Why I love Black Friday (mistakenly?)

One time, I headed out to the King of Prussia Mall at 4:00 in the morning on Black Friday.  Why?  First off, I was nineteen and a total, naive idiot.  Also, Victoria's Secret had advertised a free goodie bag to the first 100 customers.  Like, a real bag, filled with lip glosses and moisturizers and who knows what else?  It was a secret.  Turns out that Victoria's secret was some travel sized hand lotion and a zillionth of an ounce of perfume.  The bag was cheaply made and had Heidi Klum's face on it...not really inconspicuous, which is sort of my style.  However!  To be considered one of the first 100 customers, I did purchase a sweet pair of striped flannel pajamas that I still wear to this day.

While the bag has now fallen apart, the free gifts scraped clean from their plastic prisons, and the pajamas washed and dried so many times that they are several inches too short for me, the memories remain.  Yes, I had great joy going shopping that morning at the butt crack of dawn.  By myself.  Fighting hordes of people who actually had a "gotta get this" list.  Finding parking at K.O.P. and hiking it in the cold a.m. to find out exactly which entrances we could be herded into and at what time.

No - what really sticks out to me from that day is that I would be damned before I ever did it again.

But what can one do?  Time and tide wait for no man, and I can't magic the world from Thursday to Saturday.  So this year, I attack this darkest of days from the opposite side of what feels like battle lines that have been drawn.  This year, I work in retail.  It's not the first time...I've worked at the thrift store before on Black Friday, but at the kid's store.  It wasn't terribly crazy.  I also worked at Nordstrom for Black Friday and that was effing nuts.  A few espressos and thirteen hours of commissioned pay later, I was really feeling the Christmas spirit.

And now, I'm girding my loins for Black Friday at the thrift store flagship.  I hope it's going to be wild.  I dreamt all day today of moving furniture out the door all day.  I fantasized about a totally empty store come Monday (when I would get a break from selling people stuff long enough to  hop online and take advantage of Cyber Monday).  I've psyched myself up for a long day of yelling, getting yelled at, and having a blast as customers dissect my store searching for what we have that was exactly what they wanted.

I...am tired.  And I've made myself a little sick throughout the years of this mad dash toward Christmas.  Twenty four, and I find myself jaded about the holiday season.  It's usually easy for me to slip into a cutting, sanctimonious view of the commercial Christmas.  First, because it runs in my family - we love a good Jesus-centric holiday.  Second, because I'm enough of a hipster to revile those overstimulated, holiday lemmings that jump off the cliff of sane behavior into the abyss of material Christmastime.  But this is different.  This year, I scoff not, if only because I am an exhausted little cog in this machine and too tired to muster even a passing snigger for consumers.

Here is a New Year's resolution a little early.  It's not really relevant past Christmas, but...whatever.  Anyway, here it is:  I'm not picking a side anymore.  I'm not going to adopt a consumer attitude or a sales attitude at Christmas.  Both of them make me want to pass out at the end of the day.  I'm going to buy stuff when I need to buy stuff.  I'm going to sell stuff to people who want to buy stuff.  But there's no sense in thirteen hour days.  There's no respite in focusing on numbers and countdowns and percentages.  And there's absolutely no comfort in spending time and money by myself.

You know what I need?  A vacation.  Mmmm....yes, maybe to some tropical paradise.  I'd even settle for a city in some chilly mountains and then a 16 hour bus ride to another city, this time next to a canal.  Oh wait!  I'm doing that!  That's right, ladies and gentleman, I am going on vacation and skipping ONE WHOLE WEEK of the lead up to Christmas.  I'll be in Costa Rica and then traveling with awesome friends to Panama City to run in a relay team for the Panama City Marathon.  I will return on December 6th, hopefully with some cool stories, a calmer attitude toward the holidays, and if I'm lucky...a little sunburn.

I think this poses a complete double standard

I'm trying to work through my thoughts when it comes to "women's issues" in this election season.  This is what I think, it's totally up for discussion and I may very well change my opinion in the next hour.

We arrive at a cusp.  Is America a nation in which women have control of their own reproductive systems or is it not?  What it comes down to is that the female reproductive anatomy is solely under the jurisdiction of each individual female.  I mean, I'm allowed to say, "No," right?  That's a rhetorical question - of COURSE I'm allowed to say no.  If I say no and a man acts contrary to my express desire NOT to share my anatomy (it's a much less icky way of saying "have sex"), it's rape.   And rape?  Never okay and very illegal.

If I'm supposed to say, "No" with any sort of authority, then it stands to reason that I also have a right to say, "Yes" with the same authority.  Yes to contraceptives, yes to HPV vaccines, yes to abortion, etc.  If what I have belongs only to me - not just in the abstract, ephemeral sense through which I also own an iPod, but truly a part of my physical being - then the power to say yes or no are inextricably wound together.

I understand that to clear this all up, we have to vote on it.  Let's vote on it in a way that will forever remove it from public debate - mostly because I don't want my body to be up for grabs by the American electorate ever again.  Pro Life and Pro Choice are both moral positions that people should adopt extra-politically.  The health and care of my body should be something for which the government provides protection, but always as I exercise my own good personal judgment.

All this to say - half a right is a hollow right.

All of the names have been changed.

