Through a Glass, Darkly

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott has a nice bit about learning how not to listen to radio station KFKD, which plays in her head (and my head and most other people’s heads) in stereo. One side tells you how great you are, how much more talented and gifted and special, while the other side tells you how much you’ve screwed everything up. In rap form.

That first side is more subtle, and I don’t always know when I’m hearing it. But I can tell you that I hear that rap music pretty much constantly. And I don’t even like rap.

Tuesday night I could hardly sleep because of KFKD. It went something like this: “Only a few people came back for your book club. You failed. You did a crappy job facilitating today. You failed. They didn’t like the book you picked. You failed. They probably won’t come back. You failed, you failed, you failed.”

Wednesday morning I got up and read that chapter of Bird by Bird. Her recommendation is to breathe. The other recommendations have more to do with writing, so they weren’t really applicable. But I tried to breathe, and to not think so much about it. I went to work, and I tried to do my job. And it got a little better.

My friend Kelly sent me an email asking how my book club went, and I told her that I was trying not to feel like a failure. She said, “I think Nicholas Sparks is the failure in this situation, not you.” hehe. That helped, and by the end of the day I wasn’t consumed with thoughts of failure.

But, you know, last night I felt like I messed up a bit when we had some friends over, so the cycle started over again. “You failed, you failed, you failed. So today I am trying to breathe. Drinking Diet Coke and breathing. Updating the website and breathing. Sorting the mail and breathing. Trying not to be so hard on myself. Trying to turn off the radio.

It seems like a good time for sports-related memories. Here are two of mine.

Softball practice, circa 1992.

I’m not sure why I was catching at that practice. Rosemary was our catcher that season, but she must have been out or unavailable or something. I think that season I was playing right field (more on that in a minute), but I must have been filling in for some reason or other. It was a batting practice, and Coach Swaney was pitching, while the Assistant Coach was behind me calling the pitches. Whoever was batting (maybe it was Rosemary; maybe that’s why I was catching) knocked the ball almost to the fence (and we played on a baseball field, so our field was deeper than a lot of our competitors’ fields). I moved up and got ready to catch it if I needed to, but for some reason, the Assistant Coach didn’t think I was paying attention. She kept yelling, “Kari, pay attention, Kari pay attention!” I didn’t want to turn around and tell her I was paying attention, so I didn’t say anything. And she kept yelling. The batter rounded second, and then third, and somehow Coach Swaney had the ball and threw it to me, hard. And I caught it, and I tagged her out. She looked surprised, and I looked at Coach Swaney, who looked shocked. And the Assistant Coach looked at me and said, “I guess you were paying attention.”

I’m no athlete, but I can catch. And I have class: I resisted giving her a dirty look. But I felt really good (and still feel good about it) because I greatly exceeded everyone’s expectations.

PE class, circa 1992.

We always played softball in the fall, boys against girls, and Coach Swaney made the girls play our regular positions for the team. So I was in right field. The boys had one left handed batter - Matthew. He was known for being pretty deadly about hitting it deep in right field. As we got later and later into the season, I got better and better about knowing where he’d hit it. And I remember catching his hits. A lot. One morning in particular, he kept hitting it to the same spot, and I kept catching it. I must have caught it three or four times before PE was over.

I can’t throw worth crap, but it didn’t matter, because I kept getting him out. Later that same morning, he was talking a lot of smack about me, and how crappy I throw. That’s the only time I have ever been the recipient of sports trash-talking. And I knew it didn’t matter, because I kept getting him out. I did what no one else was doing - I stood in right field and caught the ball over and over and over. And I was proud of myself.

(When I really followed the Braves, David Justice was my favorite player. Because he played right field, too. hee hee.)

I was only on the softball team because they didn’t cut anyone. And I don’t have the coordination or the power to play sports. But I worked hard. I am sure plenty of my friends have memories that are more glorious than mine - hitting free throws in a clinch situation, catching a game-winning pass, getting an important out. But these are the two things I remember about playing softball - I worked hard, and I did what no one thought I could do.

Unfortunately, in actual game situations, I can’t remember the ball ever being hit to right field. But I did bat well, and I backed up the first basewoman like I was supposed to. My fond catching memories, however, come from practice.

So I realized lately that it’s been almost a year since I had french fries.

Almost an entire year.

I used to be that girl who could eat and eat and eat and never gain weight. You know, that girl everyone hates. And then, in the post-college years, that changed a bit. I feel like I might be in danger of pissing off some readers, so, here’s my daily disclaimer: I wasn’t fat, by any means, but neither was I comfortable with how I looked and how I felt.

Last year around this time, I made some changes, cutting out a lot of starches and exercising more. I did lose a little weight, but the biggest change has been that I suddenly don’t have the need to eat every two hours or so. Seriously, I would eat and then be starving just a couple hours later. Now I am doing a better job feeding my body things that it can use instead of eating pretzels all the time because I think they’re an okay snack (after all, they’re low in fat, so what’s not to love? Apparently a lot of things). I feel a lot better, and I have more energy. Looking better is just a nice benefit. And I’m fitting into clothes I thought were lost to me forever, so that’s exciting stuff.

It’s interesting to me to think about the balance. I think I have a fairly healthy body image compared to a lot of my friends. I have never had an eating disorder (except maybe overeating). So my parents did a good job there for sure. But I was allowed to just eat whenever I wanted, which led me to eat more when I was tired or upset, or just because I was bored. If we have kids, I want to help them learn about making good food decisions at an earlier age. But how do you achieve that, especially with girls, without making them paranoid about everything they put in their mouths?

I think more about what I eat now, but I am also eating better. I do miss the fries from time to time, but I don’t crave them like I used to. (I mean, I gave up fries one year for Lent. That’s how much I love them.) And I haven’t cut out everything that I love. I’m trying to find that balance between loving food and eating healthful foods. The balance between looking and feeling good without turning mealtimes and snacktimes into a battle or something to be feared. I don’t want to overthink the eating, because I think that’s taking things too far. But I am becoming more comfortable with my new eating patterns, and I am trying to make good decisions.

And, I’m waiting for a very special occasion to break my french fry fast.

