Fall: A Contrast

They tell me it's fall in the Northwest. Trees still bear their leaves, the air stings a tad when biking, people started putting pumpkin in their lattes, I overheard a sibling debate 'tween the merits of a Power Ranger costume versus Disney's Belle--but I find myself longing for North Georgia's October. Here, we have none of that evening autumnal glow, no richness in the air as the cooler temperatures release smells heretofore masked in a summer haze, fiery foliage, sweet relief from oppressive heat. We lack the temperature contrast. Ben and I met relief from heat oppression upon arrival in August. There's nowhere to go from there.

Makes me wonder if I owe a piece of my fall adoration to my disdain for Georgia summer.

So, not much of a fall. But what they lack in October glory they pour into their coffee and beers (...excepting the lack of pumpkin beer for which I never can forgive the state. Seriously? Doesn't someone sell a respectable brew in honor of squash's robust cousin? I need Shipyard, dog'on it!) They're quite proud of these. And it's no wonder! With all the rain we're driven to teapot, press, and stein to lift our spirits and make our taste buds dance.

Rain appeals to me, though. It's a good thing; for our ten-day forecast reveals nothing but sprinkly days with bright spots between. Never have I consumed tea with such fervor. Portlanders walk about indifferent to this constant dripping. Most of them seem averse to the concept of an umbrella, preferring to shove their hands deep in their pockets and keep their beanie bedecked heads low. Light waterproof jackets and Doc Martins are the thing. Sometimes goulashes. Bumbershoots are for the out of towners--a funny stigma since everyone in Portland is a transplant. Besides the two true locals I've encountered, this is not an exaggeration.

This is Department of Eagles weather. Weepies. Wilco.

I'll like it all the better when I can meet a friend in it. This much tea consumption requires a partner.

Atlanta Lessons

Atlanta scared me. Crime, water shortages, and parking issues seemed the only news I heard from the place when I lived in the burbs. Aside from theatrical visits to the Fox and the Shakespeare Tavern, concerts at large, well-publicized venues, or a quick foray into the Highlands, I knew little of the city I orbited. It had two streets dubbed Peachtree and I couldn't afford anything on either of them. 85 proved elusive every time I wanted to get home. I liked the coffee at San Francisco. That's about it.

Then I re-met Ben, the man I'm going to marry (a story for another time). He lives in the Old Fourth Ward, a part of Atlanta I had never visited. Heck, who knew Atlanta had neighborhoods beside Midtown and Virginia-Highlands? The more time I spent with him and the more areas of town he showed me, the more his affection for our mess of a hometown rubbed off on me. So I moved. To be honest, my relocation owed about a quarter to interest in the city and the rest to Ben. But, since moving, I've fallen increasingly in love with this place. It's impacted me far deeper than I'd imagined. I've grown to see I need these people, these viewpoints, these challenges. They rub away my self-delusions. For each issue I see around me, I find the rank black mold in my own heart, the areas my Lord would cleanse if I would but ask.

And I've learned, among other things, all that follows:

1. If leaving a generous tip feels beyond my means, I should stay in for dinner. It's not my server's fault I didn't monitor my bank account for the week.

2. Try biking your way through your errands. You'll become aware of any cyclists you may pass and your gas bill goes way down.

3. Atlanta, like any compilation of people, is multi-faceted. Downtown and Midtown do not reflect the whole of the place. In fact, they mis-represent most of it.

4. Run or walk through Druid Hills. You will thank me.

5. Scoutmob.

6. Over-sized, neon-colored, non-prescription frames and Chuck Taylors do not make you any more inventive or complex than do Hollister polos.

7. All that "support local" hype is more than a bunch of tree-huggin' buzz.

8. The city has no shortage beautiful, giving people. Take a moment and listen before you assume a tattoo or a smoke denotes a filthy lifestyle.

9. Street art highlights a city's character. Visit Krog. Or Irwin.

10. The West Coast ain't alone in excellent coffee.

11. Don't write off Piedmont Park simply because everyone seems to go there. That's a silly reason to avoid something anyways.

