march [memoir] madness

I may be mediocre at most things, but I'm spectacular at procrastinating.

The memoir I started writing last January has sat untouched in a Dropbox folder since—June? Pitiful.

As much as I love writing, I'm easily distracted by TV. By instagram. By the two needy puppies who are as annoying as they are cute.

In an effort to get off my lazy lump and make some writing progress, I've instituted #MarchMemoirMadness. 

On March 1, I wrote for 30 minutes. On March 2, I did it again. And today, yet again. 

I'm committing to this for one month, in the hopes that it will turn from a chore into a habit, from a habit into a hobby. 

17,800 words and counting...

P.S. You're welcome to steal this idea and customize, making it March [insert your goal here] Madness. 

new ways to sweat (1 of 5)

You know those people who make waaaaay too many New Year's resolutions and then have a hard time keeping them? Yeah, I'm one of them. But if I blog about my resolutions... will I feel more responsible for following through? It's worth a shot.

One of these resolutions is to try at least 5 different workouts that are out of my comfort zone.


First up: BODYPUMP
I saw a poster at the gym for a class called BODYPUMP and decided I would go. I knew very little about it, other than it had something to do with weights.

The most awkward part about attending a class for the first time is the set-up—those first 5 minutes when everyone is buzzing around the room collecting their gear and you're scanning the room to gather intel. She has four blocks. I go get four blocks. He has two dumbbells. I go get two two dumbbells.

I should've known I was in trouble when Irina, the short but super-fit instructor with a slight-Schwarzenegger accent, walked in the room and yelled, "Are you ready to pump, BODYPUMPERS?" 

1 hour and 800 repetitions later... did you read that? 800 REPS. In ONE HOUR. CAPITAL LETTERS are here to EMPHASIZE THE PAIN. Here's my review:

And while I'd be much too embarrassed to show you what I looked like during this class, here's a little YouTube promo video to give you an idea. Bet you wouldn't have guessed it, but my weights weren't as big as this guys'...


Stay tuned for the next challenge: BODYATTACK

rest for pilgrims

A house of shelter or rest for pilgrims, strangers, etc. 

If you look up hospice in the dictionary, that's the first definition you'll find.

I learned yesterday that my grandmother is now under hospice care. She's traveled slowly down the road of Alzheimer's for about seven or eight years. 

She wouldn't know me if she saw me today. Because she lives in Maine (and because she can no longer hold a phone conversation), it's been a long time since I've seen or talked to her. 

This is my sweet Nana. I miss her terribly. I've missed her for a while, so I was a bit shocked by the fresh wave of grief when the word "hospice" came from my dad's mouth.






























If anyone deserves a house of shelter or rest, it's you Nan. You've always been the picture of strength, determination, patience, tough love, and kindness. Witty. Sharp as a tack. Quick to speak your mind. A big heart and a big laugh. Hands always moving, always warm, with slight callouses from a lifetime of caring for a hospital full of patients, four children, and ten grandchildren. 


At Thanksgiving especially, I think of you. I wear the cross necklace you gave me on Thanksgiving when I was in fourth grade. I remember the holidays in Boston, all of us packed into two rooms while the rest of the house sat empty. Jumping on your couches, playing dress-up in your closet, the smell of some form of Italian food mixed with cigar smoke hanging in the air.

I'm grateful for you. In every way.
   

picking up the pieces

I stand in my bedroom, in the dark, hands on my face, surveying the open dresser drawers, bare nightstands, and glass on the floor. The heavy July air pushes in through the open window and I hear my own voice in a manic chant, "Who the fuck steals lamps? Who the fuck steals lamps?"

It's been said that nothing bad can happen to a writer, because everything is material. 

In other words, catastrophes make for interesting stories. 

I can't disagree.

In mid July, Ryan and I traveled to a sleepy mountainside in southern New Hampshire to see my best friend get married. It was breathtaking [photo as evidence]. 

Days later, we arrive home after midnight. We'd driven to the airport separately, and so Ryan pulls into the driveway maybe a minute before me. I cut the engine and start to step out of the car when he asks, "Did you put something in front of the door before you left?"

Me: "No. What are you talking about?"
Him: "Did you leave a light on?"
Me: "No," racking my memory and at the same time fighting the immediate dread that pulls at my throat.
Him: "I just tried the door and it won't open."

We walk together around the front yard and see nothing. We walk into the backyard and notice a small silver-colored stake sticking out of the grass.

"What's that?" I'm asking at the same moment my eyes dart up to the back of the house. Light shines out through the shattered window. We'll later realize that the metal stake is our curtain rod.