“My name is Molly Reichert, R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T,” she told us, and the nurse. You could get drunk from just being near her uneven breathing, that's what the nurse told me once she was out of the room. But I was too young and too naive to recognize that, despite semi-debaucherous teen years. Throughout my Senior year of high school and the following summer, mine was the disobedience of sneaking small amounts of alcohol out of my dad's liquor shelf. Half-filling water bottles with gin and vodka so that my thievery might go unnoticed were I to run into my father as I passed through the kitchen, I would run from where he kept the bottles in the basement to my bedroom closet.  I would nervously store my nabbed goods until there was a bonfire at a friend's house or a road trip to the beach.

I thought I was very rebellious. It turned out boys had a respect for girls who could drink hard liquor, or at least found us more interesting. I fancied myself dangerous, the delinquent you'd never expect, the one who could get away with it for that very reason. It seemed like Molly had never gotten away with anything, no matter how far or hard she ran.

She's originally from Wyoming. Came to New York City for God knows why. I'm still not sure why we were designed to meet, but I know that it changed me and that I've always been curious if it changed her, too, no matter how insignificantly. This is how it was.

The Spring of my Junior year in college, I decided to join a mission team to New York City. There were several teams of people sacrificing their Spring Break to do good works in various locations on the East Coast. It seemed to me to be an okay way to meet people, albeit a slightly awkward one. Step one: go to a large meeting. Step two: get assigned to a small group of people with whom you have avoided eye contact for three years. Step three: share a small van, a small dorm area, one week, and intense group dynamics with these people. My group was five freshmen and two or three upperclassmen, including myself. We took advantage of the planned get-to-know-you pre-trip meetings and bonded accordingly. Even more so on the trip up to the city in a fifteen passenger van that (eep!) our eighteen year-old team leader drove. And the final bonding stage occurred when we got to our host organization and shared the living space and mealtimes with what we considered to be evangelical fundamentalist crackpots from another college. In reality, I'm sure they were very nice people. To us, they were the antithesis of our liberal Christian college mentality and as a group we found endless ways to ridicule their close minded attitudes regarding philosophy, science, and society.

My teammates and I spent our days going to various non-profits in the city and volunteering. Cleaning, cooking, serving food, experiencing, learning, opening up to each other and the people we worked with. In the afternoons we went to the projects and volunteered with kids in an after-school program that was grim - except for the kids themselves. Contrary to my expectations, I liked the kids. They came from a lot of different ethnic backgrounds and at their age, they were unconscious conduits of culture to their peers. And to me as well.  I loved being among the children, I think because it was so wholly different than my suburban elementary education. So many different cultures in one place, in the middle of the city that's at the center of the whole world...it was overwhelming and awesome and so evident in these kids. I missed the last afternoon, though, and I hope they didn't think it was because I suddenly didn't want to be there. I had just suddenly met Molly.

On this last morning, we were at the last soup kitchen and it ended up having the most interesting people behind the serving line. The theory was to have people seated and to serve them on trays, attempting more restaurant-style than poverty-style. I got behind it wholeheartedly, it suited my holistic notions of feeding a person emotionally, not just physically. It was a crazy few hours with a few rotations of guests and I had a lot of fun shouting and being shouted at, moving fast and for goodness' sake, no one gets extra crackers for their soup! When it was all over, we took photos with the staff, everyone wearing hairnets and staticky, white plastic aprons. We wiped down tables, flipped them, knocked in their legs and then stacked chairs, too. At the end of it all, as we were preparing to leave, there was a small knot of people off to one side, guests and staff, around a girl.

How old was she? I ask myself that now. I think I've perhaps reached her age. She couldn't have been more than her late twenties, I think, but could you really tell once drugs had leeched the love of her own self from her skin? She was hunched over, sitting cross legged on the floor and the people standing above her offering her words of encouragement, pats on the back, and nervous glances at one another. A few members of my team and I walked over with some trepidation. It seemed like she was not in a good place. She kept saying, “They took my baby. He took my baby.” She started crying, sobbing, and the words became a wail. “He took my babyyyyy! What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?”

This was beyond a group of college kids. She was in an altered state, to put it delicately. We, too, looked at each other nervously. It was time to get going. To my lasting shame, I did not decide to reach out to Molly in that moment of our departure. It was a freshmen, Liz, who approached her and knelt to hug her. She pulled away, patted her back, and looked at me helplessly. So I did what felt natural, a way to end the scene and show solidarity not with Molly, but with Liz and her brave compassion. I went and hugged Molly, too, murmuring, “It'll be okay.”

It wasn't true. It wasn't going to be okay. I couldn't promise that. I was thus totally startled when Molly responded and wrapped her arms around me. She started crying harder and clung to me like she had been drowning and someone had thrown her a lifeline, me. So I did what was natural, again, and held her tighter. Molly has long, big wavy blondish-brown hair and it smelled terrible, but I buried my face in it and stroked her hair and tried to say comforting things. I tried not to cry, but failed. Her distress in that moment became my own and the melding of spirit was total.

I was confused and scared, I didn't know what to do to make things right for Molly. We were at a church and she wanted to smoke, so we went outside and I sat with her while she smoked. Eventually, Liz and our team leader came outside. A decision had to be made about who was going where this afternoon. Liz said she wanted to stay with Molly and I said I did, too. Our team leader said he would stay with us since the others knew how to navigate to the after school program in the projects by themselves. Molly wanted to use the phone, so we got her some change for a payphone. Molly needed clean clothes, so we got her some from the church's clothing donation bins and Liz and I helped her change in a bathroom. Molly said she wanted to meet with the pastor, so we met with the pastor and we prayed over her. She was shaking. Withdrawal or the Holy Spirit or both or neither. She said she wanted to be clean, to be sober, to get her baby back. The three of us kids and Molly and the Pastor got in a van and he dropped us off at the nearest hospital.