12. Parallel parking isn't as daunting as I feared. I still have a ways to go, though.

13. Wear sunscreen to Brave's games.

14. Pray for your city. Love your city. Serve your city. Don't simply leech off its cultural energy.

15. Eat out for breakfast on the East Side. Ria's, Stone Soup, Carroll Street, Highland Bakery, Candi's--go! Try!

Winter's Here

Winter didn't wait for December 21st this year. Oh no. It's here and it's chilly. For those of you familiar with Northern winters or the should be uninhabitable settings, bear in mind I write from Georgia. For us, this is COLD. And I love it. Always have.

This morning, though, I started wondering why I esteem winter above hot, sticky Southern summers. Here's the situation: I was out running at ten after six. My face went numb in about thirty seconds and it was then I began to question my fervor for the icy air. As I ran, I gradually warmed. Then it hit me. It's not the chill I've loved about this season, but the measures we take to make ourselves comfortable in it. Fires, sweaters, hot chocolate, tea, stews, wool socks, hoodies, blankets, cider, boots, overly-cheerful music, cinnamon, Christmas--it's these things I find appealing in their juxtaposition to colder temperatures and stark landscape. When the outside world slips from fall abundance and smoldering colors into white and gray, we decorate it. With Christmas lights, for instance. You gotta love that about people.

Sepia

Memories make my life look like a clothesline of sepia pictures, all hanging about at an artsy, off-center angle. In memory, food tastes better, light glows soft and mellow, and trips taken seem smoother. Squabbles either lose or gain significance in recollection, leaving me to wonder why I let something so small damage a relationship or why I reigned in my opinion.

Moving from one phase of life to the next throws that sepia glow hallmark of memory over the present. It all seems so much sweeter and I'm left wondering how I ever overlooked any details of my current life. Why didn't I spend more time with some people and less worrying about the opinions of others? Why didn't I visit that restaurant? When did that park get there? Why am I leaving again? And then I stop asking, for I know as soon as I decide to stay based on familiarity alone, my presently positive perspective will vanish in a wave of humidity. I know I must go. I also know, upon returning, I will appreciate all I left behind whatever the temperature or pollen count. Sometimes you just need a fresh start to see that next step. And sometimes, I suppose, you have to make that jump alone.

Best part, though? Moving alone doesn't require loneliness; for, I've found I'm only as lonely as I allow myself to be.

Texting

In the not so distant future, phone companies will begin issuing phones used exclusively for texting. Talking capabilities will become an optional feature. We've already moved that direction, really. Most phone plans offer a limited bundle of minutes but unlimited texting capabilities. Many people prefer to text rather than call. Why is that? Convenience, I think. One can get the answer he needs from one friend while in the midst of a social gathering with several others, and all without breaking the flow of conversation. One can offer criticism he'd never be able to utter in spoken conversation, get an opinion on shoes while in a library, or send a jumble of punctuation to imitate some facial expression. The possibilities seem limitless!

While I do not deny texting is a helpful tool for a short answer, an address, or quick "Hey, I was thinking about you" blurb (Who doesn't love those? I enjoy them! They're something like leaving a sticky note hello on the cubicle adjacent yours.), it has morphed into a mainstay of communication. Talk about inconvenient! A text message conversation often proves lengthier than dialing and dialoguing. Determining plans for the evening is a good example. Say you send a text to your friend--let's call her Pheobe--and say, "Hi Pheobes! Wat's up?" To which she responds, "Heya. Nada. Want 2 do something tonight?"
"Yes!!! OMG, I;m starving."
"Where u want 2 go?"
"Downtown?"
"IDK...I went lsat night..."
"Seafood?"
"Eww! Gross to the max."

And so it continues. Now, during all of this, you and Pheobe have exchanged eight texts so far, all with a gap of typing and waiting for a response. Wouldn't it have been easier to pick up your phone, call, and have a three minute conversation as opposed to ten to fifteen of typing? Or, let's say you accidentally typed something like: "Not italian. breadsticks make u fat and bloaty...they always do that to me." Only you typed this particular phrase toward the end of your message without noticing you overstepped your 160 character limit, leaving off the crucial last segment implying you meant breadsticks were a dilemma for you personally. You alone. Pheobe takes offense, as she's been overeating the past two days and feels sensitive about the effects. You meet for salads and can't determine why she made a snippy comment about your outfit or why she didn't order the ranch dressing she prefers. When you ask her why she chose the vinaigrette, all hell breaks loose. See? You should have just called her.