Adrenaline tells me to run, and I do. I grab my bag (phone inside), and then I'm standing at our neighbor Jerry's door, trying to knock in a non-frantic way but failing as my knuckles hit faster and faster to no avail. 

In the background I hear Ryan on the phone with 911. I'm pleading with him to walk away from our house, to get out of sight, imagining the intruder running toward us, gun raised.

Minutes later, three cop cars appear. They search the house, find it empty, then ask us to identify what's missing.

And that's where this story began. Me, in the bedroom. Our bedside lamps missing. I'm staring at a naked pillow, whose case was likely used to carry my jewelry box, laptop, our knife set, DVD player, and iPod dock. Our kitchen stools are gone. The table that matches was left behind in the hallway—propped against the door—which explains why Ryan couldn't open it in the first place.


An hour passes. The police take photos. Search for fingerprints. Bear witness to me collapsing in the kitchen when I realize that, with my computer gone, I'm missing years of photos and writing. Then they're gone as quickly as they came, and Ryan and I are left.

Fear is a terrible emotion. I'm scared to stay at the house, but scared to leave it again. It's a feeling that lingers for weeks.

But as we lay wide-eyed in our own guest bedroom that night, tucked away in the basement, he wrapped his arms around me and whispered, "Tomorrow, we'll start picking up the pieces."

And we have. In the months that have passed, we've replaced what we could. I still miss the irreplaceable things—my mom's rosary beads, my aunt's earrings, etc.—but remind myself that they're only things. Then I remind myself that karma is a huge bitch, and someone out there has one hell of tidal wave headed their way.

I've neglected to blog since this incident, knowing I had to write about it and also knowing it would force me to relive it. Even now it makes my heart pound. But now it's done, down and out, and we can move on. Here's to happier things.

trading it in

I never planned to change my last name. I thought it was an outdated and chauvinistic tradition, and I liked the name I already had—the one I was born with. I love the family history it holds. In a weird way, I even love that it's difficult to pronounce. I was never one of the girls doodling "Mrs. So-and-so" in my notebooks*.

But then I got married. And I traded it in. 


"Pasquariello" became "McGinnis." And to be honest, at first I felt like an impostor—or worse, a traitor.


It was a tough decision. Really tough. I cried about it, and not just a single tear but a wet-faced, steering-wheel-gripping pity party.


How come women never talk about that? I know I'm not the only one in history to have a hard time letting go of her last name. But so many women get excited about a new name, that I almost felt guilty for having the opposite emotion.


But I ended up doing it anyway. Why?


The short answer is that I decided it was the right decision for us—that tiny little word that makes such a big difference—graduating from me to us.


The long answer is... more complicated. Several conversations went around in circles. I discovered his reasons for wanting me to take his last name weren't chauvinistic—they were actually rather sweet, which only pissed me off. Because my reasons were equally justified. 


It was a complete stalemate. There was no truly feasible compromise, since hyphenating would mean a 20-letter last name. My best friend Laura suggested getting a maiden name tattoo, which I actually considered before deciding against it.

too long for a tat

a bit unwieldy 

I did a little soul-searching, and by that I mean talking to a few friends (if you're reading, thanks for listening), staying up late one night listening to Adele, drinking Pinot Noir, and writing my name out in fine point Sharpie on notebook paper in every possible combination. I'd look at it every few days, think about it, write it down, think about it some more.


On the blistering hot day we found ourselves at the Athens-Clarke County Courthouse filing paperwork, there was a blank line that demanded FUTURE LAST NAME. I wrote "McGinnis" on the form, and handed it to my future husband. He set about filling in his portion, and then he saw it. He stopped. He smiled. 


Pointing to the line, he asked, "What's that?"


I didn't answer. 


"I'd hoped we'd get there, but I didn't think we were there yet."


And that's how it happened. It might've been a decision I made for us, but it was a conclusion I had to reach on my own. 



*Disclaimer: I once owned a shirt that said "Mrs. Clooney" but I don't think that counts.

resolutions schmesolutions

Folks, it's a frosty -1 degrees with the wind chill. Or is it -1 degree (singular), since there aren't multiple degrees to be found? Regardless, it's freaking cold. And this is our street right now, covered in a fine layer of white.

The internet here at our house has been touch-and-go since mid December, hence why my 12 Days of Christmas series ended almost before it began. Oh well. It's fixed now, the new year is here, and we're moving on.

This is the part where I announce a resolution to write more in 2012. Or is it?

