I always, always say goodbye. But just in case I didn't- this one's for you:

"I never say Goodbye. It's always 'see you later'," she said, and I really had to bite my tongue not to say "Well, I think that's stupid." Because there's a nice finality to goodbyes. I'm not afraid of never seeing someone again, and if I don't, I want to know that the last time I saw them, I was able to say goodbye. There's peace that comes with that, and satisfaction and, if the goodbye was not bitter, at least some fondness. I always, always, say goodbye. I've traveled enough to know that goodbye is important, even if you plan on being back in the next two weeks. And for those that the chance you will never see them again is so high, the goodbye is really really important. I can't say that I had the chance to sum up all of my feelings in any one goodbye, but I feel better knowing I at least said "I enjoyed my time with you." Or something like that. I like goodbyes- they force people to become sentimental, and honest.

There's a horrible country song that includes the lyrics "If I die young..." and in a highly-emotionally charged state I cried upon hearing it recently. I still think the song is horrible but, coupled with the ideas of goodbye, I started to think about all the things I really meant to say, even if I had the chance for a goodbye. If I did die young, I'd like the people who made an impact on my life to know they did.

So I decided to make a list of the people that I would like a goodbye redo- just in case. I'm not including in this list close friends and family who hear regularly that I love them and think highly of them. Perhaps I don't say it enough, but if something happened, they know how I feel. Plus, that would be a boring list. No- this list is for the people who, whether I spent years with them or just a few days, I just want to let them know a few things:

Daniel: You were never good at goodbyes, especially since its been 5 years since we broke up and you still don't get it. During our relationship I learned some things about how to fake an orgasm, why I shouldn't have to, that guilt trips are not worth it, that I'm worth much more than you offered me, and that I can't stand lazy people. Goodbye for reals and good riddance. I really hope I never ever run into you again. If I do, I hope to God I'm not drunk because I will tell you this to your face. Asshole.

Rachel: I'm really sorry I didn't realize how much more you valued our friendship than I did. I totally blew you off, and I do apologize for that. You are for sure a unique individual, and I wish you all the best.

Neil: I abused your friendship, and to this day that is one of the top two things I regret in my entire life. (The first is the relationship with Daniel, but we've already covered that.) I wish we had met at a less dark time in my life, but I have to tell you that I surely value your humor, your creativity, and just how damned cute you are. You've got so much to love, and I really do love you.

William: Thank you, thank you, for not being called "Bill." And thanks for being positive and adorable and just so good to me when you didn't even realize how much I needed an intelligent, sweet, low-maintenance guy. I think I still have your letter somewhere, but I don't need to read it to remember that you said "your elbow has the power to make my elbow sing and hum" and I loved it. I will always think of you and smile. Keep writing.

Andrea: As a dancer, you were incredible. As a person, I found you loud and annoying, but your presence as a woman was something that I kinda aspired to. It seemed like nobody could stand up to your energy, and I thought that was cool. I still think of "Voodoo Child" as the coolest dance I have ever done in my life. I posed with the chair for dance pictures that year, and I'm pretty sure the photographer thought it was an inappropriate prop. You would have appreciated that.

Sarah: I will never be able to speak my mind in the way that you do, but I totally love that you're not afraid to do so. To anyone. I respect that, and I'm really glad I never got on your bad side. Really. I hope we get to see each other again.

The Israelite girl in the Dublin airport: I have the coolest story to tell people now because of you. :o) I never would have thought to talk to strangers in an airport, but I'm so glad you were able to take the plunge. I hope you got over the sleazy boss you said you were in love with and found something better at home. I'll never forget you.

I think his name was Paul: Talk about a person who was his own person and didn't really give a fuck about what anyone else thought about that. The second time I saw you, you were in a unitard and proud of it. I was in awe of your constant chatter about random ideas and impressions that came to you, and I will probably think the epic trilogy you told me about while you were supposed to be vacuuming my room and I was awkwardly trying be comfortable in my pajamas while you kept talking is "out there" if you ever write it, but I'll still buy a copy for you.