Now, gents, this texting business has become a chronic issue for many of you. When you ask a girl for her number, DO NOT text her immediately thereafter. Give her a day and then CALL her. Make the extra effort to show her you have time for her. A text implies you're busy doing other things, but you felt obligated to touch base. It's the chicken's way out. It's too easy. She won't appreciate it. And heaven forbid you follow an text inquiry as to the state of her day with one of those dreadful little smiley faces. C'mon men! Would you send her a letter and seal it with a yellow Wal-Mart sticker? No! You're a man! Don't type like a middle school girl. Use your words to communicate your smile; don't bastardize punctuation in a gross quest to be cutesy. Be thoughtful. Go further than society's standard. It will set you apart.

Text responsibly.

Pasta Sauce

Between a conversation with a dear friend and a trip down the pasta aisle at Kroger, I decided to attempt my own pasta sauce. What's been stopping me? Prego's ease? The fear of undercooking tomatoes? Lack of initiative? Whatever the culprit, I began rummaging through the fridge and pantry for sauce worthy ingredients. Extra steak in the freezer? Perfect! I had been wondering what to do with that. I browned it right up with some freshly-pressed garlic and extra chaste olive oil, threw in some sea salt for good measure, and foraged for veggies. Mushrooms seemed appropriate. Tomatoes, of course. Spinach was up for debate, but I couldn't resist the deep green hue. I wasn't sure what to toss in for that little kick, that something different, the yum factor. Would you know it, I discovered a nearly empty bottle of merlot slightly beyond hope of straight sipping and employed it to harness the sweetness of the tomatoes. Presto! My newest concoction sits stewing on the counter. I can't wait for dinner.

You're right, Anna. There isn't a better use for those leftover bits of meat from the week.

Length

This time two years ago, I decided to drive to a fancy salon (dear, brave friend en tow), and have my hair cropped to my ears. At that time, it fell four-plus inches below my shoulders and had remained in that general vicinity since the sixth grade. One-length, haphazard layers, and simple for years. I wanted an air of maturity, so I commissioned my stylist to make it something like Reese Witherspoon's 'do in Sweet Home Alabama. The finished cut looked nothing like the picture I brought, but it proved a cute style nonetheless. It felt so airy and sophisticated and cost less than I anticipated. I was hooked.

Over the course of the following year, I changed styles every two or three months. Stacked, a-line, choppy, razored, pixie--I tried them all. For a solid month, my hair matched my boyfriend's exactly (unintentional and hilarious and surprisingly stylish on both of us). The hair salon near my house in Demorest took me as a regular. I had a stylist, and this, right along with my shiny new college diploma, made me feel all grown up. She, Debbi, took to asking, "Hey Ali. What would you like to try this time?" She liked my adventuresome willingness and indecision. I'd let her try nearly anything she wanted, brought in new pictures, and gave her the opportunity to practice whatever she had learned at the latest beauty convention. No dyeing, though. I've never been able to venture from my original color; I like it too much.

Short hair was cute and trendy and I relished playing with styles, but I began to miss the femininity of length and flow. I missed having those last few inches brush my shoulders and upper back when I wore strapless. I missed ponytails. I missed twirling stray pieces when I felt pensive or sleepy. And so I've allowed it freedom to grow over the past year or so. Know what I've decided? I think every young lady should have the chance to feel the surge of independence in chopping her hair to that risky length. Go ahead and try it. As for me, I've had my hair-cropping adventure. It's length I like, and length I will fight to maintain.

Potato Peel Pie

The business of being a nanny has perks similar to those of a teacher. My breaks coincide with those of the child's. This means her nap time is my free time. It's as though I have a scheduled tea time in the middle of the day, the perfect chance to write or catch up on my reading.

Today's selection is a fictional collection of letters and the product of two authors, one of whom died mid-project. I find the latter scribbler's finishing the project a testimony to friendship and family. She was the original writer's niece. Most notably, she took the time to learn her aunt's style so as to preserve her work. What a blessed relation! The backstory aside, it's promising to be a glassy-smooth read. I haven't read anything so glib in awhile. It's refreshing.

