Clearly Clairvoyant

This past week was my very first business trip. It was actually less business and more middle-school, since the purpose was to get to know the other offices in the Southwest Region--lots of "Get-to-know-you" games and fun activities. We did get to take the "Oldest Cog Railway" up to the top of Pike's Peak; I was hoping for some snow at the top, but it was just cold. We stayed in Manitou Springs, a tiny town outside of Colorado Springs ("Home to 73 (!!) Evangelical Christian Non-Profits") which was very quaint and rather hippyish. Lots of youths in dredlocks who smelled like they hadn't bathed in a few weeks.

The highlight had to be visiting my first Clairvoyant and having my palm read. Having grown up in a ultra-religious household, palm reading was on par with believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and celebrating Halloween---delving into the occult was not appropriate afternoon behavior.

But when we walked by the "Mystical Gardens" (a blue tarp next to a few scraggly flowers and some incense), I had this overwhelming urge to get my palm read. So I coughed up my "$20 for 10 minutes" and ducked inside the tarp. She was tall, thin, reddish-blond hair, tight jeans and long nails painted red and yellow, French manicure style. She had me picture an orb of color behind my eyelids until I could see it (which I was completely unable to do!) and then she began to study my palms. Here's the gist:
1. Apparently, I am clairvoyant as well. Despite my tramatic childhood, the angels have allowed me to "see" things in dreams that have later come to pass. About five years ago, I closed that door but the angels want me to reopen that door because things will come to pass that will affect my family.
2. Speaking of family, I will have three children and two great loves. The man I am with now I will "breed" with (her words, not mine) but will leave him when I meet my "True Love" around age 40.
3. I have hot, red hands which indicate "healer hands" and should be in a healing field of work.

Obviously, she was full of Clairvoyant Shit (although, did I suspect anything other than fake simply from her nails?). I find the idea that I myself am psychic laughable. If her ramblings were true, why would I need to have a List of Questions to Ask God When I Die--a list that is only getting lengthier as I age?

And, no, I still think her parents did it.

One Song for It All

It always strikes me as odd how powerful music is.

I'm not a music-fiend by any means. I can go weeks, months even, without listening to my iPod. I like music, but I listen to NPR more often than music radio. I'm just not on the cutting edge.

But every so often, I will hear a song and memories just come rushing back to me.

Exhibit 1: "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey
Sorority Sister Cristin brought this song to my attention with a Journey's Greatest Hits CD after I blushingly confessed I didn't know the band or their music. Of course I fell in love with the song, but I have one poignant memory that sweeps over me every so often when I hear that song---a memory of me dancing in a bar in Seattle, my friends Jim, Brian and Meigan next to me, all of us shouting, "Don't Stop Believing!" That moment was one of the moments in my life where I paused, looked around and realized how happy I was with my life right then, at that moment. I hear that song now and I ache for my friends and life in Arizona.

Exhibit 2: "Heaven" by DJ Sammy
This song brings me back to my EuroTrash days of studying in Valencia. I remember the first time Amanda, Jessica and I (following some strange boy's instruction) took the bus to a club on the outskirts of town; we paid our 10 Euro entrance fee and went inside to a giant warehouse with the techno pounding, lights spinning, my chesting pumping with the beat of the bass. And the drugs! Everywhere----strangers trying to hand me ecstasy tablets (and the girls vomiting in the bathrooms). I have this gorgeous memory of Amanda dancing, across from me, the lights hazy around her head.

Exhibit 3: "Be Mine" by David Grey
Now this one seems obvious, since it was our wedding song. But when I hear Be Mine on the radio, all of those dance lessons come rushing back. Laughing, sweating, stepping on each other's toes, our dance teacher standing behind us clapping out the beat with her hands and feet. The smell of the studio. Practicing it over and over and over and over until we knew it by heart (but still not quite with the beat).

Exhibit 4: "Sweet Thing" by Van Morrison
My college roommate Barbara sent me two CDs while I was in Kenya. And the first time the song played, it hit my chest like a ton of bricks. I have this memory of laying in bed together during our senior year, the windows open, the cars driving by outside, a breeze gently blowing the half-lowered shade, the smell of those verdant pines that penetrates William and Mary. The comfort of laying with someone who knows you inside and out, who knows you and loves you regardless of your shortcomings. The peace that comes when you don't know where you are going, only where you are that moment.

