Penoptic

Monday morning I made the drive from Silver Spring, Md. to Arlington, Va. to stay with my brother and sister for a few days. GPS and natives' advice recommended staying away from the city of Washington, DC, but that seemed rather annoying. After all, anybody who's ever been on the Beltway knows that it just ... absolutely stinks. And the district is just so pretty in the rain. I lived in two places when I lived in the district. The first was a townhouse in Capitol Hill that I shared with about nine other people, and the second was a studio apartment on 16th Street near Howard University and Malcolm X Park. At the time it was right on the edge of a seedy part of town, but gentrification has made it a lot, well, brighter if not safer, and that apartment building happens to be a straight shot from Silver Spring. So I took the scenic route to Virginia. And while I was driving, I meandered even more. I drove on Constitution Avenue past the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument...

For almost two weeks now, I've been making my way south from New Jersey with the ultimate goal of going to California. The purpose for this trip is to move in with my parents, since I lost my job and haven't been able to find a new one. I'll be in Atlanta by this time next week after visiting with a few more friends, and then I'll join up with my dad for the trip west. Moving in with my parents just in time for my 31st birthday isn't exactly what I would have liked, but this road trip with my dad has its appeal, and I've been spending time with friends that have been dear to me for years. Which is why it's difficult to remember the ultimate priority behind this trip: To find a job. It's not that I don't want a job, because I do. I've found some great postings and I'm very excited about them. But it is challenging to balance interviews with traveling and visiting. "Hey there pal, thanks for letting me stay with you in the middle of yo...

I know this sounds like there's an 8-year-old girl stuck inside my body controlling my every move, but I can't help it: I love ponies. I was one of those kids who begged my parents to get a horsey when I was growing up (despite the fact that we could walk the periphery of our backyard in less than 30 seconds, and that at Californian walking speeds.) When I went away to summer camp in the mountains, my favorite feature was the horse rides. We rode Western saddles and took rides up the trails to the mountaintops. It was magical. I went back to that camp throughout my childhood and into my adolescence. By the time I stopped going, I considered myself a fairly accomplished rider--not by professional standards, you understand, just by the standards of almost-everyone-else-I-know-has-never-been-on-a-horse-and-I-have-never-fallen-or-had-a-problem. Hey, it was mine. By the time I finished high school, my parents started taking us on vacations where trail riding on horseback was...

Well, not me so much as Leila. But one thing at a time. I must admit that I am pretty useless in the kitchen. I know how to make about five things, three of which are chicken. Luckily, however, I have some friends who are absolutely brilliant in the kitchen. Sometimes, when the things they make are very simple and require no more than about three steps, I can remember long enough to try them myself. But most of the time I just sit back, relax, put on some music, serve up some sparkling conversation and wait for dinner. Which was pretty much my role at Leila's on Monday, and at Katie's tonight. Leila made manicotti using a homemade marinara sauce and ricotta that she seasoned herself, and oh man, was it amazing. Katie made an old favorite from the months I lived with her, a simple biscuits and gravy, but with the kind of homemade lovin' that only meals from a personal kitchen can have. Tuesday morning before I came to Baltimore, Leila woke up early (don't ask me ...

After I got to Leila's home in northern Maryland Monday (yeah, I'm a couple days behind--I'll try to catch up), I was forced to confront the most difficult physical manifestation of this cross-country move I'm doing. That's right: The sheer amount of stuff. I've never been one of those people who could pack light or get rid of things. I'm not a hoarder--I'll get rid of newspapers, (most) old magazines, clothes that don't fit. There are no jars in my apartment of my nail clippings or errant hairs. But when it comes to things like books, pictures, even kitschy old gifts, I just can't bring myself to divest myself. I keep thinking things like, So-and-so gave me that, it means something to me since so-and-so is now living thirty gazillion miles away. I also blame my mother in part for this, too. She used to get fed up with the state of my room (she called it "messy," I called it "organized chaos"--you know, the kind where noth...

After bidding goodbye to K&J at the totally reasonable hour of 6:30 a.m. Monday (I mean, honestly, probably the only good thing about being unemployed is being able to sleep in--something I really don't think anyone can appreciate until after you've gotten up at 4:30 a.m. every weekday for months for a 90-minute commute each way, and especially during one of the worst New York winters on record), I packed up (and forgot a pair of pajama pants) and got on the road. But first, a pit stop--at the old alma mater. Bryn Mawr was my home for four beautiful years, and has never left my heart. I went around the campus, cataloguing the things that have changed (my old dorm has been gutted and renovated; there are hammocks outside the library) and the things that have stayed the same (my mail box still has the same stickers I put on it 13 years ago! Result!) Most of my coworkers from Canaday Library were sick and not in the office, but one, Beth, was around and generously off...