The best aspect of this book so far is its tone, being a collection of letters by people with whom I'd love to form a literary society (or share in their roast pig feast). It's more like visiting with new acquaintances who are, as yet, unworn by familiarity. Do you know what I mean? They have that new friend sheen--not a scratch in the surface, both parties assuming the best of one another, all the promise of a life-long friendship ahead. So here I sit in my papasan chair, relishing the ways of the 1940s with Nat King Cole and Billie Holiday crooning in the background and a mug of piping hot Earl Gray Creme on the table to my right.

This is the real afternoon delight. Forget the ballad of the 70s. Spoken like a Bible college grad with a lit degree, right? With that attitude, I may as well buy a cat named Humphrey and start calling my glasses spectacles. I'll develop a nervous condition, give as much trouble as I like, and write terribly perplexing haikus.

You May Now Kiss The Bride

I've attended my share of weddings. Each emphasized different colors or themes or music or vows, but all shared one phrase: "You may now kiss the/your bride." Have you ever wondered about the origin of this particular famous sentence? Well, curious or not, I'll share my findings. Like many aspects of American speech (how very encyclopedia, no?), this phrase dates back to Roman rule when many contracts were sealed with a kiss. This particular kiss, however, served a dual purpose. First, it allowed the groom to see if his bride had been sampling the wine. Yes, really. Second, this kiss proved to the witnesses present the couple's faith in one another. Apparently, it was something like a romantic twist on a business handshake. I find this fascinating.

The best part of looking into this matter proved to be the great offense some take to the gender specific role of kiss initiation. It seems many women are offended by the notion their new husband is the one called upon to make the first move in this public display of affection. There are blog-style forums about it. I'm afraid many of the arguments lost their potency in a slough of ridiculous sentences. "Where did all these traditional lines come from anyway... did someone make them up a hundred years ago or something?" Insightful. Better yet: "...we wait to hear 'I now prononuce you man and wife (hysterically sexist!)' and 'you may kiss the bride'. I think that the origins are insulting but anymore it's so second nature that it's silly and almost sentimentally sweet!!" Ah, yes. Nothing like sticking to your principles in all matters save those which leave you feeling warm and Snuggie-fuzzy. Oh, we're a non-committal bunch, aren't we?

Personally, I like the idea of a strapping young man sweeping me off my feet in front of a room-full. I no more want to do the sweeping than I want to buy the ring.

Carpet

A thought a occurred to me as I sat on the carpeted floor of my room. Perhaps it had something to do with my perspective having shifted closer to the ground or my overactive morning brain, but a floor covered in un-washable fibers suddenly seemed gross. Really gross. Sure, I could vacuum. I could take extra precaution to avoid wearing shoes inside. I could spray Febreeze. But all of these options do not alter the spills or the toddler residue.

Then again, I've grown up with the stuff. Carpeting makes a more comfortable bedroom than does hard flooring. Really, it's a similar to that favorite pair of jeans you may not wash with appropriate regularity. Comfort trumps style in a bedroom, right? My feet are happy. And who doesn't want happy feet?

Vegan

This week, I considered writing an article on eating vegan style. I considered vegans today as I ate my Greek yogurt (with Nutella and blueberries), and the more I considered the sadder I became. Were I living such a lifestyle, Greek yogurt would prove taboo. I checked the Nutella label only to find it contains skim milk. No Nutella, either, then. Were I a vegan today, I would have eaten only blueberries for a snack. So I attempted a vegan lunch of lentil vegetable soup. It lacked something. I rectified the situation with a neat little plate of turkey and cheese saltines. Nothing vegan about it.

But then I probed further. My morning toast, tuna fish or turkey sandwiches, pita bread, eggs, sharp cheddar cheese, pizza, chicken noodle soup--all of these would fall into the taboo category. How devastating! What would steel cut oatmeal be without the creamy factor provided by the milk? No cappuccinos? No more fish tacos? Goodbye Mellow Mushroom? Well, bump that. New article topic. I love my dairy, fish, and meat more than I realized.

That whole grass is greener mentality is innate. I'm certain of it. A few mornings a week, I watch the neighbor's little girl in addition to Miss Bug (anonymity is key in online writing). Now they're both able to run all about the house and communicate pretty effectively, they entertain one another. Scratch that. They entertain me.