In 2008, I wrote 55 posts. In 2011, only 24. In my own defense, I also lived by myself back then. I probably spent more time in front of my computer, whereas now I spend more time curled up in front of the TV with Ryan. But can you blame me? It's cold, and he's warm (and cute).

Anyway. I also blog less these days because I think too hard about trying to write something great instead of just writing... whatever. Random shit. Like this—check out this necklace I bought last weekend. I thought it was super cute and then halfway through the day I realized I kind of looked like Mr. T. 

Yep. There it is. 2012. Boom.

on the 12th day of christmas

12 Days of Christmas, 12 Days of Gratitude starts now.

The past 12 years have been very kind to me. I've...

• Gotten my drivers license 
• Had my first kiss
• Graduated high school 
• Rocked out at some kickass concerts
• Learned a lot from a few bad relationships
• Made it through college with a little help from my fabulous friends
• Traveled to 2 new continents
• Made my way through 3 jobs at 3 great companies
• Married the love of my life

A lot can happen in 12 years. In 1999, I was your average 15-year old, unsure and awkward. Although I'll never fully accept the title of "grown-up," I really do enjoy being 27. So thankful for the life I have today, and all the people who have helped me get to this point.

skipping september

60 days ago — the last time I bothered to blog — it was August 20. Sunny, high of 95. A regular Friday.

I go to work, eat lunch, drive home, pack a suitcase. Put the suitcase in Ryan's 4Runner and we head north to Chi City, listening to Kanye's Graduation album on repeat (Chi City, Chi City, do you think about me now and then, do you think about me now and then, cuz I'm coming home again.)

"I was thinking we could walk around downtown when we get there and test out the new camera," he says.
"Cool."

There's a superfine mist blowing through Chicago, the kind that keeps vegetables alive at the grocery store. The sky is dusty mahogany and starless. We click our way through the city like true tourists, stopping to take too many pictures and kissing on street corners.

Down Michigan Ave and through Grant Park until we arrive here, at Buckingham Fountain. The skyline is unreal and we soak it in. The park is filled with spectators and loud parade music, and I'm exceedingly upset by a pack of preteen boys who are chasing down a scared little rabbit. We start back toward the hotel.

I'm still worrying about the "poor bunny" and Ryan keeps trying to change the subject. He's recounting minute details of a long walk we took on a rainy night years ago, asking 'remember this?' and 'remember that?' until I blurt out, "You never remember our dates, why do you remember so much about that night?"

"Because that's when I knew I loved you."

Even though I'd asked for details plenty of times, he's never told me this before — the first time he knew he loved me. Why is he telling me now? I'm wondering, and the pieces come together like a Jenga game in reverse. He's carrying a backpack. He's wearing cargo shorts. That's a lot of storage space. He seems nervous. He's never nervous. He's making me nervous.

The sign in front of Millennium Park says 'closed' but we go in anyway. He sets the camera up to take a picture of us on the park bench. He's fiddling with it, and fiddling and fiddling.

"Why don't you just have someone else take our picture?" I ask. People stream past, a few stragglers like us in the park after hours. And then there were two. The park is empty. My heart is pounding. He hits the camera button and walks toward the bench where I'm sitting. Kneels in front of it. And before he can say anything, at that supposed pinnacle of one's romantic life, what do I say?

"You are not doing this right now!"
"Yes, I am." He says. And he says much more, words that I will always remember and rarely share.

We're wrapped up and talking and I'm on the verge of tears, and don't even notice the security guard until he shouts, "The park is CLOSED. Ya gotta get out."

So we relocate. We drink a glass of champagne at an overpriced bar. We stare at my hand and hold each others. We can't stop smiling and our faces ache, in a good way. A very good way.

in bloom

My first March in Indiana, and the first sign of spring has appeared alongside the driveway. Visible proof of change.

Then there’s invisible change — the kind that’s harder to understand, to accept, to process. Change that I’ve been ignoring since August — which is the simple fact that this is my new “home.”

All winter, I’ve been busy trying to ignore that fact. Busy pretending that I’m living some parallel life to the one I left behind, and that everything in Atlanta is exactly as I left it. Telling myself that, if I chose to, I could return and pick up where I left off. When the obvious truth is that life moves on, whether or not you're ready for it.

But spring is made for new beginnings, right? The snow has melted and my down jacket has been retired for the season. Warm weather and sunshine are creeping closer. Ryan gave me these beautiful little roses. All reasons to smile today.

the physchology of baking

I have a confession to make. I've been baking compulsively since I moved to Indiana.

Muffins, Cookies, Breads, Brownies. I didn't know what my problem was. And then Laura said something which made a whole lot of sense.

