Two Homes for the Holidays

I've spent the last few days berating myself for failing to complete my mid-20’s magnum opus by my self-imposed deadline.

What should be a fast-moving tale of serendipity, violence and identity struggle is coming along, but at a dial-up modem’s pace.

I have only myself to blame for this, though it’s hard not to dwell on minor contributing factors: my subject’s illness, the job search, election distractions, a certain golden retrievers’ dependency issues, operation Fit into my Suits. The list goes on and on.

I came up with another excuse yesterday, though its relevance is still being vetted. It goes something like this:

I get work done when I’m here. But I haven’t actually BEEN HERE all that much.

I did the math (skepticism warranted), and it seems that since returning from South Africa in early October, I've evenly divided my time between northern Indiana's preeminent writing retreat and a conservative salon in northwest Washington called La Casa de Josef & Brian (CJ&B), known to outsiders simply as unit 825 at The Argonne.

Maybe I’ve spent too much time there. But I find solace in my east coast retreat, and cherish my alter ego as a jet-setting mystery woman curiously linked to 825’s handsome Texan tenants.

The two urban cowboys spend a weekend at a dusty, five star ranch, and Mystery Girl holds cover letter writing sessions in their absence. They leave early for Christmas, and Ms. Enigmatic collects their mail and invites a friend over for bagels. What, I wonder, does the building staff think of the girl who swoops into the apartment, stays for days at a time and acts like she owns the place—losing her laundry, locking herself out, swapping life stories with the Chinese owners of the basement bodega?

Do they wonder if I’m a sister? Friend? How I pay my "rent?”

(I would like to say in charm, but that’s pushing it. It’s more like I pay by eating the chocolate in the apartment so that nobody else has to.)

Ah, the practice tryst. I’d highly recommend it.

I wouldn’t change anything about my latest trip to apt 825. My itinerary was packed, but it was worth it:

Josef let me accompany him to a World Bank holiday party, where I wined and dined with the internationals. I caught up with an old college pal during a road trip to Baltimore. I saw my best friend try on her wedding dress and got misty eyed over how beautiful she looked, but regained emotional balance after learning that the bridal shop also sold Frosty the Snowman costumes, allowing me to dress up and do a little jig. I had two interviews, one of which horrified the Texans and might actually come to something.

On one of my final nights, I met a lawyer friend who decided that he wanted to become more than friends when I admitted that I shared his fascination with civil war re-enactments. I was asked to push back my flight a day so that we could tour Gettysburg, but declined. I bought a pair of skinny jeans, three years after they became fashionable, and had many thought-provoking conversations and tasty dinners.

During my quiet moments on the most comfortable couch/bed in the world, I spent time thinking about how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends.

In short: pretty damn lucky.

And then two days ago, along with several wailing infants and a handful of short-tempered, overworked flight attendants, I boarded a plane and flew back to the Artic tundra.

It's 2 degrees here. Negative 20 with the wind chill. The trees outside my house look like they're made out of crystal. Many are frozen in bows to last week's ice storm, their top branches brushing the ground.

Our power flicks on and off, but we're lucky. Thousands won't have electricity by Christmas.

It is 40 degrees in Washington, balmy in comparison; I'm already thinking about my next CJ&B booking.

I do, however, have this crazy thing called a job starting on Monday, which could complicate my travel plans. More on that to come.