“My name is Molly Reichert, R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T.” The four of us had been hours in the emergency room, waiting for a bed for Molly. The nurse was not one to bet money on starry-eyed college dreamers who were going to fix the world, starting with our friend, here. Molly would stray outside for a smoke until our team leader hid her cigarettes. She would get distraught, paranoid, angry, teary, heart-wrenchingly sad, and sorry. Once she was in a hospital gown and had an IV drip, she quieted down and even slept some. She woke up and demanded food, so we got her a sandwich. She slept some more. Five hours after I met Molly, I was talking with a security guard at the hospital. “She's here now,” he said, “and as long as she's checked in here, she's not getting out past me.” It had ended for us, then. Weary, we got on the subway back to our host organization in the Bronx. The guard had given us an out, and we took it.

I haven't been out, though. “...Molly Reichert, R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T.” In the last four years I've Googled her name a few times, comma, Wyoming. She shows up back in Wyoming local newspapers, in and out of county jails. I don't know how she got back there, but I can't help but feel relieved. The vibrancy and resiliency of the children in the after-school program is juxtaposed with a maelstrom of urban poverty and cycles that don't break. Maybe Wyoming isn't a good place to be for Molly, but I know there was something absolutely dark in the city that was swallowing her whole.

Molly was the first woman in trouble that I met randomly. Since then, I met Aliyah in the airport and Katherine through work. All three have a common “him”, a shadowy man who has caused serious damage. And all three seem paralyzed, unable or unwilling to make a move to help themselves.  As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I've met women in developing nations who are second class citizens and somehow, when people say, “It's cultural,” it almost becomes okay. There's a numbing effect in numbers. When millions of women are treated as little more than vacuums for abuse and wombs to fill with children, when men assert that might is right, when women accept that they do not belong unto themselves, it is a mistaken opinion that this is acceptable - regardless of how commonplace these sentiments may be.

Similarly, and to no less detriment, there are women in the developed world who are drawn into these unhealthy standards of existence. It is subsidized by a modern culture that yet has deep roots in class distinctions between men and women. While it may not reach the overt, epidemic proportions of the developing world, the answer to this problem remains the same: It is imperative that women be educated to take ownership of themselves. It is a necessity that we create a world that allows this education to have a practical expression. That is my fervent desire for Molly, that, “He took my baby,” will one day become, “I have a family that cherishes me and whom I cherish.” That Aliyah's bruises, the ones deeper than her skin, will heal when she says, “That's not love.” That Katherine will experience self-nurturing, a certainty of her own completeness that renders a discerning choice of a worthy life partner.

I have no idea how to do it. But I'll spend a lifetime trying to.

Ok, let's talk about Nervous Nikki and the Chill Pills. I think Nicole will kill me once she sees that I'm calling attention to this thing we've got going on, so...these may be my last words.

Sometimes I think that I'm not a very interesting person. When I think about it objectively, I know that's not true. I've been a lot of places, have a lot to share. But you know...when the highlight of my week is finishing a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle and going to my Zumba class (in the same night! It was awesome!), I start to feel like my hobbies are a little lackluster. But then, I'll get a call or a text from Nicole. “When are you free this week?” I'm weary and droopy-eyed by the time I make it to her house to play, and I usually leave around 9:00 so that I can finish up chores in the apartment before bedtime. But for the hour and a half that Nicole, Kylie, Dylan, and I are in the back room of the addition on Nicole's house, I feel like I'm in a cocoon. I'm sitting uncomfortably close to people who know me uncomfortably well...which is, you know, oddly comforting. And while it's sometimes awkward to accommodate the different styles and energies and moods and thought processes of four distinct personalities, I think it's what makes it ultimately so much fun. It's the same cohesive hodge-podge that's evident in the music when you hear it.

The music is fun to play, creative, lyrical. And however much I like the music, I love hanging out with the people I play it with. Long live the band that makes my week (and months and years) anything but lackluster.

Real optimistic, y'all :)

Earlier tonight I was perusing a copy of Time that my mom gave to me after she was finished reading it. I was originally most interested in the cover article when I opened up the magazine, but ended up skimming it. I skimmed a lot of the magazine, except for the piece about the covert filming of the Romney dinner party (I think that video is the most shocking, unforgiving and explosive indictment of Mitt Romney in this election. It's fascinating). But the page that I stared at the longest, spent the most time mulling over and processing, was an advertisement for the Peace Corps. All Peace Corps ads I've seen are brilliantly concise, never spending much effort trying to convince or to sell. They simply are, and they express something about Peace Corps service that is above words. So it's no surprise that this ad struck such a chord with me, turning on a light over desires and hopes, regrets and memories that I usually relegate to the darkness.

“For dreamers who do.”

