Truth and a pack of lies fighting for my soul

There are times in life when you are slapped in the face with the alarming fact that your family … is not like other families.

Scene: Mammoth Cave National Park entrance.

Enter: Rangers doing routine driver license, registration and insurance checks; frazzled Olivia and Ruby the Corolla’s expired registration

“Ma’am, did you realize your registration expired more than a month ago?”

I crapped my pants. “No sir…” My mind is already racing to figure up the cost of getting my car towed back to Ohio and I put my forehead on my steering wheel.

The ranger looked at me gently. “Did you uh, take something today?”

I looked up. “Excuse me? Do you mean like drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“Like weed?”

“Yeah.”

“No...” I said, blindsided by the question.

“Have you ever been asked that question before?”

“Today? Or ever. Well anyway, no, never.”

“Are you meeting someone here, to get some weed?” he said it in a knowing way as if guilt was written across my forehead. Or maybe in my bloodshot eyes. Thing is, if my eyes are bloodshot that’s how you know I’m breathing. I live in a permanent state of eyestrain, and the tears of frustration I shed on my way to the park when I thought we wouldn’t be able to get a campsite added to the effect.

“OK. Do you mind if I just look around your car?” he seemed really chipper about this task, poking his flashlight around like a new med school student playing with his stethoscope.

“Yeah that’s fine,” I said, bewildered. “Do you want me to pop the trunk? You can look anywhere. Sorry it’s a mess.”

Another ranger asked me to step out of the car for a minute. I knew I was about to get busted.

“Can I ask you a couple questions?” the ranger asked, leading me away from my car as the other rangers searched it. I nodded.

“What brings you to Mammoth Cave this weekend?”

“Well…”

And that’s when I had that moment.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well not really, but maybe it will be,” I said, as tears of frustration started to choke up again. “See, I know this sounds strange. But my family is driving here from California—well, most recently from Little Rock—to meet me here for the weekend. I’m living in Dayton and I haven’t seen them in a while and they were on this road trip, see and—”

“Are they in a RV?”

“No they’re—“

“They got a big car? A hotel reservation?”

“No, see, they’re all five road tripping in a … Prius.”

He stared at me unbelieving.

“Do they at least have a tent?”

“Oh, yes sir. They’ve been doing this for the last three weeks – camping at national parks. But we kind of do vacations fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants style, so we don’t have any camping reservations or tour reservations and that’s why I’m worried because I’m afraid it’s all booked up and we won’t be able to have our vacation.”

“I see. Sometimes that works, but on a holiday weekend…”

“I know.”

He consulted with his partner a few steps away from me while I waited anxiously, noting curiously that the rangers hadn’t bothered to search my trunk. A few agonizing seconds later, they told me they’d decided to give me a verbal warning since I’d cooperated so nicely. I thanked them profusely and promised to get it updated as soon as I got back to Dayton.

I love my family. I was still weak kneed from the fright of almost losing my car when they pulled up into the parking lot and we hugged around. Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants is exactly how we do vacations, and they’re amazing. The memories from sharing a gallon of ice cream and a bag of chips for dinner because you were too exhausted to find other options are priceless. You can’t replace that with a dozen dinner reservations.

Fortunately for this trip, there will still tours and campsites available. We had a lovely weekend, despite torrential downpours as we headed into the cave for our second tour and then the morning we left. After successfully evacuating all sleeping bags and mats from our tents, we gave up and wadded up the muddy, soaked rain flies into trash bags and headed to Owensboro for food and family with a legendary appetite a decade old.

We’d been to Owensboro, where my dad grew up and some of his family still lives, once before about 10 years ago. And we had driven eight hours in one day to spend but a few hours in this little town, but it made a big impression. Specifically, the Moonlite made a big impression. All-you-can-eat pulled pork, barbecued chicken, mutton, fried chicken and who knows what else along with an endless supply of “vegetables.” You know a restaurant is good country cooking when Mac & Cheese is a vegetable.

The famed Moonlite Cafe Inn in Owensboro, KY.

We all skimped on breakfast in anticipation of the 10-pound food baby about to be conceived. As we hugged dad’s sister and brother-in-law, Uncle Mike could hear the rumblies from our tumblies from his porch.

“Enough talking, these kids want to get to the Moonlite,” he said as the ‘my how you’ve grown’ small talk started to plant roots in the front yard and turn into a full blown conversation.

We sat in the same tables we’d sat in 10 years ago. The deja vu was crazy.

“It must be hard to work here,” I commented to the waitress filling our waters.

“It IS!” she said, as she told about how the 30 pounds she had lost before starting work there had magically reappeared six months later.

There’s not much to tell from lunch because we spent most of it listening to the smacking of lips and debating how much room was left in the tank and could a skinny mini slice of pecan pie fit in that stomach maybe just off to the side if I took some deep breaths?

You’d think we hadn’t eaten in a week.