I had a discussion with a friend of mine about identity, and how, when things change and you can no longer identify yourself in certain ways, it can be difficult to forge your new “identity.” That got me thinking about the different ways I have identified myself over my life.

The main identifier pre-high-school-graduation was as the “smart girl.” I am not an athlete (although I did try that in middle school) and I’m not musical (just . . . no) and I have zero artistic ability. But I am really good at studying and memorizing and learning. And test-taking. I think the key to being a “smart girl” is not necessarily to be the smartest. It’s to be the best at regurgitating the information. Often, people would explain things to me, and then I would do better on the test than they did. Not because I understood it better, but because I am a good test-taker. I feel like it’s wrong to take credit for being good at memorization, because that’s just God-given talent. I did work hard, but I can’t take all the credit.

I did a good thing by going to UNCG instead of some of the other, more prestigious places I got accepted. Because I needed to be able to identify myself in a different way, and UNCG allowed me to get a good education without experiencing so much pressure. I still got very good grades, but I didn’t feel that pressure to get perfect grades that I had always put on myself before.

Now that test-taking isn’t really a part of my life, I don’t worry so much about being the smart girl. I still struggle with this a bit, but it’s more that I feel the pressure of the past. I feel like people expect me to do well in Trivial Pursuit, and if I don’t, that maybe they won’t really think I’m smart anymore.

In high school, I was also the “Christian music girl.” This was mostly pre-internet, so information was harder to come by. I was the one in my group of friends who knew which albums were coming out, which concerts were going to be nearby, and all the latest news in the Christian music scene. There were some guys who were into the same bands I was, but not really any girls, and I enjoyed being that girl. (It didn’t really get me any dates, but I still felt like it made me cool.)

Over time, though, I have given up on the Christian music scene, and I don’t really follow much music anymore. I have lost my cool music girl status. I sometimes feel a tad bit defensive when bands I used to follow put out new albums and I am not interested, but I can’t afford to be as invested as I was, either time-wise or money-wise.

Another way I have identified myself has been as the “book girl.” When I was younger, one of the things I was usually praised for (and therefore drew a lot of identity from) was how fast I could read and how much I liked to read. When there were reading assignments, I was always the one with the most pages, or the most Accelerated Reader points, or the one who was finished first. Even now, when someone talks about how fast another friend reads, I still feel the incredibly foolish desire to make sure they know that I am a fast reader, too. That I often finish a book in a day. That kind of thing. I am getting better about it, but I still feel pressure from my friends to know about every book. Someone will say that he or she just read a book and ask me if I read it, and if I say no, comments like, “I’m reading a book Kari hasn’t read?!” are common. And, to be honest, not helpful.

It’s stuff like this that make Book Lover’s Trivial Pursuit kind of stressful for me, because I feel like people will think I’m a sham if I don’t get all the questions right. Which makes me nervous. Which makes me miss questions I should have known.

These days I probably define myself quite a lot by my librarian status. I want people to know that I had to get my Master’s to do this, and that it’s not just shelving books. I pride myself on always being one of the first to know things, just because we interact so much with the news and current events here at work. I think, even though I don’t define myself quite as much as the “book girl” these days, I do still pride myself in reading a lot, and reading books my friends have never heard of.

I think it’s obvious how all of these display an ugly kind of pride. You know, in general it’s easy to think, “What’s the harm in defining myself that way? I do like to read, and I do have a thirst for knowledge and information.” I think that one of the reasons it was so hard for me to not have a job last summer/fall was because I felt like I had no identity. I wasn’t a student anymore, so I couldn’t define myself by my grades. And now, let’s face it, no one cares whether I can read a book in a day. And the whole point of not having a job was that I didn’t feel like a “real” librarian. I was floundering.

But, as one of my friends reminds me almost weekly, none of these are where I should be finding my identity. Which brings my floundering into clear focus: I keep finding my identity in what I do instead of who I am.

A few nights ago Benjamin’s daddy, my Mark, rolled over in bed and touched my hand. He was not yet asleep, but not really awake, either - suspended in that dreamlike state one travels through for a few precious seconds before diving into slumber. “Do you think, when we get there, we’ll ask God all our questions?” he whispered in the dark. “Or will we just say . . . holy, holy, holy . . . just . . . holy holy holy . . . ”

And then we fell asleep. -Carolyn Arends in Living the Questions

Most of the time, I truly believe that our questions won’t matter when we get to heaven. That any questions we have about why the universe is run in a certain way will all fade away in the awesomeness of being in heaven. With God. I believe that our perspective will be so different, and we won’t care about the things that seem so huge and overwhelming here.

Sometimes, though, when good people get sick or die while not-very-nice people live contentedly, I do wonder about things. I wonder why some people’s marriages seem so hard, while others appear to have a fairly easy time of it. I wonder why good parents have kids who go astray.

This weekend was a questioning kind of weekend for me. I have been trying to remind myself that God isn’t threatened by my questions, even if people are. As a friend said earlier this weekend, sometimes the world seems so backwards. And it’s okay to feel that way. We only see a small part of the overall picture. I’m reminding myself of that as I try to move from questions to trust.

Then I discover inside me a space as big
And believe that I’m meant to be filled up
With more than just questions. - Chris Rice

Mike and I have always considered Chili’s to be “our” restaurant. It’s our default chain restaurant for most social situations - fairly quick service, good food, good margaritas. What more could you want, really?

We have tried lots of things on the menu, but we have a pretty standard order. I get the Veggie and Smoked Cheese Quesadillas (no rice, extra beans) and Mike gets the Margarita Grilled Tuna (no beans, extra rice). Imagine our surprise when we went to Chili’s tonight and we found out that they changed their menu. The two things they took off the menu? The tuna and my quesadillas. Seriously. What are the odds that our two favorite things would be the two things they got rid of? How can this be?

There are other things we like, but it appears that we may be in the market for a new favorite chain restaurant. Any suggestions? (Do NOT say Applebees. The Applebees in Greensboro is not very good. Also, it is on the north side of town, and we live south of Greensboro. To sum up: No Applebees. No.)