First you must know that what Laura and I have in common, other than being natives of Campton, NH, is that we've both had a lot of free time on our hands (for vastly different reasons, I should add). But more than enough of it, to the point where free time isn't fun time anymore. It haunts you, in a way. (I know the busy people who happen to read this are shaking their heads in annoyance, thinking Well I wouldn't feel that way... but you'd be surprised).

So, with no knowledge of my baking endeavors, what she said was this:

"Sometimes I just need to bake some brownies, you know? Just to have a set of instructions, and be able to follow them, and you know exactly what you're gonna get."

And there it was.

To be able to control the variables. To know that it's a project that you can actually finish. To feel as if you've fulfilled some sugary purpose. To be able to look at that huge stack of baked goods at the end of the day, and know that you created it. That you changed something.

It sounds foolish, but it's immensely gratifying when life is otherwise a smorgasbord of starts and stops, scrubbing a dirty old house which never comes clean and job hunting (me), bullshit insurance paperwork and trying to reclaim a normal life (her).

This is the part where I wrap up with some sweeping, uplifting commentary, right? How about a cookie instead?

going a little nuts

This will be one of those entries where, in the beginning, I intend to make one concise point. But then, as one idea bounces to another, it will surely meander along, making murky thought-puddles instead of points. So, you've been warned.

This is what my house looks like now. While I try to be patient and accept that it's all "part of the process" as Ryan so kindly reminds me, it's driving me a little crazy.

Then, the other day, I get a much-needed life lesson from a squirrel. How is such a thing possible? you wonder.

I'm sitting in my car, in the driveway, listening to NPR (and just so you don't think I'm all-too-classy, I was also finishing my McDonald's fries). I see this freakishly huge squirrel in the backyard, carrying what looks like three miniature tennis balls in his mouth. He approaches the fence. I stop eating the fries. I grab my camera.

He tries to push his way under the fence, but doesn't fit. Does he quit and drop the loot? No. Does he give up and eat his meal on that side of the fence? No. After several failed attempts, he climbs up and over. Success.

The lesson here is obvious. It's like the little engine that could, except that he's a squirrel, not an engine. And as previously stated, he wasn't little. He was very large (and orange — what is it with these Indiana squirrels? They're all orange).

So then I get to wondering, what was that he was carrying anyway? I do a little research....

At first I think it's a fig. And I get excited like any English nerd would, because as a Plath fan and fellow neurotic, I've always loved this Bell Jar passage:

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.

Alas, it's not a fig. My best cyber-sleuthing skills tell me it comes from a Black Walnut tree.

No deeper meaning there. Just a squirrel with a nut.

a little perspective

While I was still sleeping this morning (in our makeshift basement bedroom/cave, avoiding the mountains of unpacked boxes looming upstairs), my dad emailed this photo...

Sunrise over Atlanta, from 375 feet up in the Bank of America building. And I'm reminded that my mountains of boxes are more like molehills.

It's a great big beautiful world, isn't it?

why are the worst jobs easiest to find?

I found both of these gems this afternoon, while searching for positions in the "advertising/marketing" field. Not sure how they ended up there, but the trend I'm smelling is that the worst jobs are the most highly publicized. So, friends, let's take a vote...

Potential Job #1
















Potential Job #2
Major liquor brand is looking for FEMALE brand ambassadors in the Indianapolis area!!!!

Candidates should be 21 years of age, have reliable transportation, and an outgoing personality.
Must be willing to wear a short jean shirt or short shorts, a midrif top, and cowboy boots.
Hours will be nights and weekends (about 10 hours per week for at least 3 months)
This position offers excellent pay ($20-25/hr.) and a fun working environment!

life without the "stuff"

After living out of a suitcase for four weeks, I've graduated to living out of boxes. I have my clothes, a nightstand, a dresser, a filing cabinet and my computer. It feels a bit Spartan. I think I could get used to it.

I've confiscated this sunny nook in Ryan's apartment (technically "our" apartment but it still feels like "his"), where I set up a small workspace overlooking Meridian Street. Perfect for people watching and sharing the neighbor's internet. This is day nine in Indy.















Number of Colts games attended: 1
Number of times I've gotten lost: 2
Number of times I've cried: 2
Number of state fairs attended: 1
Number of red lights accidentally run: 1
Number of antique shops visited: 3
Number of mules fed (at an antique shop): 1

For the past week, I kept thinking I need to write about this... and I kept procrastinating. When everything is new, I find that everything is worth writing about. And since that would be impossibly overwhelming, I've just avoided it.