Drew: If there was a male version of me, I think it's you. Seriously. I don't mean to weird you out, but I believe it. We don't always make sense because half the time we over-think our decisions and the other half of the time we just go by instinct. We always mean the best, but we can be quite selfish, and sometimes that hurts other people. See? You get it. Maybe in another life we'll meet each other as divorcees in France and feel like we've met before, and talk for hours. Maybe we'll get engaged because we'll realize we understand each other too well to not be married, and then realize that we drive each other too crazy to make it for forever and call it off, but still be the best of friends.

Stacey, Carin, and Crishon: Thanks to all of you for being patient with my naivety and immaturity. And for encouraging me to try pot for the first time. And for making the next several times entertaining. And for not laughing at my immaturity too much. And for inviting me with you to the beach. Thanks for the good times. :o)

Tom: I really wanted you to like me because you were original, and smart, and just nerdy enough to be funny but not too much to be annoying, and worked out a lot, and easy to talk to. I bet you are still all of those things, only a doctor (or were you studying law?), and married, and probably also saving the world. Congratulations, and I still think you're cool.

Paula: You were also quite patient with my non-coolness, but I just really wanted your coolness and confidence and ability to laugh at yourself to rub off on me. I also wanted to know how you got to have so many boyfriends, but I guess that was a lesson I had to learn for myself. I hope you are happy and still going ga-ga over water conservation, because it just might help save the planet. You certainly were, in my head, the woman for the job.

Ryan: You were such a weird kid, but I think we put up with each other just enough to have a good when our parents forced us into playtime together. You've got the drive, baby, so I hope that all your energies are focused on good things and that that makes you happy. I hope one day we get back in touch, because I'd really like to compare notes on how we turned out.

Shannon: You have absolutely no idea how much your optimism and energy saved me from throwing more than one pity-party for myself. At a time when I only wanted to fit in with the people who were not even willing to give me the chance, you offered me the freedom of not caring, and a friendship that more than made up for the loss of cool points with some stuck-up brats. Japanese food never tasted better. I will always, always cherish the hand you offered me, and I'm still trying to thank you for it.

Matt: First Australian guy I ever kissed! Honestly, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and I guess you weren't either, but hey, you were foreign and fun, and I was all about it. I guess I came out to be clingy, and I should apologize for that. I don't hold anything against you for switching from me to the other Shannon, even if it was within the week, because I had the whole school year to get over it, and at that point my slight obsession with you for that summer was just funny. You're still cool, and I never would have thought your thing would be travelling in old cumbes across Australia, but I like it.

Jeff: There's more than I can really say to the person who was the first "serious" relationship I ever had. We both forgot all common sense to try a long-distance relationship after meeting once, and that was a theme that lasted throughout our relationship. Hearts were only slightly broken, and I'll never date a Jew again (seriously, and I thought coming from a Catholic family was pressure!), but I think it was good for puppy love. I hope you're singing little ones to sleep, because that would be awesome.

Becky: Your generosity for allowing the random American waitress to crash in your guest bedroom with about an hour's notice deserves a medal. Really. I'm quite sure you did it because you felt a little sorry for me and also to fulfill some kind of religious generosity requirement, but I really don't care. The bed was incredibly comfortable, our conversations were surprisingly easy, and the A-Z of London was supremely helpful. I bet you make a wonderful nurse, and I hope that more and more people appreciate you, cuz you're awesome.

Byron: Oh Byron. Where to begin? That the intensity and playfulness of our relationship will never be equaled? That I can hear a South African accent from a mile away and it still makes my heart flutter? That you have the single hottest body of any man I've ever been with? That I absolutely adored you? We dragged out a travel hook-up much longer and much better than most people expected, and we were awesome together. It's really ok that you didn't keep in touch, because otherwise no one else on this planet would have had a chance. You will forever be "the one that got away" from me, though I guess I didn't have much choice in your going. Someday I will arrive out of nowhere at your father's 5-star hotel in South Africa, which you will then own and think yourself way more important than you always knew you were, but hopefully you won't be as lazy, and I hope that I can exert my self-control not to throw myself at your feet when I get there.

I heard something on NPR on Saturday, and it really was just a minor tidbit,but it has consumed my thoughts for days:

A Baby Shower for the Dad-to-Be.