There are very few things from high school that I remember with any affection whatsoever. Yesterday I was reminded of one of them: The nerd club.

Last night, my mom asked me to come hear her speak at a women’s group she’s been attending for a few years now. I told her I would come, but I am always a little scared to go back to things in my hometown. I don’t have a lot of connections there, and I am not really keeping in touch with anyone. It tends to be a little awkward. My life has changed a lot, and I can’t always put faces with names. Just . . . awkward.

I wasn’t sitting right with my mom - I was sitting with my aunt, so when a woman approached me who obviously knew who I was and asked me how I was doing, I was polite but vague. I hate that. I slipped over to the next table and asked Crystal (my oldest friend - we have known each other since we were two years old - and one of the nicest, sweetest people I know) if that was Shannon’s mom. Crystal said that it was.

After the meeting was over, I approached Shannon’s mom and asked her how Shannon was doing. We talked about that for a minute, and then she said, “Do you still remember the nerd club?”

While I had forgotten that Shannon’s family called it that, I definitely remember the nerd club.

My senior year, I was in AP Calculus. The first semester, there were 15 or 20 in the class. The second semester, when it didn’t count for AP credit, only honors credit, there were just six of us. We were mostly from very different social circles, although we had all had lots of classes together and knew each other fairly well. I was one of the Quiz Bowl nerds who spent the morning break hanging out in the library. (My group had a lot of overlap with the band nerds. I just happen to be non-musical.) Shannon and Ashley were good friends who were in the most popular group of girls - the group that hung out on “senior hall.” Rosemary was also very popular, but she was in a slightly different subset of that group. Chris was one of the popular guys, and he was well-known for being an athlete. And Jason . . . he was a quiet guy who would also hang out in the library, but mostly kept to himself. We’d all been having classes together since we were freshmen, but we weren’t close by any means. Sometimes we could barely tolerate each other (although now, seven years removed, I don’t remember why).

By second semester senior year, we had somehow gotten over most of those social barriers, and we got along pretty well. It seems like this generally happens to high schoolers - they start to realize this is the end of the life they’ve known, and they start getting along like never before. It was definitely true for me, and it was most evident in Calculus. Every week, Mr. Ray would assign us problem sets to be turned in two weeks later. And every Sunday afternoon, all six of us got together (usually at Shannon’s house) to work on those problem sets.

For me, it was kind of like seeing a whole other way of life. In a way, I was being let in on how some of those who were higher on the social ladder than I was operated. I was in awe of their ease. I think they learned a little about me, too. I got them to stop calling me “the valedictorian,” and I could see that they finally started thinking of me as a person. We talked about our post-graduation plans, and, if I do go to my high school reunions, it will be because I remember their insistence. We laughed together when I got my car stuck in the ditch at Shannon’s house (something her mom mentioned last night that I had forgotten), and we laughed again when my car was so light that we had hardly any trouble getting it out. Shannon and Ashley came back from spring break with brand new tattoos and tans to show off. Chris would tell us how the track team was going. Several of the others (including Chris) would take smoke breaks while I would hang out inside with Jason. And Rosemary always had entertaining stories, things like getting caught by the UPS guy while sunbathing in the nude.

We did a lot of work, too. We usually divided up the problems and split into pairs to work on them. I was mostly paired with Jason, which was great, because he always worked out the problems beforehand. After we’d all finish, each pair would teach the others how to do the problems. (This meant we always had the same answers, which made grading very easy for Mr. Ray.) I felt like, despite our differences, we were a team. We did everything we could to make sure that everyone understood the concepts and how to do the problems. I remember one test in particular, when Shannon got the highest grade. Usually Jason or I scored the highest, but this time it was Shannon. She was so pleased, and I (surprisingly enough) wasn’t jealous at all. I was excited for her. And when we finally took the AP test, five out of six of us scored high enough to be reimbursed by the county and to get college credit.

I don’t remember any of the Calculus now. I haven’t used it since the spring of 1997. But I do remember those Sunday afternoons, laughing and working hard and enjoying being together. It was something I wouldn’t have thought possible, given the motley crew that we were. It was . . . fun.

So, yes, Shannon’s mom, I do remember the nerd club. Probably with more fondness than you realize.

A few weeks ago, we were at the Shearers’ house, and Brian admitted that he doesn’t like leaving voice mail or answering machine messages. I took that opportunity to share one of my particular quirks, one that I had never admitted before: I hate checking my messages.

In college, I overcommitted myself a bit, and I had meetings or classes or work just about every night. Since then, I have learned to say no. The problem is, I have learned how to pretty much exclusively say no. I have a hard time committing to anything, because I’m so worried that it will take up my valuable free time. This is even more of a big deal to me now that I am working.

So, when I get a phone message, especially from certain people, I dread having to listen to it, because I fear that it will require me to do something. At the very least, I might have to return a phone call and talk to someone I really don’t want to talk to. At the most, I might have to do something I don’t want to do.

I love talking to my friends on the phone, and while I don’t love leaving messages (I mean, who does, really), I certainly don’t mind it. And when the message turns out to be from a friend, I am pleased, and return it as soon as I can. But, when I see a message, and I’m not sure who it’s from (or it’s someone I don’t want to talk to), I get a little antsy. I feel a little trapped.

Just a little quirk of mine.

A couple of things I have read lately have talked a lot about how different your perspective is when you become a Christian as an adult. I have been a Christian since I was a very young girl, so that perspective is completely lost on me. I can’t point to a specific moment of conversion - instead, Christianity to me has been more like growing into hand-me-down clothes. It used to be too big, and I couldn’t think of it as my own, exactly, but over time I grew and it started to fit. It became mine.

One of the quotes I am specifically thinking of is from Seeking Enlightenment Hat by Hat by Nevada Barr.

And so I sinned and I sinned and I wondered why the hell my life wasn’t working out all that well. After I wandered into that church and sat in the second pew under the window with the lilies and the lamb for several years, I surprised myself by saying to a congenital Christian, one born to it, “What I like about church are the rules.”

Like many a good Christian, she replied, “What I don’t like are the rules.”

