Is Nothing Sacred?

Go ahead, curl up with a brand new book. Open it up for the first time and smell the fresh ink and the new paper. Run your fingers down the unbroken spine. Earmark the page with the paragraph that changed your month. Underline your favorite passage. Decide for yourself if the agonized-over cover art captures of the spirit of the story. Put it on your shelf and let its now-broken spine stand bright among the others to create a brilliant display of drama and horror, mystery and romance.

Go back in five years. Open it up for the hundredth time and smell the aged pages. Rub the cloth-soft paper between your thumb and forefinger. See if that passage still makes you cry.

OR

Get yourself an electronic book - one streamlined machine for a thousand sacred stories. How convenient. How efficient. How cutting edge.

You can keep it on your sparse shelf between your iPod® and your Sidekick®. Be sure to leave room for your Digital Soul™.

So-Called "New Dawn of Reading"

Sony Leading the Charge in the Ruination of Written Artifacts

Loaner Husbands OR A Case Study in Self-(in)sufficiency

When I was kid there were two young adulthood experiences I often imagined: college and getting married. The former is far behind me now, but the latter is nowhere in sight. Though I never expected I'd get married right out of college, I also never gave much thought to the lag time that might occur between the two events.

Over the past several years I have swapped back and forth between being the better half of a pair and being stone-cold single. While nothing is lovelier than being in love, there are some benefits to singlehood -- utterly unapologetic independence not being the least of them. I love coming and going as I please, even if it's often alone. I've also picked up a few necessary skills along the way: I can fasten a complicated bracelet clasp one-handed; I can recognize a dishonest mechanic and call him out on it; My umbrella skills allow me to get myself in and out of a car in a monsoon without soiling my hair or outfit with a drop of rain; and I've actually fantasized about how the face of a would-be purse snatcher would meet the heel of my stiletto knee-high boot as I roundhouse kicked my way out of an assault.

On the contrary, when I've been in past relationships I've had boyfriends work hard to take care of me. They've argued with automechanics, they've soaked themselves to make sure I arrive somewhere dry, they've taken very charming steps to accommodate my every whim and solve all my crises. Is it adorable? Very much so. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Necessary? Perhaps not.

But every now and then I am reminded that there are limitations to my self-sufficiency. One such incident:

A few weeks ago I decided to go through and remove the clutter in my bedroom, including relocating my college computer and monitor to the attic of my condo. Instead of calling on one of my lovely male friends for assistance, or at least waiting until my roommate's boyfriend was around to help, I decided I'd hoist the roughly shopping-cart sized items up the rickety ladder and into the perilously dark attic myself.

I started with the monitor. I managed to hold the bulky piece of equipment awkwardly in one arm (yeah, I work out) and made it all the way to the top of the ladder -- only to discover that the angle in which I'd approached the opening to the attic was all wrong. There was no way I could wedge the monitor through the narrow opening and into its new attic location. For a solid minute, as I balanced the heavy object on my leg and held onto the ladder with my one free hand, I contemplated whether I'd drop the monitor and that would cause me to fall, or if I'd first fall and then the monitor would land on top of me. Then I calculated exactly how long I'd be sprawled in the hallway of my condo before my roommate would arrive home and discover me with my newly shattered spine laying among a thousand fragments of computer monitor.

Truly by the grace of God, I managed to remain calm and inch my way down the ladder without damaging my own body or the stupid monitor. Upon safely arriving back on the ground, I promptly skipped over to my neighbor's condo and asked her burly marine husband for assistance. He kindly (and effortlessly) accomplished what I could not.

I guess I need these reminders -- while being able to care for oneself is a good thing, asking for help when needed is wise. And, by-the-way, I am happy to let any nice young man haggle on my behalf, lift my heavy objects, and otherwise rescue me any time!

"Thank you for choosing Starbucks."

I am embarrassed to admit that nearly every weekday -- sometimes twice when I'm extra stressed -- I visit Starbucks, slap my out-stretched arm up on the counter, and allow them to inject their bold drip coffee (AKA "heroin light") into my fiending body.