Apparently , this is turning into a huge thing. And I must admit, I had a slight twinge of hope that, at last, fathers were being included in the festivities surrounding birth. That hopeful twinge turned into a stab of horror when I heard the commentator's next statement, which went something like this: "I hear its a twist on the bachelor party- the guys go do something that dad won't be able to do once the baby is born."

Excuse me? Two thoughts went flying through my head, almost simultaneously. Those thoughts were:

1. WTF? So now everything surrounding a male's association with family (besides earning the money for it) turns out to be something that is a regrettable loss from their previous lifestyle? Something to be lamented?

2. How come nobody thought of that for the mom?

Because,lets be honest. The person who is really going to sacrifice doing the stuff that they want to do when the baby is born is Mom. Hands down. No freaking way are you ever going to convince me that a man makes the same kind of sacrifices as a woman with a newborn. Or with a toddler. Or with a teenager. I will accept the exceptions to the rule, yes, but generally speaking, how many times out of ten will a father pronounce he's had to leave work early to get dinner ready, or not be able to work out with his running buddies because of a young one's baseball game, or lost sleep at night because a child was sick? I'm going hazard a guess at 1. Maybe 1.5, to account for the one that actually did stay up with the sick child. And it really just sickens me to think that men are doing this male version of a baby shower because they are going to give up going out with the boys once baby comes. Yeah, right.

I'm really sorry that men aren't given the same opportunity to celebrate being a father as women are being a mother, but I also have a hard time believing a "Football and Diaper" day is the right way to start feeling more involved. I've heard co-ed baby showers are on the rise as well, and that's great too! Be happy! You're gonna be a father! But don't stand there and demand beer and poker because you "deserve" something like a going away party from the life of a happily married man-do it because there's another reason to celebrate. Then make the real commitment and support your wife by parenting as much you work. Before crying about fatherhood, try rearranging your work schedule so that wifey gets the same time away from the kids as you do, then we can talk.

And yet, on the other side of this theme, is an AMAZING idea for an expectant mother! Now I haven't been to many baby showers, but they are pretty horrible. Really- I am SO not interested in trying to figure out what kind of chocolate bar has been melted into a grotesque poop smear onto a diaper. Hooray for babies, no hooray for poop. I'll see enough of it when I have a kid.

But what if, as a mom-to-be, I'm offered to do something I won't be able to do for a while when carrying around a diaper bag? I do really like the sound of that....

So now I've decided that for MY baby shower, I'm getting a mani-pedi, my hair done, perhaps even a facial, and enjoying a girls day out, free of children. Bring your gifts, but we're gonna leave them at the house.

Then I want a date night with my husband, where we will swoon all over each other, and there will be candlelight and roses, and then we can laugh at the baby toys when we get home. I'm liking it already.

Sorry guys, you aren't invited. Tell my baby-daddy congratulations and take him out to the cigar shop, but DON'T YOU DARE complain about all the things he will have to bid goodbye to within the next few months. I don't even want to hear that shit.

On My Honor...

On My Honor...

My honor is mine to create, mine to uphold, mine to engage, mine to present, mine to hold dear.

Creating my honor means understanding what I hold to be true, worthy, and essential. My parents taught me well, but I determine what is valuable to me, and I understand that this will define my life.

Upholding my honor means picking up my guns and sticking to them. I may change my opinion, but my standards remain high. My strong work ethic will be my ammunition, and I will rely on it to stand my ground.

Engaging my honor means never forgetting what is dear to me, and making sure I inject every part of my life with honorable energy.

Presenting my honor means I will not be shy to show my allegiance to honesty, integrity, and self-respect. I can't change the world, but I will change myself to consistently behave with honor.

Holding dear my honor means I will treasure it as the basis for my work, I will nurture it as the source of my values, and I will tend to it as a worthy recipient of attention.

My honor rests not on my strength but on my will to maintain it. The root of my honor is not in the way I am seen by others, but it does invite respect from those who see it.

My honor does not boast, but it does garner compliments when it is shown. It is reflected in the way I serve, the way I lead, the way I love.

It is my honor to present to you, My Honor.

Feminist Chivalry?