She’d never had to live without them. For thousands of years Jews and then Christians labored to hammer out a system for living together peaceably with others while keeping oneself spiritually whole and well. My generation had thrown this wisdom out and then tried to reinvent the wheel in a decade.

I looked again at sin with new eyes and an open mind.

I still don’t believe sin is a God thing in the sense of recording and punishing. I doubt a Being that rules all-known galaxies and watches novas instead of late night TV is going to say: “Whoa, little Alice French-kissed that boy! Am I ever going to remember THAT!” No, God isn’t going to lose much sleep if we covet our neighbor’s wife. I do believe it’s a God thing in the sense of wise counsel, guidance, a helping hand.

My feeling is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, sins are simply really rotten ideas. Adultery is painful, expensive and not nearly as much fun as you thought it would be. Coveting makes you bitter and angry, ill at ease with the neighbor and his wife. Living “in sin” keeps a lame-duck relationship that should have been over in six months limping along for two years. I could go down the list of all the seriously bad ideas we’ve been warned against, but, if you’re over fifteen, you’ve discovered they all have hidden costs.

I’ve reached the conclusion that sinning is much like drinking from a faucet with a Water Not Potable sign over it. You can do it. It’s not illegal. God won’t strike you down. But odds are you’ll get sick.

[Now, before I get nasty comments, I want to clarify that I know sin makes us unacceptable to God. I know all that stuff. I know that this maybe isn't the most theologically sound quote there is, in the sense that it doesn't explore everything that's wrong with sin. But this post is not about the theological aspects of sin. It's about how this quote makes me feel. Okay, disclaimer over.]

The thing is, as a lifelong churchgoer, I need to hear that kind of thing more often. That these rules aren’t just God being arbitrary. They’re for our benefit. There’s something about the way she phrases that - that God’s not up there tallying the misspent days of our youth - that really resonates with me. I have been told hundreds of times that God’s laws are for our benefit, but to hear someone put it so plainly, someone who lived another way and is thankful for the boundaries God has put into place for us . . . it really hits home.

Sometimes I need to hear a different perspective to get me out of a rut. I read this, and it helped me realize what a wrong view I have of God. It hasn’t changed anything, necessarily, but I have filed it away. I’ve been filing a lot of that kind of thing away lately, and pondering it.

I’m not exactly sure where it’s leading, but the truth feels better than what I’ve been believing.

We took a day trip to Asheville on Saturday to enjoy the signs of fall. It was nice, albeit cool, and the parkway wasn’t as crowded as I feared. We worked on my version of my top 50 songs (I have them narrowed down - now I just have to rank them) and ate country fried steak and took some pictures. All in all, a much-needed break.

Other signs of fall that have appeared in the past few days:

-The flannel sheets are on our bed. The heat’s not on, but after I froze all night on Friday night, I made an executive decision that it was time for flannel. I even got out my flannel pajamas. Sleeping has been heavenly the past two nights. The only bad part is that getting up is made even worse by the fact that the bed is so warm and the house is so cold.

-Yesterday and today I wore wool. In autumnal colors. And Mike has started wearing sweaters.

-Yesterday I made two kinds of soup - black bean soup and potato soup. I had never tried that recipe for black bean soup, but it seemed to turn out okay. I’ll fiddle with the spices the next time I try it. Meanwhile, if you’ve got a black bean soup recipe, send it my way. The potato soup was for Mike, and he requested that we add broccoli this time, which I don’t usually do. It turned out well, if I do say so myself. I make soup in the summer, but I love that I am finally free to make soup without people looking at me like, “What the freaking heck is wrong with you? It’s 95 degrees outside and you are eating soup?”

-I’ve got my (contraband) heater on under my desk. Shhhhhh!

I like autumn, but I think it makes me kind of melancholy. Mike also gets more introspective in the fall. Another year on the wane.

“On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.” -Annie Dillard in Teaching a Stone to Talk

I don’t usually mark in my books, but I marked that. I can’t tell you why, exactly, except that the idea that we have no idea what power we so blithely invoke resonates very deeply with me. We sit and stand and sing our songs and give our offerings and listen to the sermon. We come away with a few things to ponder during the week. But since we do it every single week, it can be easy to miss the greatness of it all. That when we pray, things change (although it has been brought to my attention quite a lot lately that what really changes when I pray is me). And that we can invoke that power at any time of day or night. Suddenly TNT doesn’t sound so far off.

The other reason I marked it is that I think I am more afraid of being drawn out to where I can never return than I am willing to admit. I have problems, yes, but they are familiar. I’m used to them. We live together comfortably. If you take them away from me, if I grow beyond them, I might not be so comfortable. It sounds ridiculous, right? But it’s true. I might not be happy with how things are, but neither do I really want them to change.

So I continue on in my blithe way, standing and sitting and passing the plate, because admitting to myself what it all means might mean I’d have to actually face what’s wrong and do something about it. And letting TNT loose in my life? TNT that I can’t control? That sounds a little too scary.

I have been in a bit of a mood lately. I don’t know why. Actually, that’s completely untrue. I know exactly why, but it’s not fit for public consumption. So let’s just pretend I don’t know why.

The result of the mood is that I have been more withdrawn than usual the past couple of weeks. I’m a pretty verbal processor, and I haven’t really been processing. The end result of that has been a lot of “close to tears” moments, even though I wasn’t sure why. (And, since I wasn’t processing, I really wasn’t sure exactly why things were bothering me the way they were. I’m being honest this time.)

The past couple of days I have talked more to Mike about what’s been bothering me. He knew I wasn’t myself, but he didn’t know that I had let things get to me quite that much.

It’s interesting to me how I just need a conversation or two to put things into focus. I know not everyone is like me in that, but it reminds me that we are social creatures, meant to be in community. I still don’t know what to do about my mood, but I understand now why I feel this way and that I need to do something about it.

I think I alternate between blabbing everything I feel and holding it all in. I am trying to find a balance. Lately I haven’t been doing a great job, but I am trying.

I spent entirely too much time yesterday reading this.

