Perfectionism often keeps me from enjoying the moment at hand–always looking to when everything falls “perfectly in place.” […]
Michelle Junot
Dear Winter, The reds, oranges, and yellows of November are grey and blue and soft shades of brown […]
Winter isn’t just about the cold. We layer up to protect our bodies from the cold, the wind, […]
Winter has come and humbled me. And if I’m being honest, it arrived months ago. I’ve just been […]
I have this friend—we’ll call her Amanda (because that’s her name). Amanda and I have been compiling a list of things we ought to do in Baltimore this summer:
- Maryland Crabs
- Quality Time with My New Apartment & Pool
- Actually Move Me into My New Apartment (check)
- Try Raw Oysters (check)
- Paint Amanda’s Apartment
- Sushi Dates (check)
- Wedding Crashing
- Movies on the Pier (did not go as planned…sorry Amanda)
- Woodberry Kitchen
- Fleet Week (check although I’m scarred for life thanks to Martha, Amanda, and Ian)
- Pirate Ship Party
- Fells Point Ghost Tours
- Dress as Cows and Get Free Chick-fil-a (missed opportunity)
- Run a 5k
- New York
- Orioles Games
- Date an Oriole
- Washington, DC
- Adventures. Lots and lots of adventures. (in-progress)
- Massages
- Re-learn German (Amanda) and French (Me)
- Steak Night
- Make Pottery
- Get Through Summer School (big check!)
- Artscape (slightly disappointing, but complete nonetheless)
- Get Our Lives Together (in-progress)
This isn’t our complete list, but I think you’ve got a feel for our summer goals. And it’s important that you understand our goals and a bit about us, because I’m about to use this people-watching blog to give you a glimpse of a Saturday in July.
In honor of my sister’s “leaving on a jet plane” yesterday, I’ve decided it’s time to wrap up […]
My flight was delayed in November.
It happens. Especially in November. And December, too. And then there’re the summer months because everyone’s going on vacation. Oh, and holiday weekends cause a bit of trouble as well. There’s the occasional weather delay—if not here, it’s where you’re headed. And who hasn’t experienced the “there’s something wrong with the plane” delay. (That’s my favorite actually. Except I don’t like when we end up leaving on that same plane.)
Last semester I found myself sitting on planes quite often. I don’t mean this in a figurative way like I rediscovered my soul or anything of that nature. Nor do I mean to imply that I was sleep-traveling (although, how neat would that be?). I simply mean to say that I traveled a lot via airplane during the months of November and December. (I suppose I could have just said it that way to begin with, but I didn’t want to. Deal with it.)
I wouldn’t say I was a “frequent flyer,” but I would tell anyone who’d listen that I could get through security—shoes off, coat off, scarf off, giraffe necklace off, change out of pocket, laptop out of bag, liquids in a clear quart-sized Ziploc, boarding pass out, small talk with security guard, shoes back on, scarf and coat in hand to put on later, giraffe necklace thrown in bag with laptop and liquids, change forgotten in plastic bin—in under two minutes. This is, of course, if I was among other non-novices. If a first time flyer was anywhere in front of me, all bets were off.
I’m at Starbucks near the harbor—close enough to mention, far enough to park for free—and I’m supposed to be writing about a past, flawed relationship. But facing my own naivety doesn’t seem near as fun as people watching, so I choose the latter.
Small groups of people are scattered around the patio, swapping life’s disappointments or the promise of the upcoming weekend, and I sit alone at a table for two.
An older, red Honda pulls into the parking space in front with the unmistakable crunch of bumper hitting concrete. There’s a collective gasp and the chatter momentarily stops. Mouths hang ajar as they watch the car reverse slowly, producing a scrape rather than a crunch this time.
When the older gentleman (maybe 60) steps out of the car, he smirks at the onlookers and I turn away. I’m embarrassed for him, although he seems relatively unaffected. The patio crowd continues to point at the car and talk about the event, even after he walks inside. They’re acting as though he rolled over a box of kittens, their blood giving his car its audacious color. He crunched his bumper. It happens.
I think of myself as a humble person. That’s why I have my own blog. (Actually, it’s two blogs and an online portfolio.) But modest as I am, I must confess that in the past I was somewhat of a legend. A grammar legend. My friends and family would never admit it because, well, they were probably jealous, but it’s true.
I knew the rules, the exceptions, and when to pause for effect. Like here. Not only did I know how to diagram a sentence; I could do it in less than a minute. I was even part of human sentences that were then verbally diagrammed by our eighth grade class. I was always the comma. (Thanks Mrs. Gilbert; that was a good week.)
These days I’m feeling less confident and certainly less cocky (about grammar). I remember the terms, and I remember the rules…but I cannot remember which terms go with which rules and don’t even get me started on those exceptions! And pauses? I fear that I pause too much: it’s disruptive. I need a refresher course in grammar.