As I was sitting comfortably in my apartment, I started to feel a little of that hopelessness which seems to be engendered by my contemporary 20-somethings: What am I doing? What am I doing here, with my life, with him/her, at this job, tonight, next week, etc. And maybe the most anxiety-inducing, Why am I doing this? The ad's efficient invitation to dream, to do, it gave me pause because I haven't effectively processed these questions since I came home. Two years ago during the application process, I asked myself over and over, “Why am I doing Peace Corps?” The answer was always because I was capable and I could help people. But after a huge turning point in my adult life (quitting Peace Corps), I didn't reassess and I didn't form new dreams. Returning home and working has at times felt like a blind, zombie-like romp through the beginning of my real adulthood. I never stopped to ask myself, Why?

I've questioned my commitment to the thrift store occasionally, and you know what? That's good. It's always good to strengthen commitments, to entertain doubts and then smash them with the convictions borne of experience. Working at the thrift store is enticing in that it's a non-profit that seeks sustainability in my community, both socially and environmentally. Incidentally, that's my go-to rhetoric when I feel drained by this not very exciting life of working nine to five. Which, as per my previous comments about feeling like a zombie, is perhaps more often than I'd like.

This ad made me aware of two things. The first, I can't join Peace Corps again. No matter how much I've learned about myself since coming home, no matter how much I think I could do it if I had the perspective I have now, I can't re-join. Which gave birth to this second, belligerent idea: My dreams don't have to be at all different than they were. Living in the suburbs of Philly doesn't mean that I have to alter my desires to be as banal as the housing developments that surround me. And here we go with the punchy, idealistic optismism that y'all love about me - Dammit, I will help people! I will be an effective leader and inspire people! I will use my life experiences to walk with people and be a friend and a mentor. I will change and be changed for the better...

...in Collegeville. Tonight I feel like I've had this revelation that just because the thrift store isn't new doesn't mean it can't be my new dream. Wait, did that sentence have some confusing negatives in it? Yes, so let me re-phrase. The dreams that I've had for myself since graduating college are not exclusive to far-off places and new, exciting adventures. That was the original framework in which I imagined them, but that framework has evolved. And while I usually feel pretty good about working at the thrift store, tonight (and tomorrow, but probably only after my coffee) I feel awesome because I know that I'm already in a place that is perfect to realize my dreams. If anything, I feel like such a dummy that I've been waiting for the next new thing to present itself. Since January, I've been telling myself that I only have to put in a few years at the thrift store, stockpiling personal stability (read: cash) before moving on to the totally awesome, wonderful, life-changing opportunity. But it's not the experience that's the dream, it's the dreamer that brings the vision and then does that's so great.

All of that to say that tomorrow is my new opportunity for dreaming and doing. I was a dreamer, and I was invited to “do”. The dreaming doesn't stop because I left Peace Corps. And tomorrow the “do” has a lot more conviction behind it. I'm so excited for my Peace Corps friends who are still working in their sites and I just want to give them great big hugs or something for continuing to dream when they are confronted with harsh realities and unfavorable working conditions. To anyone, not just volunteers, who feels like they've been blockaded or frustrated in their efforts to bring a dream to fruition. I know I'm entering the realm of rambling, now, but I think about this quote from Star Wars (which is possibly not motivating if you interpret it from a fatalistic point of view). Yoda says, “Do or do not, there is no try.” Like the Peace Corps ad, Yoda's not wasting words trying to convince you that you can, if you try hard enough. Do or do not. But you know what? Do.

A Bottle of Wine and Some Politics

We have a presidential election coming up soon. That's a no-brainer. As a former student of Politics, with a B.A. to prove it, I often feel like I'm not contributing much to the political discourse around me. I'm just not that interested in discussing who, if elected, will be the catalyst for Armageddon and why. I spent enough time studying the discipline of politics to know that my disgust for rhetoric is not a good enough reason to remove myself from the conversation completely. If I don't like rhetoric and ignorant opinions, I could always seek to educate others from a neutral perspective - perhaps teach a better definition of terms or take it upon myself to better illuminate the debate in creative ways for others.

Instead, I'm like, “Nah. Eff it.”

Why? Because despite knowing that my vote really DOES count and, ergo, the votes of others, my personal conviction is that it's none of my business to get into other people's business (which, just to get this out of the way, is also the root of my political dispositions). People want to make ignorant statements? I'd rather just keep quiet. People want to get agitated and fret over the political affiliations of their coworkers and neighbors? That's stress I'd rather not have, but to each his/her own. I quote him a lot, but my Dad has been known to say, “It's better to have your mouth shut and people think you a fool, than to open your mouth and confirm their suspicions.” This nugget of a proverb has started to roll around in my mind, finally replacing Call Me, Maybe (thank you, Jesus). And I'm sure that the closer we get to that fateful day in November, I'll think on it more and more frequently.

It's cool to have political opinions. More than cool - it's completely desirable. Voting is not just a symbolic nod to grand ideas such as Democracy and Freedom, it's a concrete expression of rights. A behavior with real consequences, too, so I'm happy when people respect it and take it seriously. So, possession of opinions = awesome. I would also agree that not just to possess, but also to communicate them to others is a right. But just like all rights we exercise, it's always good to double check that it's appropriate. I may own and discharge a firearm, for example. But even within the framwork of legal actions regarding firearms, there is a lot of area for personal discretion. Taking it down a notch, is it appropriate to try and get people to register to vote for X party in the workplace? At lunch time? It's certainly legal. But my sandwich-starved neanderthal brain either can't or doesn't want to handle that much at lunchtime. I would really have liked a half hour of peace and quiet instead of polarized squawking. Noooooot appropriate.