What I found most fascinating was her discussion of how many survey participants claim that reading and participating at TWoP has changed the way they view television. That has certainly been the case for me. I started off with Shack’s wonderful American Idol recaps. Season 2, baby. The Clay loathing, the bleat goes on, the Seal of Tsathoggua, and of course, the Seacrest mocking. And the (Eeeeeee!) - don’t forget the (Eeeeeee!)! It wasn’t long before I was watching the show, laughing with anticipation at terrible “singing,” knowing Shack was going to tear it apart. Last season the only reason I watched was so I could understand the recaps. (Especially the Jesus Roman jokes.)

From there, I quickly got into Miss Alli’s stuff . . . The Amazing Race, Survivor, The Apprentice. Miss Alli is my favorite recapper. We usually hate the same people. Like Mirna. And Rupert. And love the same ones. Like Boyfriend Bill. And Phil. Plus, Miss Alli is the one who invented my favorite reality show catch phrase, “God is in the tub.” I might even have a girl crush on her.

The other recaps I read regularly are Pamie’s wonderful recaps of Gilmore Girls. She loves CuteDean a little (okay, a lot) more than I do, but she always clarifies things so that I know exactly how I feel about an episode. Last week’s recap, in which she explained why she is a bit disappointed with the Luke/Lorelai pairing so far this season, I had to (somewhat grudgingly) admit that she’s right. This week’s episode was also a bit of a disappointment, but at least I can look forward to Pamie ripping the writing to shreds.

So, those are the ones I read regularly. I check in with Alias now and then, since all my friends watch it, but I don’t actually watch the show.

From the recaps, especially on the reality shows I was watching, it was only a small jump to the forums. Where the Eagle-Eyed Forum Posters find out everything. They notice good editing, they point out inconsistencies in writing, and they analyze every detail. I do mean every detail. If you want to keep up, you’ve got to be smart and pay attention. So now, all of a sudden, I pay attention to things like people’s hair on The Amazing Race. If it’s up in one shot, down in the next, and up again just a few seconds later, I can tell that the scene was edited a little out of order. I notice when Lorelai or Rory seems out of character. I can pick a Daniel Palladino episode vs. an Amy Palladino episode just by watching the teaser. I can see the early signs of Killer Fatigue. I notice writing that pays no attention to previous storylines. I ask questions. I know that in a reality show, the editors have to be concerned with “story arc” and making a good episode. I don’t mind when they switch things around for dramatic effect, because I understand that’s their job. But I do notice it a lot more than I used to. Suddenly, television isn’t a passive thing for me. I am a lot more active about finding out information on my favorite shows.

In some ways, it does make television less enjoyable, because it’s as if I am demanding that the show perform up to my standards. And, let’s face it, shows hardly ever give a crap about my standards, because it’s very doubtful that I’m going to stop watching. I let ER kick me around for years before I quit watching. Now I might yell at the TV a little more, because I’m actually invested more. And it’s mostly a disappointment. The Apprentice this season hasn’t lived up to last season. Survivor has been on a downward spiral for several seasons. Ryan Seacrest, unfortunately, still thinks he’s funny and clever.

But . . . every once in a while, television doesn’t disappoint. Like when Chip and Kim won or on last season’s finale of Gilmore Girls. And, you know, those moments are even better now. Because I know more about what it took to get there. I know those characters a little better, because I’ve thought about them more, talked about them more, and read about them more. I have joked around and made up pretend storylines about the teams on The Amazing Race. When it disappoints, I have people to commiserate with, and when it hits all the right notes, I know where to go to celebrate.

I have mentioned before that I tend to get interested in something and go all out. I think the reason I appreciate TWoP is because it’s a site filled with people like me who like to know all the details. I think my information gathering can drive Mike crazy, but when I give him behind-the-scenes stuff that he wouldn’t have gotten otherwise, he doesn’t mind so much. Most of my real-life friends don’t care so much about that kind of thing, so it’s nice to know I’m not alone.

Last night we had a big storm come through, and the world was clean and sparkly this morning. As I was driving, I noticed some of the leaves are finally turning. It’s funny how it happens so quickly, and then it’s over so quickly. It kind of made me miss our old apartment - there was a tree that would turn bright yellow every year. That’s how I knew it was finally fall - one day I would turn onto the main road and see that yellow tree in all its glory.

This weekend Mike and I are planning to drive up to the mountains to see the leaves up there. Hopefully they will still be putting on a show for us. I heard that the cold snap we had back in September didn’t bode well for the leaves this year.

I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I got to listen to the storm come through. We had the windows open, and it was peaceful to sit and listen to the rain fall. None of my other sleepytime rituals worked, so I tried that for a while. I tried taking Advil. I made a mug of hot chocolate. I put in Sabrina (which used to never fail me). I read. I surfed the internet. All of those things have worked for me at some time or another, but not last night.

If I can make it through today, I hope I will be able to appreciate how nice it was last night to sit and watch the lightning and listen to the rain. Right now I’m a little too tired to be very excited, but it was something beautiful to behold.

A couple weeks ago I was suffering a bout of writer’s block, and Brian said, “Why don’t you write about your budding interest in photography?”

At first I was surprised he knew about my interest in photography. I had merely asked him whether the x-rays that they use to check luggage were going to erase my film (it seems like a guy thing to know about x-rays), and he found the answer for me. I didn’t know he was going to read so much into it.

Of course, he has seen me lug my camera to every small group event in the past four years, so, you know, it makes sense that he’d know I was interested in photography. And he knows I scrapbook, so he knows I use a lot of pictures. But I guess there’s a bit of a difference between liking pictures and liking photography, at least in my mind.

I think the reason it surprised me was because I kind of am interested in photography. Not in that girly I-want-to-take-pictures-of-my-feet way, but in a sincere I-see-things-I-wish-I-was-skilled-enough-to-capture-on-film-but-now-the -moment-is-gone way.

This happened a lot in New York. I took my old camera so it would be smaller, and I loaded it with black-and-white film to be artsy . . . and I was too chicken to take very many pictures. I know exactly why. I didn’t want to be too touristy. I read all this stuff by New Yorkers about how annoying tourists are, and I didn’t want to be one. So I let moments go by and I left my camera in my bag, and I regretted it all the way home.

