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.

Bad, but not this bad...

If you're interested, check out this blog post by conservative, Christian author Amy Welborn, who just left Fort Wayne.

She found the City of Churches too insular, and is now celebrating her move to, of all places, Birmingham, Alabama.

Is anyone else confused?

City lights, a single's frights, and forgiving Lori Gottlieb

To say that I've shed a tear or two in my life is a bit of an understatement.

In the privacy of my home, my eyes have been known to spill water like Niagara Falls.

But in public places, generally speaking, my pride keeps the flood gates shut.

This explains the grudge I've held against the Atlantic Monthly since last March, when it published an article that made me cry on a YMCA treadmill.

And on the elliptical machine.

And the on the gym floor as I forced myself through multiple sets of sit-ups.

Oh, how I wish the article was about abandoned Iraqi orphans or the war-torn region of Darfur. But nope, not even close. It was about...

(cringe)

...husband hunting.

The article, called "Marry Him! The case for settling for Mr. Good Enough," argues that single women approaching 30 should abandon the quest for true love and hurry up and tie the knot with the most decent, amenable guy around.

In one of many disturbing passages, author Lori Gottlieb writes:

I don’t mean to say that settling is ideal. I’m simply saying that it might have gotten an undeservedly bad rap. As the only single woman in my son’s mommy-and-me group, I used to listen each week to a litany of unrelenting complaints about people’s husbands and feel pretty good about my decision to hold out for the right guy, only to realize that these women wouldn’t trade places with me for a second, no matter how dull their marriages might be or how desperately they might long for a different husband. They, like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

But fear not, single women friends!

Well, at least if you're an urban dweller.

According to a study cited in a recent article in New York magazine, you don't need a husband or a significant other to keep loneliness at bay.

You just need lots of friends. And, ideally, a decent-sized city to find them in.

Take that, Lori!

YMCA throws me out, and Bill Clinton haunts my dreams

My metabolism suffered a crushing blow yesterday.

I was formally kicked out of the YMCA. I had been using my parents’ gym membership, and someone finally noticed that I wasn't 61.

I could sign up for a new membership, but that would require a yearlong commitment, and even if I am going to be in Fort Wayne for that long, there's no way I'll overcome my denial and admit it.

This is all very troubling for two reasons:

1) I had almost convinced myself that I would run a half marathon in late December. I've done 6, and could probably go further, at least on the track inside my heated gym. But it's cold here, like 30 degrees with snow and ice on the ground. I can handle 45 degrees, 40 even. But I have to be honest with myself: Am I really going to start running 10 + miles as my eyelashes freeze and snow smacks me in the face? Unlikely.

2) I was in DC last week for interviews, and was shocked and appalled to discover that I could no longer fit into my suits. And then, to make the horror worse, the tight waist crisis sparked a nightmare about Bill Clinton. I dreamt I met him at a party on a cruise boat, one thing led to another, and then, well... Flash forward several months, and I realize that the reason I can't get into my suits is... You guessed it: I'm having Slick Willie's illegitimate child.

I woke up, sweating, and then had to run to the bathroom to throw water on my face. I couldn't fall back to sleep for 15 minutes.

I guess there's always yoga. Or very long, bundled walks?

I'll have to figure out something soon, or I'll be too afraid to sleep at night.

Election 2008: Indiana goes blue, uneasily

As far as I'm concerned, there were two miracles on Election Day '08:

Obama won. And I found my phantom polling station.

I'm perfectly adept at getting lost on my own. But the Obama campaign made it a little easier on Tuesday by sending me and Brandon, my fellow volunteer, to observe a polling station that didn't, well, exist.

According to the Obama campaign, you can easily find St. Louis Benscance Church, or New Haven's polling station 13, on 15535 Lincoln Highway, between Dewy and Dawkins Roads.

But after spending an hour driving back and forth on Lincoln Highway before dawn last Tuesday, I can guarantee that all you'll ever find between Dewy and Dawkins Roads are barns, fields, train tracks, cows, and a few more fields and barns.

Lucky for us, we eventually found a local who helped us find the real church, which was five miles away on another country road.

(The things you do for the man you love.)

As we walked into the church, a sea of white heads in the voting line turned and looked at us quizzically. Apparently I had forgotten to wear my cowboy boots. And Brandon, a 22-year-old black college student from Chicago, had forgotten his carharts.