I noticed on my way out the door this morning that their savvy corporate message managers had the audacity to "Thank [me] for choosing Starbucks" via door sign on my out. Thanks for "choosing" Starbucks? There's not a lot of choosing to it.

If by "Thank you for choosing Starbucks" you really mean "We recognize that without our bitter, slightly burned coffee your mind will wander and deteriorate, your body will ache and atrophy, and you will cease to function. Thank you for your addiction!" then fine. I accept their gratitude. But, as far as I can tell, this is the only Starbucks choice I have: From the corner of 15th and K -- the block on which my building sits -- I can see three (3) Starbucks.

Starbucks A:
Distance - 45 seconds, walking
Attributes - Longest line; highest concentration of attractive young professional males; Consistent service

Starbucks B:
Distance - 90 seconds, walking
Attributes - Shortest line; Good service; Most likely to be accosted by a homeless person en route

Starbucks C:
Distance - 3 minutes, walking
Attributes - Average line; Best outdoor seating; Most likely to have unplanned encounter with an ex-boyfriend

(No, Starbucks, THANK YOU for helping me responsibly spend my money. And for giving ME so many choices).

"But if you did know, what would it be?"

At the tender age of 18 years-old, I found myself smitten with one Matt Nosich. He was the wandering and philosophizing stuff of dreams, that couldn't have been more masterfully created in the romantic recesses of my dark adolescent mind. For a girl who liked her turtlenecks black, her cigarettes Red, and her coffee without cream or sugar, Matt was my own private Kerouac. Gleaming green eyes were lit from deep within, where idealism and brooding locked horns in a struggle that was only evident in the occasional flicker of dequiet.

As one might expect from a tumultuous tangling that began in the smoking section of a late night dive, the adored Matt -- in practical terms -- ended up being little more than a loitering lothario. But during our short and, at the time, wholly enrapturing relationship, he managed to leave an impression that earned him a place of honor in my pantheon of past paramours -- and perhaps more notably, this blog posting.

Matt's chief attribute was disarmament. He could see through and obliterate any barrier, facade, bluff, hindrance, or obstruction the most adept illusionist or the fiercest self-protectorate might try to employ. It took him all of five minutes to deduce that the sum of my lacerating sarcasm, snobbish intellect, artistic bent, and my carefully contrived confidence was, indeed, an acute and potent self-consciousness. Perhaps no big mystery in retrospect, but I was certainly impressed at the time. In his own psycho-philosophical attempt to analyze the goings-on of my mind, he would ask me probing questions that, then not having a terribly strong sense of who I was, would frequently yield the answer, "I don't know."

"I don't know" was rarely a passable answer for Matt Nosich. Invariably he'd challenge, "But if you did know, what would it be?" I was impressed by the depth of the question and I would furrow my brow in deep contemplation as I tried to conjure a worthy retort. Years later I'd reflect on those caffeine-charged conversations and roll my eyes at such "inspired" rubbish.

But lately, I find myself circumscribed in "I don't knows." In my own battles with anxiety, "I don't know" is the war cry. My last relationship died to the retreating chant of "I don't know." So when, then, do we stop accepting, aiding and abetting the not knowing? When does apathy cease to be coddled? When is indecision no longer an option?

The problem with "I don't' know" is that it is ambiguous and allows involved parties to interpret the meaning or potential outcome quite liberally -- or to avoid an outcome altogether. What I've come to appreciate about Matt's question -- "But if you did know, what would it be?" -- is that it demands some intellectual and emotional accountability. It requires consideration, not default.

I can think of dozens of conversations where I've complacently offered an "I don't know" or accepted one because I didn't have the courage to be honest or I didn't have the confidence to demand honesty. If ignorance is, in fact, bliss, it's the fleeting kind. It's not long before desire for a resolution and the need to know overtakes that breathless bliss and replaces it with the unrest of wondering.

Technolitude(TM)

(My own "hybridiction" meaning: using electronic or techogadgets to sequester one's self from community, or to excuse one's self from engaging in meaningful social interaction.)