On a recent trip to visit a friend in DC, I came across one of those "crazies" on the Metro. Of course I am quite aware that the Metro attracts crazies like brains attract zombies, and this particular one hooted and hollered and stamped his feet and laughed his toothless laugh at 3 or 4 different women in the same car over the course of my 15 minute train ride. A few ladies just ignored him until he found another one to beleaguer, one moved to the opposite end of the car, and I pretended to stay absorbed in my book, thankful he wasn't coming anywhere near me.

Although my daydream tactics included punching him in the face, if he had confronted me I probably would have done just what the other ladies did, and looked stoically in the other direction, waiting for him to leave. He was his own endless source of humor, directing nonsensical come-ons to as many women as he could.

As I was preparing to get off at my stop, a young man behind me in a business suit and long coat asked politely if I knew the number of this train. I confessed that I did not. He said "I just want to tell the station manager that there is a crazy person on this train, in this car." I offered my testimony of having watched him travel from woman to woman, and the businessman shook his head. "Not cool," he said.

I have no idea if he was able to find the station manager, as I was already late meeting a friend for brunch and zipped on out of the station, but as I hurried I was alternately struck by feelings of gratitude and guilt. Gratitude towards the chivalrous stranger, and guilt toward myself: Why didn't I think of that?

OH, I had plenty of self-gratifying daydreams about how I would handle this crazy, and although my put-downs have never been stellar (and would have been lost on this person anyway), I was trying to form a really good zinger in my head, at the same time hoping the crazy wouldn't notice me. But I also knew that my version of self-defense would be the determined stare in the opposite direction, the mantra "woe is me for being a beautiful woman onset by a maniac stranger. how i wish society would wise up to the fact that women are people too" repeating at the same rate as the "Hey hey hey hey! *smooching sounds*" addressed to me.

But of COURSE! I could ask for help! What a great idea! Just tell someone that there was a crazy person on the train and wait for them to handle the situation.

I guarantee you none of the women in that car thought of that.

And I believe this is why: There's this strange complex I hold between being independent and self-reliant, determined to show the world that I am by no means one of those damsel-in-distress type and being open to the possibility that the other sex can help out sometimes. On the one side, the feminist in me demands that I do my part in continuing to break down the damsel-in-distress stereotype, while on the other side, my romantic desire for a knight in shining armor continuously looks for opportunities for the knight to appear in full armored form. So I would have sat silently, willing crazy-person to go away and lamenting my status in society that prevents me from confronting the crazy person.

Another reason I believe it took a man to think of notifying a station manager: women had to fight for themselves for the right to vote, are still fighting for equal wages in the workplace, and will continue to fight against the women-at-home stereotype. Some of those battles are ones waged at much with ourselves than with the manly status-quo, but history has not provided us with significant stories about men in power willing to help women gain a foothold. Men trust in the power of other men in power, and so perhaps might think of using that authority for good before a woman would.

I think that women are also conscious that men in power like to help women verbally accosted in the subway by the insane because it means that the women are still unable to help themselves and must rely on a man to fight their battles for them. So it took a guy to approach the station manager because no woman wanted to be the damsel in distress. Not even in my solidarity with those ladies who dealt with the crazy man's breath in their face, did I think to tell someone in charge that there was a crazy person making women nervous and upset on the train. We all sat in silence, mentally pushing, shoving, freeing ourselves from the small space into which we had suddenly been cornered, but keeping lips closed and eyes locked straight ahead.

I'm grateful for the chivalrous stranger, I really am. I just wish that there was a chance one of us could have stood up for the rest of us right then and there, or that I hadn't missed my opportunity to be a chivalrous stranger (albeit a somewhat divided one) to another woman, whose plight I can identify with and whose safety and stability I do honestly hold as dear.

On-the-Job Issues

As I have recently joined the 8-5 workers category there are a few issues I have come across recently and would like to bring to the discussion table. Namely, talking on the phone while in the bathroom. Perhaps this is an issue particular to this place of work (which shall remain nameless to protect those involved), but let me know if there are any other places where, if talking on the phone is not allowed while at the desk, people fit it in anywhere they can. But is the toilet really the best place for this? Let's look:

First of all, it's weird and awkward to walk into the toilet and hear "hey baby" from a stall, not to mention disconcerting. I'm not really sure how to respond to that, especially when its followed by "mmmhmmmm."

