Plates

I bought my little Subaru five summers ago and happily moved the license plates from my POS Tempo to my new upgrade. I've had the same plates since two weeks after 9/11 and through my six moves in four years, they were my constant. I kept my car registered to my father's address as he was still a co-signer on my title and I moved so often it wasn't worth the money to change them with me. And so there they were, a little piece of Virginia no matter where I was; proof I had a place to go home to.
Today I finally got around to switching my car to North Carolina tags. I avoided it; North Carolina doesn't issue a front plate and that drives me crazy. But I needed to and so I did.
I picked up my lone little plate at the DMV office inside a mall that looks like it was shabby and mostly empty even when it was built in 1985. I took it out to my car and, sitting in my driver's seat, I burst into tears.
I love where I live; I believe that this is the closest thing to a sense of home I've ever had. But that simple act of switching two plates for one was an admission that I was one step farther from my father's house.

And really, he is what I know of home.

Just Dance

Six years ago I sat in the Carrier Dome in flip flops, wedged between Caroline and Jen Cash, eager to get out of a smelly rented robe. We were all hungover, exhausted and stressed about the sheer volume of family currently in town. It was time for Commencement and our speaker was none other than the 42nd President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton. As expected, he was a phenomenal, talking about the difference between the headline and trendline in history. Jen and Alexis fell sound asleep. Like mouth breathing, drooling asleep. Caroline's eyes kept fluttering and the FEG boys behind me were busy blowing up a huge Little Caesar's inflatable pizza. I was enraptured with his words and I soaked them in.
But with all the love I had for his speech, if this had been what we heard that day...well. Watch it. It's 10 minutes, but it sure is worth it. She did a great job.

I Always Wanted to be the Face In Front of Me

This has been the song of 2009...love it. Tell me it isn't great. Go ahead.
Happy Friday!

Easy Living

It started on Saturday when I was sitting on the couch in the living room and Lucinda Williams' West ended and I was wondering what to listen to next. I haven't been able to stop listening to West lately--it's so solid from start to finish; I love her songwriting style. I wanted to keep the alt-country thing going and pulled out Kelly Willis' 2002 album Easy. It's a strong listen, albeit a short one. I listened twice.
Lately the word easy has been coming up a lot. I think about it because I wonder when easy became easy; that is, when did the easy route become my de facto choice. For years my default was the difficult, the tough, the narrow rocky road. I wanted the path of most resistance, I wanted a head wind, jeers against me, adversity, wanted the loneliness of the long distance runner. I took on more than I should, I squeezed myself into ill-fitting groups, beliefs and expectations to prove to some unknown idea that I could do it. I bit off and bit off and bit off long before I could even consider chewing.
And one day I just got tired.
And it was so easy to leave all of it.
Now I choose easy for most everything. I have leaked ambition. It feels like I just ruptured. I don't know if it is precisely the path of least resistance; it feels more like the path of less resistance. I take things as they come and leave them as they go. I don't beat myself up about things I've done or didn't do, things I should be doing or feeling or saying. I'm not holding tightly to much. I'm trying to learn how to balance the idea of long term dreams with the concept of living one day at a time and my pendulum has swung the other direction from where I was. There are times when I get saddened by this type of resignation, but most of the time it's a relief to live without my fight face.
It is selfish but god, it's easy.

Beach

The doors opened up onto our bedrooms, mine on the left, Margarita's on the right and the glass doors to the deck, the deck to the salt air, the salt air to the sky, the sky to sky to sky.

Equal Parts

This past weekend was one of spectating. I like spectating. I thoroughly enjoy watching sports. I love to cheer, to groan, to tailgate and get invested in the drama for a little bit. Anyone who has had to suffer through me watching a Redskins game knows this. I get really invested when it comes to my ‘Skins.

Friday afternoon I met up with Margarita, the Polis, Cara’s Dad and Nathan at the Tourists’ baseball game. I didn’t get there until the 7^th inning; just in time to walk in for free, catch up on the happenings, drink a pint and then leave without the normal boredom that comes with watching baseball. It was a gorgeous spring evening, the kind where the outcome of the game/match doesn’t matter as much as the enjoyment of the experience. After the game the group split, with most everyone going to Wedge Brewery for a pint and Nathan and I going to pick up his dog, drop him and the truck at Nathan’s house then walk to Jack of the Wood for the Habibigy show. Laura and Drew met up with us there and, as expected, it was a great night. The music was lively and unexpected, the conversation was meandering and the company was top-notch. It was another night in this town where I have to pinch myself that I live here, that this is my life. I get to be with my sort of people.

Sunday afternoon M-rita and I met up at memorial stadium to watch Doug, Dan, Clay, Aaron, Dave, etc play their guts out in search of glory and victory for Jack of the Wood’s soccer team. By halftime it was raining feverishly and Margarita and I took shelter in beach chairs under the bleachers. We stayed mostly dry and the boys won.

After the match the whole lot headed around the block to Dirty Jacks, the top-secret speakeasy brewpub for JotW for a Tres de Mayo potluck (or “Cinco de Tres” according to Clay). We played horseshoes, laughed, got herded inside by the grumbles of thunder and then trapped by the violent storms that followed. When I finally left, downtown was empty and without power—no cars, no streetlights, no stoplights—and the drive home was spooky, as if I was the only one left. It took me four tries to get back to my house; every street had a tree down or power trucks blocking the way.

There is no neat conclusion to this summary, only that this weekend I felt like I was equal parts observing life and living it.

Just Like the Waves

Two weeks ago I went to the beach.

Margarita mentioned it, as did Goodboy Norman Featherstone, who, for a pug, is quite observant. Not that Margarita isn’t observant but she is, after all, a human. With a college degree. She should be able to formulate sentences.

Nathan’s family owns the most impressive beach house I’ve ever stayed in and they were gracious enough to share it with us for the extended weekend. I didn’t grow up going to the beach (I only remember going twice my whole childhood: 1987 to Virginia Beach and 1992 to Duck, NC) and haven’t quite grasped the appeal of it before this trip. My impression of the beach was this: airbrushed t-shirts, fat people in small swimwear, overpriced crappy beer, jelly fish, sunburn, lethargy and sand invasions. Not impressive.*

But this trip was relaxing, peaceful, delicious food, microbrews, bocce/root ball games, great conversation, love, dogs, naps and the general feeling of a contented sigh. I shucked oysters with Ian and Nathan, stunk up Wii baseball with Margarita, read on the deck outside my bedroom while the morning tide let out and played fetch with a few very dirty and happy dogs. Waking up to waves is like waking up to love: the sound like safe arms, the salt like warm breath. The first thought one of peace and safety, comfort and hope.

I could get used to that.

*I’d like to give a shout out to the North Myrtle Beach trip of May/June 2006 that was the initial impression breaker. That trip was HILARIOUS.