This phenomenon is everywhere. The first example I can think of is when my college roommate and I would sit in our shared dorm room back-to-back, chatting with one another using Instant Messenger. Anyone who has wasted a Monday night watching an episode of Nanny 911 (not me!) will see that video games now perilously serve as playmates. Television sets have ascended to the role of babysitters.

What is evident to me in the course of my daily commute is how people, who see each other day after day, are too busy receiving audio stimulation to acknowledge a familiar face, let alone interact through friendly conversation. We've closed ourselves off from the world and all of its organic noise and our white designer earbuds are the plugs. Leaving us alone with manufactured sounds and simulated emotions.

I am convinced that in several hundred years a universal symbol for antisocial behavior will develop (standard human figure - think bathroom man - with white lanyard lines sprouting from his head). It will be posted in all public places where vocal human interaction is prohibited. Only early twentieth century scholars will know that the symbol evolved from an old fashioned contraption called "the iPod."

This alarms me, and I think I'll take steps to reverse it - in my own life, at least. I think tomorrow I'll forget my iPod and try my morning ears wide-open. I will say "Good morning" to the bus driver in lieu of my typical "Don't bother me, I'm listening to Christina Aguilera's new song" nod. I'll smile at my fellow metro riders. I'll might even say "hello" to the tall freckled fellow on the blue line who steals glances. I'll begin my day with internal quiet and enjoy the crash and clamor of the external and all its boisterous inhabitants.

Ghosts of Elementary School Horrors Past

It would be egocentric of me to declare that I had the most traumatic elementary school experience of anyone I know. Sure, I was the bookish redhead boasting buckteeth and a notable weight problem (the family orthodontist and dietician made a killing off of my inequities). But judging by the meanness of “kids today,” I’d say I got off easy.

Indeed, I was a solid five and half years into my primary education before I realized that my penchant for daily monochromatic sweatsuits in a range of gruesome colors was never going to secure me a spot in Lauren Melendrez’ Esprit Club. But the unjustly beautiful charter members of my elementary school fashion cult—who I expect are now all married to powerful attorneys and are presently breeding genetically-superior offspring—never deigned to soil my Big Bird Yellow warm ups with pig’s blood. Someone did write, “CORKY’S A PIG!!!” (No worries – my mother informed me that PIG stood for “Pretty, Intelligent Girl”) on the lid of my desk, but I never lifted it and found, say, a decapitated horny toad among my school supplies. I may very well have been the regular target of after-hours slumber party torment (re: plants up my nose; toothpaste in my hair), but at least I was invited, right?

As an elementary schooler, the first few times I remember playing mandatory group kickball, I wasn’t selected last. In fact, I may have even enjoyed being fifteenth or sixteenth picked (out of twenty-eight, that’s respectable). Perhaps the choosers thought, she’s a solid girl…maybe there’s some thunder in those thighs. If memory serves, I indeed served up a mean kick, but the resulting run/walk cum upper-respiratory episode quickly relegated me to number twenty-seven in subsequent matches.

Just the other night I caught a lingering whiff of those old schoolyard scents of failure and humiliation. How ridiculous that a successful, generally well-adjusted, now fit and athletic, and by all accounts fortunate adult female should allow the prospect of playing a new position in a church softball game to conjure quite literally old-school anxieties. Suddenly, I became acutely reacquainted with the sensation of imminent embarrassment. As expected, my debut as Catcher was not entirely a glorious one. In prior games my throwing disability hadn’t been quite so prominently showcased, but in this game every person on the field watched as, over and over, I lobbed the ball back to the pitcher with an astounding lack of skill – frequently falling several feet short of the mound. The real zinger was having our pregnant pitcher waddle up to home plate and cover my position during important plays.

But you know what? It's okay. I now take pride in being the same dork I was during my formative years (albeit better dressed!). Thankfully, cerebral eccentricities can be useful and even celebrated in adulthood. Perhaps if I'd been a popular child, or an athletic child, I wouldn't have developed my rollicking imagination or my self-effacing humor. So I'll gladly go to my next softball game. I'll probably drop the ball at a key moment. I'll choose the bat that correlates with my outfit. I'll make my perennial post-game "Capri Sun" joke. And I'll come home and blog about it. I can live with that.