Plus, I've been busy ignoring certain realities (like how much I will miss my old life), and distracting myself with other things. Things like: finding a job, trying new recipes, making lots of to-do lists, running, driving in circles, watching Real Housewives ATL with Ryan (and finally talking to him without a cell phone), etc.

All the while, I'm sure there's some tepid pool of emotion lurking right under the surface, just waiting for me to slow down. And when I do, it will surely catch up with me. Sigh.

dear facebook,

Thanks for the oh-so-subtle reminder...






This is my current view from Starbucks, across the street from the new digs, where I just laid down four precious dollars for two measly hours of internet. Whatever, I'll mark it down on my budget spreadsheet as "research."

















Things are good so far... I've unpacked a few boxes at the apartment. Still feels like I'm just visiting for the weekend though, and I'm wondering how long it will take to feel permanent. The Penske truck is still loaded up and I'm waiting for Ryan to get back from work, so we can move it all into storage. Hooray for heavy lifting!

from georgia, to georgia street

This is Ryan's new home (on the left): the Harness Factory Lofts in downtown Indy. Ironically enough, his address is 30 E. Georgia Street. The building to the right is the Conseco Fieldhouse, a sports/event arena. The other photo is the view from our apartment, on the sixth floor, on the other side of the building.

Here's a video tour of the new digs — it's a bit messy because he'd only moved in two days earlier.

big change

After three years of long-distance dating (preceded by two years of same-town dating), Ryan and I have decided to meet halfway. His job has moved him from Boston to Indianapolis, so... I'm heading up there August 15.

Call it a leap of faith, or call it a little crazy: I'm willingly leaving a happy home, loving friends, an irreplaceable family and steady job. But to quote the wise wizard Albus Dumbledore, there comes a time when "you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy."

I could easily never leave this place, this city, these people. But I know it is the right time to make a change, to take a risk, to shake up the etch-a-sketch and draw something new. And now, to answer a few FAQs:

Are you sure you want to do this?
Yes

Do you really want to leave your job in the middle of a recession?
No, but unless my company would like to open a satellite office in Indianapolis, my options are slim.

What will you do when you get there?
Not sure yet. I'm applying to two grad programs (one for a MA in English & one for an MFA in Creative Writing), but I'm also planning to apply to a few copywriter postions. And I'm not above kicking it as a bookstore employee for a little while. We'll see what happens.

Are you guys getting married?
Quello che sarà, sarà (this is intentionally cryptic; sorry to thwart your quest for answers)

Are you really sure you want to do this?
Yes*
*I reserve the right to complain about how miserable I may be this winter, when it's freezing and snowing, and I'm craving sweet tea and boiled peanuts, and missing all of you wonderful, beautiful people who have my heart back in the south.

[photo credit: Trey Pasquariello]

north & south

My mom recently told me this bit of trivia about hydrangeas: the color of the flower depends completely on the pH of the soil. So the only difference between white hydrangeas and blue hydrangeas is the acidity of the soil they are planted in. And the more I thought about that, the more a strange parallel began to form in my mind: aren't the trials we endure, the ways we are tested and the adversity we face — aren't these what shape and color us, and make us what we are?

June 21st marked my family's 11th year anniversary of moving from New Hampshire to Georgia. The town I grew up in, Campton, had one traffic light. I knew every single kid in the 7th grade. The town I moved to had a middle school head count that dwarfed the entire population of Campton. The move had split my 13-year-old world in two: the world as I knew it, left behind, and the unknown southern abyss that loomed before me.

I hated it. For at least 365 days, I hated it every day. Hated the school, hated my classmates, hated my parents for making me move — you name it, I loathed it. The people talked strangely, and said things like "mash the lights" and "put your books up," when there was nowhere "up" to put them. I remember feeling "wicked out of place." Then I quickly learned that the word 'wicked' was not in a Georgian's vocabulary.

And then slowly, ever so slowly, the boiling hate started to simmer. A year after that, I had a fairly neutral opinion of the place. At some point during high school, a funny thing happened: I'd just been visiting my friend Laura in New Hampshire (who readily pointed out each time I used the word "y'all") and when the plane landed at Hartsfield Jackson, I sighed with relief and comfort. I felt like I was home for the first time.

Today, I'm grateful for both of my home states, and what they've brought to my life...


New Hampshire has given me:
an appreciation for the sound of snow and the smell of rain; a love of solitude; the ability to ski; a love of small towns and country fairs; & an enthusiasm for exploring the outdoors.

Georgia has given me:
a willingness to take risks; confidence; an open mind; an appreciation for SEC football; & the ability to make new friends.