I Miss the Rains Down in Africa

My friend Jim left for the Congo today. He's working for the Catholic Relief Services and will be Kinshasa for a year. He never ceases to amaze me with his energy and dedication. I love Jim with the kind of unfailing love that means I would do anything----literally anything----for him if he needed it. I'd fly across the world to be with him at a moment's notice if he needed it. I love all my friends, but in terms of understanding me like no one else, Jim takes the cake. He is the most compassionate and kind person I know.

He also served in the Peace Corps in Madegascar. So consequently, whenever I speak with him, I start to reflect on my own short-lived months as a volunteer. Which led me to google several of my PC friends and neighbors today...and I found some great updates on people. Everyone is leading interesting and brilliant lives.

Consequently, sometimes, I feel like a fraud. I know I was there for longer than some, but I was also there only a short time. I start to wonder if by leaving early, did I cheat myself of some unique opportunities that otherwise I will never have? (Probably.) Did I blow my brief negative experience out of the proportion? (Perhaps.) Did I make the right choice to come home early? Or is it such that the grass is always greener? (I will never know.)

Can I even call myself an RPCV? Do I have that right?

I wish I had gone to Kenya the person that I am now---more compassionate, more aware, more open, more willing, less arrogant, less brash. I think I would have stuck out my whole two-years. But that's the mother of all catch-22's, right? My experiences in Africa help shape me into who I am today and without them, I'd still be the same asshole right-out-of-college twit. But I do wish I had experienced some of the sadness of life before my African heartbreak nearly ripped me in two.

I worry sometimes that life will never right itself and this passion that glows in my heart for Africa will burn out before I can set foot on African soil again. I have made some heartbreaking decisions based on this elusive desire to return and work there. Were those decisions in vain?

I feel like I need a reminder, every now and then, of the person I was, the person I am and the person I hope to someday be.

Foster Cat Finds New Home

After taking Briar Patch into our home at a moment's notice, we decided it was time to find her a permanent home. We realized that we couldn't hide a cat from our landlord for three years and it would be best to adopt her out.

I agonized over this decision. I literally held Briar in my arms and cried. I love this little calico cat, but I also know that adopting her to a new home is in her (and our) best interest.

So we posted on Craig's List and a couple responded. We asked to meet them and, even though I was certain they wanted her for her fur (a la Cruela Devile), they turned out to be wonderfully nice cat lovers.

So it's decided. On Saturday, Briar will move into her new home. They are so excited about having her join their family and I can tell she will have a wonderful home.

However, I can't help but feel a little sad each night as I cuddle her soft little body into me and kiss her pink nose. Only a few more days left and she will be out of my life forever....

Getting Here from There

I made the catastrophic mistake of rereading my blog entries--all of them. It blows my mind that I've been keeping this public journal for almost two years. In the past three years, I've seen and done so much and it breaks my heart a little to see the person I am on the other side of that tunnel. Between Here and There and Africa and Boyfriends and and Heartbreak and the Unexpected and Unplanned, my life took a different course than what I had originally charted.

Reading those early entries, when I first moved to Tucson, the ending of my relationship with Ex-Beloved, made me start thinking, "How the hell did I end up here, so far off my expected destination?"

Had you asked me two years ago to predict the course of my life, I never would have predicted the path my life has taken. Yet somehow, as I look back, I can see exactly how each decision that I made has led me right to this point in my life. I couldn't have known it then, of course, but I realized that every decision I made is not a discrete thing, isolated in its own time and place; rather every choice is inexorably linked to the one before and the one after, even without me knowing so.

Moving On

Moving is so hard. Sometimes, when I'm driving through the streets of Albuquerque, I feel the waves of loneliness wash over me. I look around at the buildings lining the roads and I can taste the saddness in my throat.

I miss my home. I miss my home with a desperation that is palpable. I want to go back to my land of Saguaros, Sonoran hotdogs. I want my little apartment with the big bathroom. I want my friends.

I want my life back.