By the way, this is the part of the blog that you're like, “Ohhhh, someone interrupted her lunch and THAT'S why she's so up in arms about this. Yikes, what an idiot to get in between Lily and her sandwich.”

Unless you work on the campaign trail, for a PAC, for a college politics department, for whatever entity that entails a legitimate daily discussion of the election, just don't talk about it between 9 am and 5 pm. If you're passionate about it, set up a booth in front of the grocery store. It works well for the Girl Scouts. Or get it out of your system at a rally, an online forum, a blog (!), or the dinner table. You could also realize that no one cares more about your opinion than yourself (a good lesson for in between elections as well, albeit a hypocritical one for a blogger to give).

In general, ask yourself: Would I open up a bottle of wine and drink it here? In front of these people? This publicly? At this time of day?

If the answer is no, then you shouldn't be talking politics, either. It'll make you look just as dumb and isolated and people will pity your lack of self control.

prayer

This past week, a question was posed to me as part of a group. “How often have you prayed for your plans to succeed? And how often have they failed?” I nodded my head and smiled sagely. I do indeed know what it is like for my plans to fail. As usual, when the topic of failure is breached I think about Costa Rica. But about as soon as I started to nod, I stopped. Because I realized that while the mention of failure struck a chord, prayer did not. I did not consult God more than a handful of times toward the end of my service in Costa Rica. And even those times were just to say both ignorantly and oh-so-humanly, “God, you can't want me to be miserable, right? That cannot be what this experience is about.”

When I feel like it's time to bail (as an example of a particular type of decision that requires lots of reflection), I consider my options and consequences. If I choose to leave a place or situation, the decision is made and no matter what I think about it later, I remind myself that I must have had good reasons because I considered it carefully. Not even just Costa Rica - there was the semester I took off from college, the decision to go to Ecuador, every time I've broken up with a guy. A combination of pride and trust in my own common sense inures me to much second guessing and prolonged, tormented agonizing over pros and cons. I tend to make decisions quickly, convinced of my own knowledge of myself.

In that process, I have forgotten all about the God that will one day tell me all the secrets about myself that I've never known. The God that sees the whole plan, not just the part I feel stuck on, the plan that may be currently falling apart in my competent (but, after all, only human) hands. The God that perceives more keenly than anyone how conflicted I still am by my decision to leave Costa Rica.

What can I expect, when this God that I believe is essential to living, is adamantly refused entry to certain parts of my life?

The most frustrating thing about this is that I am still - STILL - able to rationalize avoiding God when a big decision comes around. Why should I have to consult my maker anyway? Haven't I been raised by reasonable people? Haven't they taught me how to behave in ways and make jugdments that keep me safe? And wasn't that all done based on what the Bible says and what we heard in church and their own conversations with God? Aren't the overwhelming gut instincts of, “This is not right, I should leave,” heaven sent? And it's not like I never pray, I pray all the time for patience and understanding and love. I just won't pray once I've made up my mind, and what would be the point of praying once I have my answer, anyway? Maybe it's good to take it upon myself to figure it out (even if I mess it up) because it means I haven't shifted the responsability of a making a decision to someone else, I'm not using God as a crutch or a cop-out.

I think my issues with pride are pretty evident. If you know me, you knew that before reading this blog entry. I like to do things and I like to do them well. I like to succeed in areas that others perhaps do not. I take special pride in a lifetime of being told that I'm special, believing it, and then going and doing spectacular and special things. And I love getting the recognition I recieve for doing those often independent endeavors. This is all to say that to submit my will and the the outcome of a life changing decision to God is very difficult. It's easy to listen to friends and say to myself, “Yeah, ok. But they're not me.” It's even easier to listen to my parents and think, “You guys have NEVER been in this situation. Ever.” How far up the chain of loving relationships does that extend?

Well, God has the perfect answers and they're not often the ones that are easy to execute. So while I listen to my friend's advice because it's why I enjoy socially, and while I listen to my parents because it's what I should do practically, there's nothing ultimate or perfect that necessitates right and possibly painful action. Not saying that I take it easy on myself all the time or that God's will is always terrifying, but, you know...it could be this time around. And then I'd have to share the credit, more than just a simple, “I thank God for the opportunity He gave me.” I'd have to switch it to, “I thank God for guiding me through this opportunity and providing me with the counsel that made this such a success. I never could have done it on my own.”

I think that's why I (incorrectly) think, “Well, God, you've equipped me in the past to deal with this new situation. Don't worry, I've got this one. But thanks for the offer.” I'm not perfect and I take a weird sort of savage pride in that, too - it's what makes me human and real. But this human has realized that in making real decisions, there is a perfect solution if I am humble enough to reach out to the One who has already laid my path and take His counsel seriously.

Love me some August.

It's been awhile, huh? Sorry about that. There's been a lot going on and thus I plead the endemic North American excuse: I've been busy. At least I can say that my time has been happily spent doing two very valuable things: being with people and moving into a place of my own.

Lately there's been an influx of people and events into my social equation and it's WONDERFUL. After returning from Costa Rica in May, I began “training” for my first 5k as an adult (I had unnatural amounts of energy when I was nine years old and ran my first 5k. I don't think it counts, really). Not just a 5k, either, but the Color Run. I try never to get carried away with creating expectations, but I ran with it on this one (pun intended!) and got pretty pumped imagining my glorious run/dance through the streets of Philadelphia as cheering Color Run volunteers showered me with clouds of vibrant, exuberant happiness. Er...I mean, paint. Clouds of powdered paint. I think I was jazz-running in my mind, lightly leaping and spinning, much like how Christopher Starr navigates obstacles both mountainous and urban.