After visiting with Aunt Maria and Uncle Mike, we found a nice Comfort Suites in town and unloaded the cars. Since it had stopped raining, we proceeded to lay out the tents, hose off the rain flies, towel them dry, and repack them. And I’ve never had more fun with such a laborious and slow task. The joy of seeing my family was contagious. We explored the brand spankin’ new riverfront with awesome playground until the rain set in again, then we came back to the hotel pool.

I spent an hour giggling with my two remaining kid-brothers in the pool as we staged the gimpy-Olympics and competed in things like Chickenstroke, Butterstruggle, Ameoba, Egyptian Bath Tub and Torpedo races, bubble-ring blowing, and finally, a reenactment of floor exercise gymnastics, underwater style, complete with soft-spoken commentary.

“Now he just needs to stick this laaanding, THERE! Beautiful…”

Also, the caves at Mammoth Cave were really awesome. As were the running trails. But the memories I’ll keep from this trip are all moments like these, where the spontaneity and laid-back nature of my family keep us open to the simplest of unexpected joys.

I stopped in Louisville to hang out with Lucy, a friend who graduated  a year ahead of me and is now in grad school. We checked out a Pie & Ice Cream shop and got apple pies for the road.

Managed to snap a picture of Cincinnati's skyline from I-75 on the way back -- that was my first time driving through the 'Nasty.

In other news, I think I’m allergic to Ohio. Callie asked me what itched. I said everything – eyes, nose, scalp, back of the neck, and my heart is itching to go back to North Carolina. I don’t think Benadryl can do anything for that last one, but it’s getting a little better with some of the crazy things I’m getting involved in.

Last week a couple sources said things that made me laugh out loud, like this one:

“I think the Siri that I got has a learning disability.”

Another source made a tentative lunch date with me, pending the outcome of my upcoming adventure involving the 27-story tower and a rope.
“Hope you can join us--assuming all goes with rappelling off the building next week.”

Yep, this is the one. 

I’m constantly finding new things I like about my job. This week it was sending an email that said “Thanks, Happy snooping,” to a source. I have minions doing my work. 

I’ve joined a boxing gym. It’s awesome. I’m also running. My plan is to get in shape so I can beat you up and then run away afterwards. But nothing makes you feel more empowered than slugging a 50-pound bag after a stressful day at work.

My boxing buddy and new-to-Dayton friend Courtney getting her hands wrapped. As she pointed out, the guy's face is priceless here. 

I’ve also started tutoring at the Victory Project. Check it out here: http://www.victoryproject.org/. I have two seventh-graders, and I’m pretty overwhelmed. But it’s a great opportunity and I think it will give something for me to come up with creative ideas for.

Here are some other adventures I've had in pictures:

Dragons game with Courtney. Joey Votto was playing a rehab game, so the stadium was packed-out.

Getting lunch from a food truck downtown with Laura. Here she's updating the menu with "sold out" labels. 

Here's the first of hopefully many more lunch dates. 

Ashley hanging out with some creepy psycho convicts at the Land of Illusion haunted park in Middletown, which was quite an experience. 

Downtown Dayton Revival with Lauren and Ashley, getting excited about seeing Rusted Root, Mat Kearney and Train. 

Supporting Dayton's fledgling food trucks! 

Mat Kearney stoking the crowd. 

Mat Kearney breaking it down. 

I’m recognizing that a lot of my crazy drive to get involved with things is in response to my avoidance of alone time, and my fear of that solitude is because I depend heavily on relationships for my refuge. Without going into super heavy details, I’m in one of the darkest places I’ve ever been spiritually, but here are some thoughts I had the other day that I’ve been clinging to.

For background, I’ve been struggling with understanding everything that follows after salvation. I know I’m saved because I recognize my sin, my complete inability to overcome that sin, and Jesus’s sacrifice to pay for it all and pave the way for a relationship with God, and I’ve asked for that. But the whole idea of having a relationship with an invisible God is lost on me, even though I crave it so desperately. I’ve been reading The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis, which I think all American Christians should read, especially if they’ve never thought about the concept of spiritual warfare.

I really relate to the Psalms in a lot of things, because it seems like the authors had some really low points in their faith. But when it’s talking about enemies attacking, I always felt like that was an exaggeration of my situation. Thankfully I’m not actually surrounded by haterz with swordz, or literally hiding in a cave because the king’s army is trying to kill me. But it occurred to me as reading The Screwtape Letters that I do have an enemy – Satan – and he is always attacking me. I need God more than ever, and even though I do not feel or sense His presence, I have to believe He is with me or else I am overwhelmed with fear of Satan’s attacks. Psalm 42 continues to resonate in this dry period, especially verse five:

“Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him, my salvation and my God.”

That’s kind of where I am/want to be right now. The things I know are that God is God, and He is my salvation. I don’t know anything else for sure, but I hope that “farther along [I’ll] know all about it/ farther along [I’ll] understand why,” to quote Josh Garrels from the song below, and that when this dry spell is over I will again praise God. 