Sometimes, I take a step back and wonder, how did I end up here? I drive through this city and feel like a stranger. Even though I've been here two months, I still don't know which way is North most of the time. I feel disoriented.

And when I'm at the top of the city, near the Sandias, I look out to the wide, empty land that stretches far beyond I can see and all I can think: "That. That is the way home."

The New Addition

Meet Briar Patch.

The Pugglett

The Resident and I went on a walk the other night, as usual, with The Roo in tow. It was getting dark, shadows draping over the streets.

Out of a shadowed driveway, a small pug appeared. He was adorable--little smashed face and black collar with a tiny bow with no tags. After some deliberating, we christened him The Pugglett and brought him home to spend the night with us.

We made him a bed next to ours out of soft blankets, but as soon as the lights went off, he jumped into our bed and snuggled up, squirming his way through the night.

Sadly we found his owners and had to give him back. They were glad to have him safely home, but he left a little hole in my heart.

My Devil Wears Talbots

I've been looking forward to the opening of The Devil Wears Prada, so naturally, I dragged the Resident to a Saturday matinee. The movie did not disappoint. Meryl Streep was amazing as a demanding, cold-hearted, inscrutable fashion maven and head-hauncho. Loved her. Anne Hathway was decent as the wide-eyed turned vicious assistant. Particularly, I loved Miranda's fashion speech which pointed out the true industry that fashion is (i.e. NOT just anorexic models and gay men)---made me rethink the sweater set I just purchased in a unusually hideous shade of Olive Green.

The In-Law Grandmother gave me a gift card for Talbots--as store I had not stepped foot into until this weekend. Unfortunately, Talbts is more a store for the older generation and women's whose vocabulary contain the words "Knit Sportswear." But I couldn't let the gift card go to waste.

I spent hours browsing in Talbots, pawing through the racks of tapered-legged dress pants and brightly colored tops. Finally, I settled on a sweater set. I know that sounds awfully sorority sister of me, but I felt like it was really the only option.

After watching Prada, I think I might be returning it.

HipHipHooray, or, The Day I Became Gainfully Employed

After three months of job hunting and 35 resumes, cover letters and applications later, I am officially entering the "Professionally Employed" phase of my life.

That's right, people: I GOT A JOB!! And it's even in my field of study!

I am the Health Education Program Coordinator for the American Lung Association of New Mexico.

I think it will be a really interesting job and I'm looking forward to leaving the house on a daily basis AND having a purpose!

So, virtual beers for everyone!!

Muddified

In a desperate attempt to make friends in this godforsaken state, the Resident signed us up for a Mudd Volleyball Tournament to benefit the Carrie Tingley Hospital . It sounded vaguely fun, until we received instructions to bring duct tape, which would be used to tape our shoes to our feet.

We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. This is apparently the event of the year in ABQ (mostly because there is nothing else to do except roll in mud) . You could see the enormous parking lots filled with cars, glittering in the sun, from the highway.

Although I am loathe to admit this, the experience was pretty fun. The mudd was up to my knees and I sloshed around, trying to chase after the ball (not often successful, since my feet stuck to the bottom of the mudd). The mudd was cold, though, and squished between my toes, even with my shoes on (and yes, everyone duct-taped their shoes to their feet---play does not stop to look for shoes!). The beer (and illegally smuggled liquor--how college was I?) flowed freely, which helped with the whole "What filthy diseases am I picking up from this foulness" feeling.

But the best part was really just getting out of our house and talking to another live person besides the Resident. We met some really neat people, one of whom is in his Intern Class, so we will be seeing more of her and her fiance, I'm sure.

The only downside (besides the raging hangover)? I now have mudd buried deep within crevices and nooks and crannies of my body. I showered, of course, but being covered in mud repeatedly over a several hour period makes it tough to get our. Even the natural lines in my skin feel dusty. And don't get me started on my hair, which not only feels dirty, but has the texture of filth.

Definitely an experience of a lifetime.

Aqua is the New Blue

The Resident and I decided to use some of our wedding money to buy ourselves a new bed and mattress since the double bed was getting a little small for our family of 5.