Today's thought on hope

Sometimes it's a little hard for me to feel hopeful about my own future when I really contemplate the unfolding of my parents' lives. Their wedding pictures, for example, are the photographic embodiment of a lifetime of hopes and anticipated blessings. No one will argue that over the course of their lives together myriad hopes were fulfilled and that, indeed, countless blessings were dealt. But, mercifully, what was absent from my father's youthful grin and what couldn't have tarnished my mother's glow of elation was the knowledge that thirty years later one would die prematurely, and the other would be stricken with a debilitating disease.

While I myself wait for and anticipate the things that precede and lead up to that wedding day bliss and other lifetime highlights, my resolve grows shaky and I'm forced to consider what I might never receive. Or will receive, but briefly.

One can but trust in God and operate with fearless hope, confident expectation, and the solid faith that is necessary to give us peace no matter what portion is allotted.

Sharks and Minnows OR Courtney's Assistant Voyage

So for the past couple of months, I've been looking for an assistant. I posted the job opening on a number of sites that would theoretically attract the sorts of candidates who would thrive in this work environment. I was shocked at the break down of the applicants: 50% sharks, 45% minnows, 5% solid, appropriately-qualified contenders.

To illustrate my experience:

********

Sample Cover Letter A

To who it concerns:

I have great interest in the communications assistnat position with the White House. My acceptional writing and verbal skills make me an ideal canidate who will suite your needs. My attention to details is second to nun and I’m a really, really, really good writer.

Also, I love kids.

Sincerely,

Molly P. Minnow

********

Sample Cover Letter B

Dear Ms. Courtney Marie Sanders:

As you can tell from my salutation, I took the time and effort to determine the identity of the individual conducting the initial stage of the hiring process -- you. Not only do I know your name, but I also know that you are the Secretary of the Alexandria Young Republicans, author of a mediocre blog that has been viewed a total of twelve times, and that your last boyfriend was a Batman-loving politico with a predilection for weiner dogs.

This is indicative of my dedication, my resourcefulness, and my ambition.

If you are half as intelligent as you should be to work at your esteemed firm, you will seize the opportunity to meet with me. When granted an interview, I will illuminate for you why I am brilliant, and how in six months time I will stage a successful coup and ascend to the level of Managing Director. Fret not, dear Courtney, I am fully prepared to offer you a handsome promotion in recognition of your greatest professional accomplishment: hiring me.

I look forward to cutting my baby shark teeth on your professional flesh.

Regards,

Heather Hammerhead

********

I am happy to report that a candidate from the ten percent pool was selected for the position.

Waiting for true love? Sit back and enjoy the show.

Tristan and Isolde.
Romeo and Juliet.
Antony and Cleopatra.
Ross and Rachel.


Jim and Pam.


I am the sort of creature who is stirred in the most abysmal depths of my being by the prospect of romantic love, or greater still, romantic love that cannot be. If you, too, are moved by such things, then perhaps you quivered with anxiety cum elation last night as a season of magnificently-crafted and excruciating-but-altogether-perfect longing came crashing to a climax in Jim's proclamation of love for Pam in the finale of "The Office." Perhaps you've experienced it yourself: the furtive glances, the reckless laughter, the mingling pheromones -- ah, the thrilling ache of pining for someone. I'm not sure I can think of anything else thats all-at-once so exhilarating and mortifying. As Jim and Pam embraced in that ubiquitously longed-for kiss, I imagined girls squealing and clutching their couch cushions as if goofy-dreamy Jim had uttered those heart-stopping words to them and not Pam. I pictured men everywhere quietly swelling with pride for the good guy. For the brave guy. Pride for the courage and daring that all men must conjure in order to gain one of life's greatest prizes. Love.

So today I will celebrate the idea of love. I will vicariously swoon. I will become theoretically enraptured. I will adore in abstract. And fervently anticipate that life will imitate art. After all, who said a romantic must be hopeless?