I do it in regular life, too. Notice how I mentioned that I take my camera to every small group event? And yet there are gazillions (yes, gazillions. That’s a scientific measurement) of moments that I want to capture but don’t. Because I don’t want to be annoying everyone by being that girl with the camera flash going off all the time. And because we have some people who take pictures already, and they are better at it than I am.

Every time this happens, I tell myself, “Next time I am going to do it. I will stick my neck out there and be annoying/touristy/embarassing, but I will have pictures of what I want.” I haven’t done it yet.

Maybe next time.

I told Mike today that I think my wardrobe is a little schizophrenic. On one hand, I love professional stuff, like twinsets and button-down shirts and, you know, Ann Taylor Loft. On the other hand, I am also a jeans-and-Docs or cargo-pants-and-flip-flops kind of girl. It’s been that way for a long time. In high school, I was the girl who would wear jeans and button-downs one day and a black skirt, black top, black shoes and purple tights the next. The “smart kids” group I hung with had some of both, and it’s like I never quite decided which I was. So now I mix crazy things together. I am the poster child for What Not to Wear.

I have been needing a new pair of black winter shoes. I debated what to do, whether to get a pair with heels or something kind of platformed or just to get something kind of clunky that would look good with pants. In the end, I decided to go with Doc Martens. I am always looking for a good excuse to go with the Doc Martens. In high school, all my cool friends who wore lots of eyeliner and had weird facial piercings wore Docs. You know, the ones that lace up to the knees. They were so punk rock. hehe. I wanted a pair, but couldn’t spend that much on shoes. But now, now that I can justify them by saying, “They have good support, which is what I need for work,” I never miss an opportunity to get Docs. Plus, they look great with cargo pants and jeans as well as being great for work.

Because I am a professional, though, I can’t have the bright yellow stitching. That made them look decidedly less professional. So I defiled them with a black Sharpie. That’s my concession to my professional life. I know the yellow stitches are an important part of the motif. But it didn’t look quite right with my gray pants. Now they look great!

I’m pretty sure my punk rock friends would disown me if they read this.

Now I can wear my Docs with my new Ann Taylor pants and bring both the funk and the class to the library. Just don’t tell Stacy and Clinton, okay?

On our final day in New York, we had one last adventure.

It did involve the subway.

Let me get a few things straight for you, though. I went with my aunt to New York. This particular aunt is my dad’s sister. One of the things I specifically requested we do was to go visit my cousin who lives in Brooklyn. This cousin is the son of my mom’s sister. So . . . the aunt and the cousin? Not related. Got it? Good.

We got up and checked out of the hotel before doing a bit of walking around. I suppose it’s just me thinking of New York as being completely different than the Bible Belt, but I was surprised that some stores don’t open until later on Sundays. Anyway, we took the F train out to Brooklyn, wandered a bit until we found the correct street, and finally made our way up the stairs to my cousin’s fantastic apartment.

My cousin and I were very close growing up - we were the oldest two grandkids and our moms are sisters, so we were thrown together a lot. Almost all of my memories of Grandma’s house involve him. I even moved into his old room when I lived with my aunt (mom’s sister, for those keeping score) and uncle while I was in college. (Now we argue about whose room it is. He still claims it’s his room, but I lived there last.) I idolized him when I was young, and I’m always glad to see him when he is in town.

He grew up in Greensboro, and to me, his life was one to envy. He got to live in a city instead of a small town and he got to go to a private school and had all these opportunities I didn’t have. When he finished college, he moved to New York as soon as he could. I found that inconceivable. (heh.) I mean, why would you want to leave the south? New York is big and scary and rude!

Now that I have seen how he lives, I take it back. I can see the charm of walking everywhere and I think I could even get used to the subway (after a bit). I saw his neighborhood, and it’s not big scary impersonal New York. It’s a neighborhood with brownstones and apartments. People walk instead of drive and leave stuff they don’t want in front of their gate or hanging on the rail (we must have stopped five times on the way to and from the restaurant where we had brunch). The weather was just perfect, the shops were adorable, and brunch was quite tasty.

“If you want to make Brooklyn in words or film or paint, you must see the way the sun defines the silent streets on an early Sunday morning, sculpting trees, buildings, fire hydrants, stray dogs, and wandering people with an almost perfect clarity.” - Pete Hamill

I can’t put it into words, exactly, and I don’t want to move there, but I can finally see why he did.

He bought an apartment last year, and I was excited to see it, but I was really excited to finally meet his girlfriend. Just as everyone had said, they are great together, and I loved meeting her. I look forward to spending more time with her when they are around for the holidays. We talked about books and records (no, really, records) and movies and family and it was great. His apartment is on the fourth floor, and in that particular building it means that he owns part of the roof, so we went up to their deck and had a wonderful view of the Manhattan skyline. I also got a great meal . . . they took us to a restaurant for brunch. For me, brunch is tricky, because I don’t eat eggs. Not scrambled, not fried, not sunny-side-up (although I will sometimes eat the yolk when they are made that way). And, I’m not low-carb or anything, but I have cut back on starches (and I feel much better for it), so I don’t eat hash browns anymore. But I can’t very well just order a plate full of bacon and sausage, can I? However, I decided to be daring (for me) and I ordered something that had granola, yogurt and fruit. It was delicious (I was afraid it would have melons in it, which it did, but not too many. And it had strawberries), although I did feel like a pariah as I was the only one at the table who didn’t have eggs. If only I didn’t detest the smell quite as much as I do.

When we walked back to their place, my foot was killing me. Truly killing me. They must think I am the slowest person on the planet, because I was trying not to let it show.

My aunt and I got the F train back to Manhattan. Are you ready to hear about my proudest moment? They rerouted the F train, and I still got us back to the hotel safely. Oh, yes, I am practically a pro at maneuvering the subway system. (That right there, that’s what we like to call a joke.) My cousin and his girlfriend had mentioned that that train often got rerouted on the weekends, so I was paying extra close attention in case that happened. It brought out one of my paranoid tendencies, though. I have this fear of looking stupid, so I didn’t want to pull out or look at the map so that I wouldn’t look touristy. But I had to read at the map, because otherwise I wouldn’t know which train to take. I act as if everyone will point and laugh if I admit I don’t know something. The truth is that no one was really paying attention to me at all. I tried to embrace that truth as I got out the map. hehe.