Second, how many times has the person on the other end of the line heard me pee? I'm not really certain I'm comfortable with that.

So just some small issues at the new workplace. Hopefully nothing that will cause any, er,accidents.

Punk-rock Chic I am Not

In the spirit of expanding my horizons I recently attended a punk rock show. And, in this spirit, I have come to invaluable realizations about myself. Namely, that I will never be a punk rocker.

"Don't get scared" was the encouraging words accompanying my entrance into the (literally) cellar bar where the gig was taking place. Mohawks, studs, chains, large boots, nose rings, and multi-colored hair also greeted me, but they didn't scare me. Punks are amazing people- some of the nicest I have ever met, which is interesting considering the amount of anger within punk songs. However over the course of the night (in which there were some enjoyable beats and funky bass-lines, I will say that), the only lyrics I ever understood was "I'm not sorry/I'm not sorry/Fuck you", and after that unintelligible screaming. I love lyrics- I love the stories and the emotions the words invoke with the added emotionality of the music- but if you're gonna put words in a song it would be nice to understand them. Otherwise what's the point? Of course, just screaming with this kind of hard-core punk is definitely word-music agreement. Frustrated by my lack of ability to hear anything other than 'fuck', I turn to Andy, resident punk rocker and lover of the music,
"What's the difference between this and heavy metal? Cuz it sounds exactly the same to me. "
"Oh no, metal is played in drop D and this is in E" Matter-of-factly.
"There's only a step difference inbetween them?" That's it? Really? Well you could have fooled me.
So now not only do I not understand a word, but all I'm hearing is rage and all I can see are people throwing themselves wildly at each other in what some call dancing and I call possesed.
After warily watching a drunk man spill every last drop of his recently-bought beer upon everyone in the vicinity, I realized that I was quite angry with him for no real reason other than that he might spill some of his drink on me. The music made me angrier and angrier, and as the rage built, so did my frustration at being upset for no reason other than listening to angry music. I boiled and boiled until I reached critical mass and then made a bolt for the door, scaring Andy half to death. With hardly a word of explanation other than "I'll be waiting outside" I plowed my way through the studs and mohawks, dragging a confused Andy behind. "You look like you've been raped!" He says as we get outside, and I can only agree. My mind and musical appreciation have been raped by angry men with spiky hairdos, and I only want to not be angry anymore. This wasn't fun at all, and neither was it cathartic.
Don't get me wrong, mentally I appreciate and even agree with the political and social agnst of punk, yet emotionally and pathetically I can't handle it.

Horizons broadened and experiences gained. Now let's not do that again.

Today the frost never quite went away from the tops of buildings never touched by the sun, or from the earth always in shadow. One side of North Bridge was glittering from 10am to 4pm and covered in doodles of people making their (somewhat impermanent) marks by noon. It was cold enough to turn your nose rudolph-red after a venture outside, but it was a crisp and shiny afternoon: made more brilliant by the reflections off the frost and only hazy at sunset as the steam from thousands of bodies and vehicles clouded the light. Along the gardens, one of the only places to get a good amount of sun during they day in Edinburgh, the frost remained in curious lines inside the shadows of park benches, while all around the grass was still spring-green.


Walking through the meadow was nothing less than an entrance into a Currier and Ives postcard. [A similie I struggle to include, by the way. We've come to relate the very idyllic and cheesy to Currier and Ives, but its now gotten to the point that even saying "like Currier and Ives" is cheesy.] The icy grass was crunchy underfoot if we ventured off of the pavement lined with bare, inky trees, and groups of brave atheletes ran about in the frost, their bodies giving off as much steam as their heavy breathing. Grunts as sharp as the air surrounding us were heard as they laboured to keep warm.
The smallest of hills- still surprisingly green underneath the dusting of snow- sloped gently in front of 18th century houses beginning to go hazy in the dimming light but highlighted by street lamps that shone from the distance like small orbs of fuzzy yellow light. The landscape could only have been more postcard-ish with the entrance of two children bundled in winter coats dragging a small red sled up the tiny incline, their tobaggan hats bouncing up and down while they waddled as only children in 5 layers of clothing can do. I had to stop mid-step, Starbucks coffee steaming madly from my gloved hand, and exclaim how perfect the scene was.