In my imaginings, I did not picture 22,000 other joggers/walkers/strollers/teenagers/photo-takers/lollygaggers. Nor did I envision what heat waves look like rolling off pavement dyed pink and purple by paint. Didn't register ahead of time that breathing in powdered paint would trigger moderate coughing and some really colorful boogers. HOWEVER! Despite the unexpected hitches in the glorious dream-to-reality rainbow hooplah that was the Color Run, it was a blast. There was music at every kilometer mark to facilitate my grooving through the paint zones. The uber energetic 5k began and ended at the Philadelphia Art Museum, the route being a great scenic tour along Martin Luther King Boulevard and the river. And finally, the people I went with were much fun to run alongside. Or stare at with disbelief as they sprinted away into the multitude without a trace (What the heck, Joe!). Everything said and done, I'm still running, inspired by the Color run to train for a zombie attack 10k in October. And I will definitely do Color Run next year. So proud of my tee shirt and I love seeing people around town in theirs. I've exchanged quite a few high fives with complete strangers, just because I spot them and say, “Hey! You did Color Run? Me too!”

Ahhh, what else...oh yeah! Since I got home Nevous Nikki and the Chill Pills played a show at Steel City Coffe House. I went to the beach with my parents. Dad had surgery (and is okay). I started working at the Collegeville location of my thrift store. Went rock climbing, lavender picking, wine tasting, tea-gardening, berry-picking...and learned that I like olives (the green kind...I still won't try the black ones. Baby steps!). I entertained old friends and roommates, went up to New York City for the weekend to sightsee with my favorite Dane, started to get really into Zumba at the gym.

And in the midst of it all, I moved out.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen...six months behind schedule, I found an apartment to rent and moved out of my parent's house. I wonder sometimes how it's going to all work out - paying the rent and eating, primarily. More than anything I'm nervous that my living-alone-now skillset will never improve and I'll be eating homemade bagel pizzas three years from now. But then I think about the billions of people who have done this successfully before me and the billions in the future who will follow their lead. I think I can make this a successful endeavor and evolve my living-alone-now diet to boot.

You want a description of my apartment then, huh? Well, a picture is worth a thousand words. Unfortunately, I'm not sure where my camera is, so buckle up! This is going to be a long paragraph. It's on the third floor of a house that's been broken into four apartments. So I live in an attic, sloped ceilings and all. I walk up two flights of stairs, open a door, some more stairs, then I'm in my living room/kitchen. It's a good amount of space, with a living area, bathroom, kitchen, a small bedroom and a large bedroom. Right now it is painted some pretty funky colors, but I'm working on it. Thus far I have opted out of hooking up the T.V. or getting a wireless hot spot (or something-or-other...thingy). Which means I'm reading a lot more (but totally on the grid, with my nook, which tempers the lack of other technologies). I can't say I've relaxed too much in my apartment yet. I've either been out and about or cleaning. In a few weeks though, when everything is the way I want it, you are officially invited to come over to an open house to see it. Actually, ESPECIALLY if you are reading this blog. Alllll four of you can come over.

There are repairs that need to be made to the apartment and there are people who would say it's the landlord's responsability. But here's the deal. I trust my landlord completely - she's someone I've worked with for a long time. She is also charging me very little for this apartment given its location and the space. I think she's open to me making the changes to it I want to make (baby steps, again...I got permission to paint and we'll see where I can take it from there). So honestly, it's a good time for me to learn how to caulk a tub. Or knock out hornets nests. Or learn what deodorizers I can use in the summer when it's too hot to have windows open for ventilation. Or how to use CLR or buy the right drip pans for a stove range. This is a huge opportunity to learn, in short. I don't think I'd trade this chance to live in an anesthetized apartment complex. “It's got something,” my friend Dylan said. And it's true. This apartment is...well, whatever. I won't wax emotional. It's a cool place to live.

So that's the excuse for not writing. But without a T.V. and without internet, I'm basically back to the downtime occupations that I had in Costa Rica. Which consisted mainly of, if I remember correctly, writing blog posts.

UPDATE

There was just free yoga at the hostel I'm staying in.
Hella.  Yes.

Back in Costa Rica

I'm back in Costa Rica on vacation for the next week so really, how can I resist the opportunity to post a blog?  To be sure, the thrift store is never boring, but it's also a little difficult to speak candidly about every day experiences.  I haven't given much thought as to why that differs from my Peace Corps experience.  Certainly, I spoke of the organization and very real people and it wasn't always pleasant.  But for some reason, blogging about much of what's interesting (good and bad) within the thrift store seems innately more taboo.  I'll have to think about that some more.

Whatever the case  may be, I'm back in country for the next few days and thought it would be appropriate to post again.  A very present theme in my blog has been nails and nail art, so I should definitely include the fact that as I write I am recieving a pedicure.  It's the bomb diggity, a little station with a swivel desk and a laptop and, below, some warm water jets massaging my feet.  Yup.  And because I'm so in tune with the computer and not my feet, I do believe my pain tolerance is a bit higher.  So this is pretty sweet.