We finally got back to the hotel (Kari: I don’t know how much more I can walk. Aunt: Do you want me to get a taxi? Kari: We are half a block from the hotel. If I have to crawl, I need to make it. Because calling a taxi for a half a block is just sad) and I wrapped my foot, we got a cab to the airport, and we waited for our plane. I gave up on Vanity Fair when I lost track of who some of the characters were (but I read the Cliff Notes when I got back to work, so I am ready to start up again) and just read some of the New York guides we had with us. I definitely left with a better sense of how the city is laid out than I had before.

When we boarded our plane, imagine my surprise to see that Heather was our flight attendant once again. (We had that happen one other time when we went to New York - getting the same flight attendant both ways.) She entertained us with the glasses and stories of her mother whipping her with switches for misbehavior (”I always said my momma should have been a dominatrix”). Our trip started and ended with her shenanigans, which was a fitting way to sandwich all the getting lost (and saving ourselves at the last second from being lost) that we did.

This was my first “grown-up” trip to New York, and I think I enjoyed it more than any other time I had been. Great weather, good food, excellent company . . . *contented sigh.*

Day 2 in New York started with us checking the weather. It was supposed to rain in the afternoon, so we loaded up the umbrella and the raincoats. It only rained for about thirty seconds at almost 5:00, but we were ready! The funny thing is that no one else seemed to be too concerned about the rain. (Rain messes up my hair. You’re darn right I was concerned.)

Anyway, the first thing we did was head downtown to the World Trade Center site. We took the subway. The only other time I took the subway was a few years ago when we were in New York, and we took the subway when we went to see the Statue of Liberty. I remember being terrified. And one of the people we were with got off early, so we lost someone on the subway. Hence my fear. However, we got there without too much trouble (I’m not allowed to tell the real story about getting a tiny bit lost). Since I’m under penalty of death not to tell that story, I offer another one instead: I did have the true subway experience when a guy tried to *ahem* grab me as he was exiting the car. (I will be more careful, but I will not be intimidated.) I am glad to say that I was wearing the strapless bra that day, so at least the females here will understand when I say that the steely support meant his plan didn’t work out exactly like he was hoping. Ha! Now, I offered that story since my aunt has insisted we don’t tell the one about getting lost. So you don’t tell her this one, okay, because she doesn’t know that happened. Fair enough?

After spending about an hour at the WTC site, we found a place to have lunch and then took the subway uptown to Bloomingdale’s. (This time, we didn’t get lost. Go me and my mad navigation skills!)

I have been to Bloomingdale’s before, so it wasn’t a huge revelation for me or anything. It’s just really crowded. It also makes me realize how small my world is, when I hear all these different languages and accents. We don’t get that so much in rural North Carolina.

I also realized, as we were leaving Bloomingdale’s, how easy it would be to get caught up in that world. I mean, in my mind, if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t be that different. I would go to Old Navy and Gap and Ann Taylor Loft and get the clothes I’ve been wanting and leave it at that. But . . . I don’t think that’s really true. I think that spending money makes you want to spend more money. And I’d think, “Well, I deserve it,” and I’d get caught up in buying whatever was new and doing up my house to the nines . . . and I’d wake up one day and not recognize who I am. I think you have to be a strong person to be able to handle that kind of money without letting it change you. So, while I definitely wish I could have newer things, I can see how it’s a great blessing to me that I don’t have more.

We tried to go to Serendipity (which is just outside Bloomingdale’s), but we didn’t want to wait an hour. So we meandered back in the direction of our hotel, stopping in here to look at shoes and there to look at sweaters, so on and so forth. It was around this point that my foot started hurting unbearably, so we stopped at Starbucks to refuel. I called Alisa to tell her that I was one of the 13,000 Starbucks in New York City, and talked to her for a few minutes. Then we headed back to the hotel to rest our feet and get dressed for dinner. My aunt made us stop one last time, so she could buy a pair of tennis shoes, which she proceeded to wear for the rest of the trip. No matter what else she was wearing. She even wore them to the theater that night. hehe. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

We wanted pizza for dinner, so we walked to a nearby pizza place and then caught a taxi to the theatre district. We wandered for a bit, including going to the Hershey store in Time Square before my foot absolutely gave out. Then we just waited on Broadway for the Bombay Dreams doors to open.

I liked Bombay Dreams. It was, as my cousin said, all about the spectacle. Thin on plot, to be sure, but lots of fun. And, of course, there was a wedding scene. No “Bollywood” story would be complete without it. Definitely enjoyable, but not the same caliber as Wicked by any means.

We took a taxi home this time, because I just couldn’t walk any more. Saturday wasn’t as long as Friday, but it was plenty long enough. We didn’t actually buy that much on Saturday. I didn’t buy anything at all, actually. So we were very well-behaved on this trip. Well, more than usual, anyway. hehe.

When Mike and I watched the DVD of September 11 a few weeks ago, there was a segment about the people looking for their family members. You remember the pieces of paper that the TV kept showing – picture after picture of missing people, posted on every available surface. Mike said, “This was the hardest part of the whole thing.” I know what he’s saying – the pictures of all the missing and the dead forced us to see that each of these people had a story. They weren’t just a number – they were people with husbands and wives and parents and children and best friends who missed them and wanted them to come home. It was unbearably sad and overwhelming.

But I thought, after he said that, I couldn’t pick the hardest part. Again memories of that time came to me in bits and pieces. The bravery of the people on Flight 93 who fought back when they knew they were going to die. The way the newscasters kept showing the hospitals ready to help anyone who was found alive. The long lines at the blood banks of people all over the country who just wanted to help, though that blood wasn’t needed as much as we all hoped and prayed it would be. All of it so big and sad and . . . hard.