We ordered it from the store in Tucson before we moved, but arranged for it to be delivered from the ABQ store (mainly so we didn't have to move across the Desert).

Today, after weeks of waiting, the bed finally arrived. It was fantastic to put all of our new sheets and quilts on the bed. Getting the bed also meant that we could unpack the few remaining boxes scattered through the house. And we hung all our pictures on the wall, which gives it a "home" feel.

So everything is nice, neat and in its place.

Domesticated Goddess

Since we're almost 100% unpacked and I have no job, I've become a veritable 1950s housewife. I fill my day with laundry, vacuuming, scrubbing and cooking. I'm not alone in this domestic spree--The Resident pitches in and does chores right along side me.

But it's funny, this feeling that I am becoming my mother. I find myself saying the exact phrases she always says, "Will you please put the dishes away," "Don't go too far, dinner is almost ready," and "Want to go for a walk?"

It's not bad...it just makes me wonder how I turned into this domesticated goddess overnight. I mean, what happen to spooning peanut butter out of a jar for lunch and letting my laundry pile up until I had no clean underwear (no small feat, considering I have over 100 pairs of panties).

Too much time is a bitch, people.

And now, I have to go get my cherry pie out of the oven.

MySpace

I reluctantly signed up for an account on MySpace a few months ago. Truthfully, I didn't really see the point and it seemed like a complete waste of time....

Until yesterday.

I finally figured out how to effectively search for people on MySpace---And I realized you can search for old classmate---even as far back as high school! Or even middle school, I suppose.

So, I ran a search on all students that graduated from Stonewall Jackson High (yes, the South) in 1999. MySpace came back with 76 hits. Amazing. I haven't thought of most of the people that came up in YEARS, if ever.

It's been hysterical reading people's profiles. Some people have really neat lives now, cool jobs and still seem like fab people. Others are still in Manassas, working as waitresses, living exactly the kind of life I thought they would have at age 25.


Like my friend Lindsay says, MySpace is like a high school reunion you can go to in your pjs.

"I didn't claw my way to the top of the food chain to eat vegetables."

One of the intimidating things about moving to a new city where you don't know a single soul is trying to figure out where to eat. The second night we were in ABQ, we still didn't have any food in the house, so making dinner was out of the question. We were driving home from Walmart with a car full of essential odds and ends and realized it was 9:30 pm and we still hadn't eaten (this daylight savings thing really throws off my internal clock and sense of time in relationship to daylight. Dammnit.). The Resident looked up and saw a sign for "Rudy's BBQ," which is one of my favorite things.

We parked and went inside. The interior of the restuarant was a counter and lines of picnic tables covered in red&white table cloths. At first we were a bit confused because there was no apparent "real" menu, except listings of various meats by the pound. After some asking, we determined that you actually ordered your chosen meat by the poundage, were given some slices of bread and at the table, you make your own sandwich with the meat and the "sause" (your choice of "BBQ" or "Sissy") provided on the table.

Oh.My.God. I love meat. We had 1/2 a chicken and 1/2lb of pulled pork. The meat was delicious---tender, juicy, falling off the bones. We ate every single piece of meat that was on that tray. Plus a side of beans, creamed corn and greenbean salad.

Since Tucson had a dearth of good BBQ places, I'm very excited to find that ABQ has at least one good meat-eatin' place.

The Great Desert Move

Despite the 11 hour drive, two cats and a dog, a thunderstorm and hail, from one desert to another, we've arrived in Albuquerque in one piece. The new house (OUR house) is as adorable as I remembered. The adobe is yellow, the yard is huge, the rooms are tiny. We've been busy unpacking, hanging curtains, filling our kitchen with the unused appliances we receieved as wedding gifts. Unpacking is far and away more wonderful than packing. Even though I packed a mere few days ago, I have forgotten half of what we have. Opening the boxes are infinitely exciting, disovering pots and pans I've never used, books I still haven't read.

Adjusting to the city is hard, but I forgot just how hard it is. I feel lost, even with a map. I feel so alone and isolated. Nothing is familiar, everything is new. The newness is exciting, to be sure, but also overwhelming. We drove around for 20 minutes trying to find a Denny's (Spanish for next to La Quinta Inn) for breakfast because we don't even have a phone book.