One of my favorite scenarios I get to witness every visit is the trading of the sippy cups. You may not be aware of this, but spill-proof cups, much like all products available at Target, come in an array of models. One child has a traditional sippy cup, the sort with two handles and a lid that requires the user to tip it back for a drink, and the other has a straw of the bite-down-and-then-sip type, like a CamelPack. Each girl proficiently uses her own cup, but, when taking a milk break together, neither is content to drink her own milk. They trade. Every time. Funny part? Neither girl can use the other's cup. So there they sit, frustrated to the point of fussiness, unable to drink, and refusing to take back their original cups. It's a phenomenon they will undoubtedly repeat with ill-fitting but cute shoes belonging to their roommates. An oddity I've come to realize as a fact. It's just plain female.

Naps

As a general guideline, Americans work demanding schedules. We have a lot of things to support, right? Hence the basis for the standardization of caffeine addiction. The busier the city, the more Starbucks you will find. New York City, for instance, has one on nearly ever block. Apparently, we need consistent afternoon jolts. Why don't we just take naps every day after lunch? Spain and Latin American countries do it. Their culture predates ours pretty significantly. So do the nap-time practices of Albania, Bangladesh, Bosnia and Herzegovina, China, Croatia, Cyprus, Greece, India, Iran, Italy (southern), Macedonia, Malta, Montenegro, North Africa, Pakistan, the Philippines, Serbia, Slovenia, Taiwan and Vietnam. Perhaps there's a lesson here.

Too bad sleep is deemed such a waste of time in our society. It's downright unhealthy.

I sip Earl Grey tea as I type this. Such the product of my surroundings!

Second Chances

Watched 17 Again earlier today. It's one of those feel good with a side of popcorn kind of films (Who am I kidding? Any movie merits popcorn). Perhaps it isn't box office gold, but I like it. I like most movies that involve second chances at life, the kind that throw the protagonist in the midst of what his life could have been or has become to refresh his perspective. Re-start films.

Why are these so darn popular? Why do they always rewind to high school or college? This time line should scare the younger of us. It means we're making the decisions right now that impact the rest of our lives. And we don't get a do-over. We're defining who we will become through our actions today. Sure, we can realize mistakes down the line and pinpoint where we made them, but no one hands us a fresh slate. We have to admit our wrongs and pick up the pieces from wherever reality hits us.

So why not train to be who we dream we will become now? Because it will take training; it will not simply happen on our twenty-eighth or thirty-fifth or whichever-is-the-magic-number birthdays. Now is the time to learn the balance between wise decisions and risks, realities and dreams. That faith you hope you have when you're all grown up? Pursue it now. That book you want to write? The fitness level you highlighted in Self or Men's Health? That move you wish you made? Pursue them now. Second chances are a rarity and, sometimes, simply the stuff of screenplays. Don't expect them. Live today as the person you hope to be ten years from now. Ask for encouragement when you need it.

Asheville

Asheville and I click. If I held a more mystical perspective, I'd say my being born there left an imprint on me, but that sounds superstitious. I tend to hold to the theory I simply love its atmosphere. It's a blend of everything, a cross-section of culture uncommon in the South--something akin to Little Five Points and Boulder simmered with San Francisco and reduced by half. Naturally, this yields a peculiar taste which isn't for everyone (my granddad says its full of neo-hippies). I happen to adore it.

My perfect weekend here would loosely follow this plan: I'd arrive around lunchtime Friday and drop by Earth Fare for their cafe offerings (paninis, rotissere chicken salad, cookies that somehow maintain firm "skin" and meltingly soft centers) and next-day snacks, beeline to the hotel, get settled, and throw on my Keens for a stroll through town. I'd wander in and out of shops, talking to the proprietors if they're up for a conversation. They often have the best stories regarding their wares. One local owner told me he researched his store's clothing ten years before deciding what to stock. His t-shirts boast intelligent, creative screen print. No cheap squirrel guarding a pile of acorns. Of course I'd run into the Chocolate Fetish for an ancient pleasures truffle (Homer meant this when he spoke of ambrosia--cayenne pepper dark chocolate ganache inside a spiced chocolate shell and dusted with cocoa) and The Spice and Tea exchange. They offer four varieties of mustard, a hearty English Breakfast, and my dad's new favorite, the smoky lapsong suchong. Late afternoon calls for a cafe stop. World Coffee offers an excellent homemade pastries, sandwiches, and loose-leaf tea selection, while Double Decker Coffee Co is situated on the corner of Biltmore and Aston and housed in a refurbished double decker bus. The barista told me, as she made me a cappuccino, the bus once held party-ers in 1970s Atlanta before someone pulled it from retirement to play host to caffeine lovers. Coffee and tea shops dot the street corners. One day I'll try them all and remember more of their names. After a day of strolling, I'd happily end up at Chai Pai Indian Street food, the most flavor packed seven bucks you've ever spent. Try more than one thing, of course. That's the point of street food. Purchase their cream, cooling raita as a dip for the naan. You'll need both to cool the aftermath of samosas or tandoori chicken. Go for the tandoori fish wrap; the tilapia-spice combination they use yields a fish so tender you'll believe the wrap is the only thing maintaining its composure.