We took our places at a table next to Roy and Paul, two septuagenarian Republican volunteers who'd been monitoring elections for 25 years. Our mission was the same as theirs: to count voters in case of a later discrepancy. The Obama campaign had given us a list of names to check off for this purpose. We were supposed to find the poll workers checking in voters (in this case two gray-haired women) and look over their shoulders as they signed people in. Fortunately, though, Roy and Paul had brought a sign-in sheet that they offered to share, so we didn’t have to pester the elderly ladies.

The first few hours passed pleasantly. Brandon and I chitchatted with Roy and Paul and listened to voters discuss issues of local importance.

We learned, for example, that rains have different effects on soybeans and corn, and that the Indianapolis gun show the week before was not to be missed. We learned about broken combines and pick up trucks, and that two farmers got killed last year by their tractors. We learned that polling station 13 also functions as a town hall, gymnasium and day care center, and that the church was having a funeral dinner later that night for a woman called Mary Lou, who apparently knew or was related to everyone in town.

Roy, too, seemed to know everyone in town.

"Hey, Phil,” Roy said to one of his many friends in the voting line. “You still out there at the Kraft factory?"

"Yup. Still out there at the factory. Still huntin' too. "

"How many of them deer you shoot this season?"

"Six or seven. I just sit on my porch these days with my shotgun and they come to me and 'pop,’ they're gone. And I hit two with my truck already."

Roy let out a deep chuckle.

"You know what they say about us folks in New Haven," he said. "Everyone's a deer hunter here."

By 2 pm or so, Brandon and I thought we'd not only learned a lot, but had also made some friends. Then the mood at our table turned tense.

Roy and Paul were running out of paper for their sign-in sheets. They had been giving us carbon copies, but were all out now. They would have to flip sheets over to collect signatures.

Brandon and I were faced with a crucial decision: We could either park ourselves behind the old women, start our own sign in sheet, or keep working off of Roy and Paul's sheets, but give them back when we were done.

I floated the third option by Paul, who turned to me and scowled:

"Who do you think you are?" he said. " Why didn't you come here prepared? You just can't get here late and expect us to do everything for you. We don’t work for you."

Taken aback, I told Paul not to worry—we would rely on the poll workers instead.

As we gathered up our papers to relocate, a middle-aged voter in line turned to me and yelled, "Miss! State your reason for being here in this polling station! What exactly is your business here?"

All 40 voters in line turned my way as I explained that each party is allowed to have two observers at each polling station, and that I was one of those volunteers. Flustered, Brandon and I made our way over to the poll workers, who were less than thrilled to let us peer over their shoulders.

After only ten minutes on the new job, someone tapped me on the back. I turned to see the polling station manager, a fiery brunette who happened to be Roy's daughter.

"Step aside, mam," she said, pinching my sweater. "We’ve been getting some complaints about what you’re doing. I'm not sure that you're allowed to be here. I'm calling the Board of Elections."

Fifteen voters checked in as she peppered the Election Board with questions about what volunteers were and were not allowed to do. Then she shut her cell phone, apologized, and admitted that everything we were doing was completely legal.

I don't think she was trying to cause a problem; I think she was just confused. I doubt a Democratic volunteer had stepped into that precinct for 20 years.

Nevertheless, the setback was irritating, and made me determined to count every last voter.

The polls closed at 6. But with no voters in line at 5:55, I kept my feet firmly planted behind the two old women.

Meanwhile Roy, Paul and Roy's daughter were hurriedly moving chairs and tables, preparing for the evening's funeral dinner.

I get all tech savvy, kind of, and you get to hear South African accents

I'm fascinated by South Africa for many reasons: I love its politics, history, landscape, and diversity.

And I love the accents. I can't get enough of the accents.

If you're interested in hearing some of these beautiful voices, check out the slide show I did while in South Africa.

It's essentially a profile of two white South Africans who lived in London for a while and then decided to return to their country and start a successful restaurant. White flight is a serious problem in South Africa. Most who have the means to get out do so. But some are coming back. While I was in South Africa, I wrote a story on the number of South Africans bucking the trend and returning to the country.

Originally, the slide show was supposed to move on the main AP wire along with my story. But then the story got sent out as part of a special AP service that doesn't send out multi-media projects, so the slide show went nowhere.

Shame for me, and shame for the two adorable guys I made talk to me for over an hour.

If you're ever in Joburg, check out The Attic in Parkhurst and buy them a drink for me. *>)