The last few days I was able to meet up with some good friends in their sites.  Adriana and Biiftu were already in San Jose and the three of us met up with Aaron to head down to the "dirty south" of the country.

Ah!  Ah!  Threshold for pain is NOT HIGHER.

Ok.  So we went to the so-called dirty south and had a great time.  Three volunteers all in a row in the "Filas"...Fila Pinar, Fila Guinea, and Fila Mendes.  It was awesome to see a part of the country I had not seen before, and one so verdant.  Compared to brittle Guanacaste, this part of Costa Rica looked like it had more water than it knew what to do with.  Except...that's kind of a lie.  All three of the Filas were without water, a situation that Darien, our first volunteer host, was aware of.  For this reason, the first night of our trip was going to be spent at Jessie's site, since her host family has a water tank - one that was left open and dripping and was, consequentially, out of water when we got there.

Not a problem, though.  We're troopers and so girl's night went without a hitch.  The following day we met up with Aaron (remember him?  He did a guest blog, it was very good) and that night there was dancing, wine, and spaghetti at Darien's house ftw.

Stinky but happy, we were on the bus the next day to come into San Jose.

So far my time in San Jose reconnecting with my friends has been great.  They are headed to mid-service training for the next three days, and all of them had tales to relate from their sites.  I'm so proud of them.  Someone described it as, "Sometimes I think, 'Oh my God, I only have a year left, it's so little time," and sometimes I think, 'Oh holy crap, there's still a year left.'"  Either way you slice it, a year is indeed a good chunk of time and I have total faith that they'll keep being effective and sincere volunteers.  If y'all are reading, caps off to you guys!

So now that they're heading to their remote training facility (sounds positively mysterious, doesn't it?) I've got some time on my hands.  And what have I done with it?  Well, you already know where I'm writing from.  Just previous to this, I was at the tattoo parlor where I got the first half of my new piece inked in January.  I talked with the guy and now we're ready to finish it all up on Friday at 10am.  So.  Pumped.  I think after this I'll go see a movie and get some ice cream.  At some point I need to go to the grocery store...no real rush though, which is superbly relaxing.
Tomorrow I head to Guanacaste to see my host family.  My oldest host sister had another baby, Luna Fiorela and I CANNOT wait to see her and hold her.  This is Genesis's little sister and I am overjoyed that I'll get to see Genesis as well.  My host ----

Ah!  Threshold for tickling also not any higher for being distracted.

My host mom is probably the person I am most excited to see.  To give her a hug and wish her a happy Mother's Day is my greatest desire right now.

After I get back and tatted, it'll be time to hang out with my friends again on the opposite end of their mid-service training and in the first few days of their second year as Peace Corps Volunteers.  This is the plan, but as always, "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley..."  The "gang aft agley" is what makes for good stories anyway (like water shortages that result in baby wipe baths and cemented hair braids), so we'll see what happens and I'll keep you updated!

Chau desde Costa Rica!

I may have an obsession with really trashy nail art.  Right now I'm super excited about mid-April.  A trip to the West coast to see my sister and a wedding a week later are the two perfect excuses to splurge on some nutso nails.  I'm thinking hot pink and black zebra stripes...maybe some glitter or rhinestones.  The wildest thing they can offer me, really, is what I will ask for.

Nothing too crazy at the thrift store, lately.  I've fallen into a rhythm with work and play.  Every other weekend I have both Saturdays and Sundays off from work which has allowed me to reconnect with a lot of friends who live anywhere from 1 to 6 hours away.  The weekends that I do work, I stay at home and have begun a few projects.  They resemble stereotypical projects that Peace Corps volunteers do at site, there's no way to deny it, haha.  One of them is an herb garden so that I can make my own tea, and the other is a compost heap to help out with the tea garden.  It's like what they say happens when a limb is amputated and the person gets phantom pains, only not painful.  I just have phantom projects, heh.

But that sounds like I believe that where I am or what I'm doing is counterfeit, which is not the truth!  Peace Corps just really expanded what I think I'm capable of, so my motivation to do things is through the roof.  Suddenly, uprooting a massive bush, churning up some dirt, and relocating some bulbs without really knowing ahead of time whether I'm doing it right...well, it doesn't sound overwhelming anymore so I just do it.  Did it.  And if it doesn't work?  Weeeell, try and try again.  It's a good feeling.

Also a good feeling, and expanding on earlier comments, travel is in my immediate future!  I'm going to visit my sister in Northern California in three weeks.  Then a little road trip to State College for a wedding.  Then a week in Costa Rica on starting May 12th!  This weekend I visited with a friend who was house sitting for a family currently on vacation in France.  It gave me the pit-of-my-stomach feeling that I needed to GO somewhere and I'm excited that I'll get to indulge it.

Hey, in closing I just want to take a minute to thank everyone who is giving me positive feedback about the blog.  Most of you have commented on the expression and humor in my writing and how you've been surprised and entertained.  Thank you thank you thank you!  I know it's not perfectly written, but I am over the moon that you enjoy the end product nonetheless.  It's a lot easier to trust the compliments that come from sources other than my mother :)

Laughing isn't always my gut reaction...