Saturday ought to begin with the Early Girl Eatery, one of my favorite breakfast places. They offer everything from scrupulously healthy to bacon and biscuits, and I haven't sampled a thing I didn't enjoy. Their granola and yogurt induces impromptu humming. Off to the Biltmore Estate next! I've toured the house several times, so I'd most likely stick to the grounds. And the winery. Remember that Earth Fare trip from the day before? Time for a picnic amongst America's most beautiful yard. By yard I mean an 8,000 acre estate composed of forest, delicately structured gardens, and terraced mountain views. Sit to the side of the monstrous house and watch the other tourists comment on the size of the place. Remember, after soaking in the Vanderbilt's creativity, Asheville's replete with creative expression--take advantage! The rest of my Saturday would be spent haunting art exhibits, local theaters, and few more cafes to sit and journal my impressions of it all. Wander.

Sunday? I'd start with Brugger's Bagels for their quick pace, rich coffee, and, of course, chewy New York style bagels. They don't find me peculiar when asking to sub peanut butter for cream cheese. They're used to health nuts more hardcore than I'd ever like to be. I'd proceed to whichever church caught my interest (I have yet to try one), then have lunch wherever looked appealing in my travels on Friday, probably one of the cafes or Green Source for a quick bite. The rest of the afternoon? I'd spend it on foot. Asheville's nestled amongst some of the best hiking in the Southeast. Chimney Rock, blazing your own trail, or tours of the parks. Hike, climb trees, hike, and jump from rock to rock in one of the creeks until I couldn't take anymore. Off to the hotel for a warm shower next, then I'd venture to Amici Trattoria for a long, quiet, slightly expensive dinner. Bill paid and tirmasu gone to a happy place, I'd jump in the car with my iPod set to shuffle, crusing home in time to read a chapter before bed.

Doesn't that sound idyllic? I couldn't fit it all in this weekend. Sometime soon, sometime soon.

Sweet Tea

Perhaps it's growing up as a traditional Southern girl, but I'm accustomed to manners overkill. While etiquette is important and warrants preservation, Southern ladies jump to the extreme. The Stepford effect. I've seen it in myself several times in my role as hostess--uncomfortable niceness. In some houses it's broaching the border of eerie, like overly sweet tea. And heaven forbid we say anything overtly negative! Better to adopt a pleasant tone, spread a buttery smile over your face, and fake it than address the situation as it truly is. Watch Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes. You'll see.

No, utter honesty in the heat of emotion isn't a good goal, either. Some sort of balance is worth the practice, I think.

Two Stories

Cute, original coffee houses are a tricky find. Cute, original, and memorably delicious coffee houses are even more elusive. Finding original decor and excellent espresso in an actual house--that's something worth further investigation. Yesterday, I visited one with all three. Two Stories sits just inside Athens, a city replete with funky restaurants and respectable caffeine-based establishments. Despite its competition, this house keeps from falling anonymously into the mix. I love finds like this! They often make my whole day seem brighter.

My favorite aspect of this place--besides, of course, the beverage offerings--is the layout. It retains the feel of house with separate rooms, and a pleasant ratio of comfy seating to tables. No one seemed to feel the need to rush the one sofa or hover awkwardly till the cellphone guy finishes a business deal over the two corner chairs he occupies with himself and accessories. Here, there are plenty of seating areas for all both inside and on the porches. Yes, porches. Duo. The Georgia girl part of me thrills at front porches. Each room had a different feel, but none of them were distractingly artsy. You know what I mean--the place in which paint colors and furniture and experimental music practically scream for recognition. Not so here. Neutral tones, the occosional wisp of a painted tree branch, French doors, and a smattering of music rendered a comfortable blend, as if to say, "Yeah, we know how to recognize art. We like it. But you don't have to notice. How do you like that latte?"