I know it's only been a few days, but I keep catching myself thinking, "When I get home..." and it's with a pang of sadness that I realize this is my home. I am living here for the next three years. And the reality is, I may never live in Tucson again, a reality that makes my heart wrench a little.

I watch my husband build bookcases and install curtain rods, smiling at his man-ness. And I am relieved to know that, at least this time, I don't have to make a new city home all by myself. I have a friend by my side.

The Big Move: Stage One--Preparation

The Big Move to Albuquerque is beginning. Take Off Date is June 1st---a mere few days away and we are in the throes of packing and cleaning and putting away memories.

Today, the IRC came to pick up our unneeded furniture (my couch, his chair, my bed). My apartment is now empty of all large furniture, but filled with boxes of wedding presents and books. I haven't even started on my clothes (right now, I'm envisioning trashbags).

It's sad, though, this packing away of my life. I know how corny this sounds, but it really is saying goodbye to a stage in my life. My single life is over, for real this time. Even though we're married now, not sharing space makes the marriage feel a little fake. We still have "mine" and "his." But in a few short days, we'll just have "ours." Our house. Our yard. Our dishes. Our couch. Our bed (beautiful and new!). And Our Bathroom (the biggest adjustment, I'm sure).

I'm scared about moving. Will I find a job? Will I make friends? Will Albuquerque someday feel like home? Will I find good stores to shop at? I know the true answer to these questions is yes, but how long will it take?

Tucson has been my home for the last 1.5 years, and some of them have been good months. But there have also been very sad months. Even though I am brokenhearted to be leaving the city that I call home, in some ways, I feel like I am finally saying goodbye to one of the saddest and hardest times of my life. I truly am closing a chapter in my life and moving forward to the new, the exciting and the completely unknown.

Wedded Bliss, Again

So I thought I'd post some wedding photos taken by a some of the guests. However, if you would prefer to see the professional ones, feel free to check out my photographer's website:
www.paulvanhelden.com

Go to "online proofs," find the Williams-Gross wedding and the password is 050706

Tropic of Capricorn

Not to, you know, make anyone too jealous, but this was the view from our hotel room in Jamaica. And yes those colors are real.

The vacation was very relaxing---plenty of sun, sand, swimming, SCUBA and sex (you know, the essential "S's"). We had a great time just being alone together, especially after the prior week of family and graduation.

The weather was gorgeous and sunny most of the time; it rained twice, but since we live where it's sunny 300 days a year, it was nice to snuggle inside and listen to the rain patter on the porch.

I also learned to SCUBA dive and actually got certified while we were there. I know this will sound corny, but I fulfilled a life dream by SCUBAing and I am SO proud of myself. Kneeling on the bottom of the ocean was absolutely amazing and was not nearly as terrifying as I initially thought. I had a few moments of panic on the surface when my feet just hung down, not touching anything, but after we descended to the bottom, the fear completely disappeared.

I have to be honest though. Driving to the resort from the airport was a bit strange. Since most Jamaicans are of African descent, I felt very much like I was back in Kenya. The school children in matching uniforms, driving on the left, the verdant rolling hills. The houses even had the same jerry-cans on the roofs to collect water; I could even tell which out-buildings were the toilets and showers. I almost felt like I was betraying my roots or something---I lived like that and now I was one of those rich white people who got chauffered around to spend their thousands of dollars that I despised. And the disparity between rich and poor is so evident, and like most places, racially divided. The hotel is staffed by Jamaicans, again most of whom are black, and even though I applaud the hiring of locals, it smacks so much of neocolonialism---whites being served by blacks. I'm having a difficult time explaining in words what I felt, but it was definitely an uncomfortable feeling.

White guilt, perhaps?

Wedded Bliss

Yep, yep. The knot has been tied. It was lovely- simple, short and beautiful. Even the hot Arizona weather cooperated with sunny skies and temps in the low 90s.

This week has been crazy between the wedding and graduation (the Med Student is now The Doctor and I am now a "Master"-- a concept I find laughable!). Honeymoon starts on Monday.

I will update with more wedding pictures and details before the Big Move to NM.