One of my friends was studying in Australia during the fall semester of 2001, and when she came back we compared notes on the experience. She said she was so glad that she was out of the country, because it gave her a greater perspective on how the rest of the world saw the events. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere but here. The patriotism, the collective grief and anger, the closeness of friends and family – I am thankful to have seen it and to have been here for it, here while the country mourned together.

The World Trade Center buildings didn’t mean that much to me before all this. I had seen them in person, and I knew they were a part of the New York skyline, but I wasn’t especially attached to or enthralled with them. Now, though, I find myself looking for them in movies and Friends reruns and feeling comforted when I see them. “There they are,” I think. “I didn’t imagine it - they really did used to be there.”

So, on Saturday morning, we went down to the World Trade Center site. I just wanted to see it for myself.

There’s no memorial or anything, not yet. There’s just a big fence, and some signs that have pictures about the history of the World Trade Center and a list of the names of the people who died. But . . . there’s nothing there. I looked at the other buildings around, saw the way they stretched up into the blue sky, and thought, “I can’t imagine if those buildings were suddenly just not here.” We walked all the way around the perimeter, which is the best way to get a perspective on the size of the lot. It’s just unbelievable that there were buildings, tall tall buildings there, and now there’s nothing.

There were other touristy people like us there, people who were crying or taking pictures or just observing. I took a few pictures myself, but I haven’t gotten them developed yet. As I was standing there, I thought about a lot of the things I have read, things New Yorkers have written about actually experiencing the events that I only watched on TV. How they try to balance remembering with moving on, being grateful for what is still here. I’m not a New Yorker, and I don’t feel that I have profound thoughts on what happened that day. I just find it so hard to believe . . . all those people, all that metal and glass and paper . . . reduced to nothing.

I think now that I have seen it, I’m ready to say: That’s the hardest part of the whole thing.

We got up at 4:45 on Friday morning to make our flight. The only thing that made me accepting of this fate was that I was getting up the same time as Luke:

LORELAI: Ooh, sorry, I have to get up super early tomorrow.
LUKE: No problem. What time?
LORELAI: Six.
LUKE: I get up at quarter to five every morning.
LORELAI: Why in the world would you get up that early?
LUKE: I don’t know, to run my business?

(Please don’t tell Mike about this. He already thinks I am overly obsessed with quoting Gilmore Girls. Also, that’s one of my favorite awkward television conversations.)

We got to the airport on time and read for a while until we could finally board our plane.

Oh, wait. Before I tell you about the flight attendant, I have to tell you this story about security. Just as we were going to go through, I was pulling out my ID and the security woman turned to my aunt and said, “How old is she?” Um, HELLO! I’m standing right here! I can answer questions about my own age! Whenever I fly with my aunt, I always get questions about how old I am. When I was 20 and we flew to New York, we were on the exit row, and three flight attendants and the pilot came back to ask me if i was old enough to sit in the exit row. You have to be 16. By the time the pilot came back to ask me how old I was, I was thisclose to saying, “Look, buddy, I am ready to assist these people if necessary. How about you go focus on flying the plane so we don’t have to worry about who is seated in the exit row. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

Anyway.

Our flight attendant’s name was Heather. I have never had such a happy, outgoing flight attendant. She kept cracking jokes about how she hadn’t read the safety information recently, which was not as disconcerting as it sounds. She threatened to ninja-kick anyone who approached the cockpit door, wore these funny glasses as she gave the safety announcements, offered us her “homemade” pretzels, and kept losing her train of thought in the middle of speaking. She told us there wasn’t any tomato juice, and that if we asked her for some, we’d receive the evil death glare. And she had the cutest southern accent. Definitely the most fun flight attendant I have ever had.

It had been five years since I was in Manhattan, and it felt different this time. I’m older, so I’m not as scared of the big city as I used to be. I didn’t feel like someone was about to grab my purse at any moment, even when we were on the subway (that’s a little teaser; I’ll get to the subway stuff later this week). But also, I have read that the mood in New York really changed after 9/11, and I think I could see a bit of that. I didn’t feel like the locals thought I was in the way quite as much.

After we got to our hotel, we hit Starbucks and then the shops. My mecca, Ann Taylor Loft, has a huge store just down the street from where we were staying. We made a fine beginning there, which made me very happy. Actually, now that I think about it, all the clothes I bought for myself this weekend came from Ann Taylor Loft. And I hear rumors of another package from the Loft heading my way. I am not actually a huge fan of shopping, but if I could always afford Ann Taylor Loft, I would probably enjoy it a lot more.

We did the department stores and Fifth Avenue, I took a picture of the NYPL and visited their shop, and we looked at shoes and just enjoyed the beautiful weather. Around 4, we became so tired that we went back to our room to change for dinner and Wicked. We had reservations at an Italian restaurant near the theater, which was also near the Ed Sullivan Theater and the CBS store. I got Mike a Letterman t-shirt, and if there had been more Amazing Race memorabilia, I probably would have bought myself something. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. There wasn’t room for it with all the Survivor stuff they had. A pox on Survivor!

Dinner was great, and Wicked . . . what to say about Wicked? After this weekend I have seen the following shows in New York: Phantom of the Opera, Les Mis, The King and I, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Miss Saigon, The Fantasticks, Smoky Joe’s Cafe, Grease, Wicked, and Bombay Dreams. (I think that’s all.) Of those, Phantom, Les Mis, and Wicked are my favorites. It was just wonderful. I hadn’t been to a show that was quite that new, where the audience was so excited about the show. When the lights went down, people were cheering and applauding. The music was wonderful, and I love it when authors take an old story and turn it on its head like that. Why is the Wicked Witch of the West so bad? Maybe she was teased a lot as a child for being so green! Maybe she just wanted those shoes because they were all that was left of her sister! And did you know that she and Glinda were roommates back in school? I’m definitely going to check out the book and see what it’s like, too.

We decided to walk back to the hotel, which we don’t usually do. We used to always go to New York in December, which is fun but too cold for a southern girl like me. This time the weather was so beautiful that we wanted to be outside as much as possible. It was a long walk, but fun to see things that you just fly by in a taxi. When we got back to the hotel, we crashed, ready for our next full day in New York City.