I ordered a cappuccino, my staple for taste-testing new coffee places. The barista took time to tease out a leaf pattern in the smooth foam cap, which, refreshingly, looked like foam rather than windswept froth. The espresso pulled smooth, not biting, he placed the white cup on a black saucer to offer contrast. I meant to take a picture, but I lost myself in Bill Bryson's travel anecdotes too quickly.

I'll bet they offer great tea and scones. A return trip with a longer stay is in order.

Well, are you?

Have you noticed the ever-present trend in girls' shirts and facebook statuses? A strong, steady number reiterate some variation of the sentiments "I deserve it" or "I'm worth it," as though they just viewed a make-up ad or ate Dove chocolate? It's a marketing ploy and, younger ladies in particular, we seem to have bought it. Gobbled it up. American women--I can't speak for other cultures--tote an enormous expectation for the world to deliver perfection while we simply exist. Perhaps you work hard and you're reaping the benefits of that. Fantastic. Keep it up. However, it's often best to balance the message of "I deserve it" with the question, "Based on what?"

Specifically, these claims to entitlement include some reference to Prince Charming or Mr. Darcy. Perhaps it's the Disney effect or something in the water, but I'm more inclined to believe it's a manifestation of an eternal mantra claiming we deserve the best for being who we are, no questions asked. Have you ever noticed, though, in a film or a novel, the girl who ends up with fantastic guy is no slouch herself? (And I'm not talking Twilight--Bella and Edward are both unstable. We'll leave it there...) She is ok on her own. Sure, she dreams of someone to share a life with her, but she has taken time to cultivate a heart worth capturing. She's selfless. She's sympathetic. She's strong, either quietly or outright. She disciplines her mind to understand her surrounding world. She has something worth discussing for each conversation. She's open to new ideas and methods and is willing to test them. She's doesn't make a spectacle of herself. Do you see where I'm headed? Ladies, we cannot expect a man of Darcy's character and intelligence to sweep us off our feet if we haven't disciplined our minds and hearts to reflect something worth pursuing. He will not want a needy, lazy, or vapid woman by his side. Work on yourself first. Continually educate, improve, work. Don't stagnate. Be confident.

By all means do not try to be something you're not--be yourself. But do not expect a perfect man if you have no initiative to improve or ability to stand firmly without him. Keep practicing after you're in your ideal situation. Remember, even the seemingly perfect man is just as human as you. You will disappoint each other. If you've made him your world, what will you fall back on when he falters? It may work in the context of woman to chocolate, but constant, unrelenting love and acceptance is not a one-way right for being yourself human to human. We have to work at it. Don't assume.

So ask yourself, in this context, are you worth it? I'll keep asking myself the same.



**Please remember I'm in no way saying I'm a role model at this or that you're worthless or any other like extreme.

***There's only one relationship from which you can expect unconditional love and peace from simply resting in that love. And it's not with a person living anywhere on earth.

Running At Night

Every so often I have trouble getting to sleep. Running solves that issue. Aside from raising endorphins (which, according to Elle Woods, make you happy), it clears the mind. De-clutters it. Usually a morning runner, I've enjoyed the novelty of running late the past couple nights. Tonight, I noticed the differences. I have more energy as I'm full of a day's worth of food and start my pace fully awake. Apparently, more people run around nine p.m. as opposed to 5:15 a.m. and more cars zip in and out of garages. Where everyone seems to be going or coming from late-ish on a Tuesday I haven't a clue. My favorite aspect of nighttime running, however, is the toads. They venture out to the sidewalks for the evening cool or a bath in front yard sprinklers. Tonight I counted six. The night before I found ten. They appear in all shapes, sizes, and energy levels. None sit anywhere near the others, so passing each one feels something like a checkpoint. I imagine them holding little checkered flags, encouraging me to keep run faster. Try as I might, I can't imagine a smile on their dour faces. They are serious little buggers. Perhaps it has something to do with the impenetrable blanket of moisture in the summer air.

You know what I did with my excess energy in tonight's run? I turned up the hip-hop section of my iPod and threw in some dance moves as I neared the house. I looked ridiculous. People saw me, too. I didn't care in the least; I had fun.