...but it was today, so I'll take it!  The customer base at the thrift store is indescribable by conventional verbiage, so I considered taking it to the next level and using Lil Wayne's so very accurate "cray".  I did a little research, though, and a reliable source set me straight.  What I thought would be an appropriate indictment of insanity actually turned out to be the following:

“The origin of the term 'Cray' from the 'N***** In Paris' single is actually not a shortened form of 'crazy', nor is it 'cray'.  It’s actually 'Kray', in reference to the schizophrenic twins Ronald and Reginald Kray, crime lords of London in the 50’s and 60’s."
-Urbandictionary.com

So there's that.  However, I must say that if I were to discover that two dodgy customers with faces similar to each other turned out to be THE Kray brothers having escaped the grasp of English justice in order that they may reach a comfortable old age in Spring City...well.  I wouldn't be surprised.  I've seen weirder walk through those automatic sliding doors.  And so we're back to square one, describing the customer base..."That shit Kray."

As an illustration, my new favorite customer anecdote came to pass today.  It begins with me at the register, keeping an eye on an old guy who is agitatedly shuffling his way up to the front.  Do I know ahead of time that something entertaining is about to happen?  Yes.  But not even in my wildest imaginings could I have fabricated a dialogue so unexpected.

"Excuse me, miss.  If I cook my eggs in this pan, they will stick, yes?"

"I think so, sir.  Unless you use oil or the no-stick sp - "

"Ah, of course I know to use the oil.  I have a can of that spray stuff."

"Well, then!  That should do it.  Are you all ready to be checked out?"

As he eyes me warily, "Hey.  You have a husband?  Do you have a lot of kids?"

I can see where this is going.  "Nope, no sir.  I am unburdened by such attachments.  But I reeeeally like eggs."

"Hah!"  He looks around at the other customers in the vecinity.  "Unreliable!"  Pointing at me.  "Unreliable!"  Shuffles away.

"Yup.  Youuuu got it.  Don't trust me to talk about cooking eggs..."

Annnnnd I get back to putting a price on the stuff I was working on before that exchange, only I think I got the hiccups from trying so hard not to laugh out loud.  He ended up buying the pan (I decided to change my main selling point from no-stick spray to the fact that kitchenwares are half off this week), but I can't help but think he's going to try and return it with some nasty black burnt eggs inside it.  The conversation will begin with me citing store policy (all sales are final) and quickly devolve into reminding him that he had labeled me himself as an "unreliable" source of knowledge on whether or not eggs would stick in this pan PREVIOUS to the purchase and had, in fact, decided to buy the probably-sticky-pan anyway.

As much as I would appreciate people treating us less like a yard sale, the bottom line is that I will get to know our customers better than any random cashier at a store with seventeen different checkout lanes.  A lot of times I think, How much of this is done for attention?  How much of it is Kray, pure and diagnosable psychosis?  That's usually a thought I have when people are still shopping five minutes after close.  But there are awesome customers, too.  Some customers say or do things that are kind and show integrity.  Good eggs and Kray eggs in this world.  Getting to know them and helping them out as best I can is all I can do.  Seriously, I don't think I'm good for much else ere I become a wife and mother, and certainly not any good for cooking eggs ;)

It's been a while, huh?

Hey y'all. It's been quite a few weeks since my last post, which is disturbing to me, at least. I'd been posting a new blog at least once a week, more if there was interesting stuff to report. Considering the last few weeks have been exceptionally interesting for me, I'm finally taking time out to write what I need to write.



The transition to life back in the United States is not as difficult as I had imagined. I've had moments where, looking down the sidewalk of a prefabricated town-style shopping center that's too young to have all the stores open, I contemplate when I waded through the river that runs through Las Pozas just to talk to neighbors. Or a coworker asks me to take the trash out to the dumpster, saying, "You're a grown-ass woman, I'm sure you've seen worse than that." And I start to think about the trash pit at the high school in Río Celeste. Yeah, actually. I have.



Despite these weird moments when I slip out of the U.S. and back into what kind of seems like a choose-your-own-adventure alternate reality (if you choose to neuter your dog, turn to page 84), staying busy has made it easy to not feel...well...much of anything. Sadly, this is what my home culture does best. But fortunately, I've got a game plan and this kind of bizarre "work so I'm too tired to think about it" strategy is finally coming to a close. Three jobs is no fun, no matter how fun each job is individually. Learning about restaurants was interesting, but not worthwhile - it turns out I get uncomfortable when people at work show me the marijuana they have floating around in their pockets. After a brief struggle with my conscience, I decided against taking a teller position at a bank and have committed to working full time as assistant manager at the thrift store. Working at the thrift store non-profit continues to give me a sense of purpose and allows me to contribute to something that has an impact on our local and global community. And translating for the company that my brother-in-law works for on the side is great because I get to utilize the skills I've developed in Spanish, pretty much on my own schedule.



So working at the thrift store with some Spanish stuff on the side ain't too shabby. And as life calms down a little, I do find myself reflecting more on Costa Rica instead of blanking out to maintain that insane adaptation/survival mode. Introspection is not always pleasant. Actually, like 80% not pleasant. But it's coming at a good time - having to figure out the ratio of success to failure regarding my almost-year in Peace Corps is a life lesson in itself.



So that's work. And a little bit of what's going on behind the scenes. It's incredibly difficult to feel like I'm writing about anything important or interesting now that I don't have crazy things to relate from warmer climes, but believe me when I say I'm trying my damndest to come up with some good stuff. This is probably going to turn into a blog about thrift and social issues in our local communities. But I hope it's never as boring as that sounds, haha! In the mean time, thanks for following my blog and being intrested enough to take time to read it :)