All the lonely people

There are a lot of ways I could spin this post. As a journalist, I know all about bias. My previous posts have all been written with a positive filter. Today, I’m gonna try to go with honesty.

My life in Ohio looks something like this: Monday through Friday, work til 5, when I’m bursting out the door ready for a nice evening. Ride home from work jamming to a mix CD from one of my friends from home, getting a little nostalgic, then pull up to my house, and get the sinking feeling as I realize no one is home, and

I.

Am.

Alone.

Quick, turn up some music, I think. I can’t handle the silence. Get out of the house; find a source of human interaction, even if it’s just to sit on the porch watching the cars roar by in their constant muffler-removed stream. I’m a textbook definition extrovert – being alone is only OK in small doses, otherwise it is exhausting and I arrive at work the next day starved of community.

One weekend, the urge to share my life with people -- not sofas and TVs and that torture device they call Facebook, always reminding you of the life you’re missing out on somewhere – led to some rather entertaining adventures.

One Friday afternoon was one such evening. I got off work early, as I often do on Fridays, and came home to my enemy – the empty house. I had plans later in the evening, but would have felt cheated if I didn’t find something to do with my early start to the weekend.

“I’m gonna try to find some hooligans at the park to hang out with lol. Literally.” – a text I sent my friend Ashley, five minutes before I packed up my Frisbee and a water bottle and biked the quarter mile over to the nearby middle school athletic fields and neighborhood park. As I locked up my bike to the rail of the picnic shelter, I drew a considerable amount of attention from a gaggle of middle schoolers sitting at the tables.

“Hey guys … do any of you guys like to throw Frisbee?” I asked, hesitantly, suddenly extremely aware of how out of my element I was. I got a murmur of no’s and not really’s in response, as the six kids in various stages of metamorphoses into quasi-adulthood a.k.a. puberty gave me the look-over.

“Well uh, I’m new in the neighborhood and I don’t really know anyone, so I was looking for someone to throw a Frisbee around with,” I said, trying again. Noncommittal nods. I started to turn away, surveying the rest of the park, looking for more willing friends-to-be.

“You seem really cool,” said a girl with sloppy washable marker designs all over her face and arms. Ah middle school, how I don’t miss you.

I laughed. “Well thanks.”

“I knew how to throw a Frisbee once, but I forgot,” she said.

“Yeah Maddie played some – this is Maddie. And he’s Kiefer…” they introduced everyone to me and I said my name.

“My brother plays Frisbee, but he’s an asshole,” one girl said, with a laugh. I tried not to wince.

“Where’d you come from?” Kiefer asked.

“North Carolina.”

“Did you move here with your parents? Did they get work here?” he asked. 

I squirmed a little, afraid I was about to lose all credibility with these kids.

“I’m … probably a little older than … I look,” I said, not entirely sure why I was embarrassed. And yes, they were shocked when I told them I was 21.

“Man, you look about 16,” Kiefer said. I shrugged. What can you do.

“Well, if you want to throw…just let me know. I’m gonna see if those kids over there want to play,” I said, noticing a group of younger kids playing basketball.

I walked over and dropped my Frisbee and bag on the side of the court, next to the jumble of bikes dropped haphazardly at the start of the game. I asked if I could play.

“Yeah, you be on his team,” said a 12-year-old girl, pointing to an 8^th grade boy. We played my favorite style of basketball – no bounds, no fouls – for a half an hour before a) I scored a point and b) someone got hurt. I offered some water, and then shot some baskets while the kids sat in the glass-shard-littered dirt.

“How old do you think he is?” Cassie, the 12-year-old, asked out of the blue.

I nailed everyone’s ages (surprise, surprise … my track record on the age guessing thing hasn’t been so good).

“Are you 20?”

“Pretty close – 21,” I said.

“Aw man, 21 is the perfect age!” She said.

…Not sure what she knows about it, but I laughed and agreed.

I soon got two of the boys interested in my Frisbee, and we threw for an hour. The younger of the two improved his throw significantly, and made fun of the way I apologized for every errant throw.

As much fun as I had throwing with the youngsters, my heart was breaking from the conversations I overheard between girls who couldn’t have been more than 14, bragging about who and where they’d done it.

Sweaty and hungry, I realized I’d whiled away two hours doing hoodrat stuff with my new friends. The boys had lost interest in tossing the disc, so I packed up and started to unlock my bike.

The middle schoolers from the shelter, scattered around the swings and the water fountain, all looked over and waved, or hollered, “You leaving?”

Despite their rough backgrounds, these kids brightened my day, and I hope to run into them at the park again.

--

That same weekend the socialite bug struck again. I mustered up the courage to knock on Lois’s door and invite her to get lunch with me.

“I just ate,” she said, her face falling. Then she perked up. “How about supper?”

I swallowed hard, because dinner somehow seemed like more of a commitment than lunch, but I said yes, unsure that I would still be in the right frame of mind to engage Lois on that level in four hours.

Five o’clock came and I knocked on Lois’s door again. After double and triple checking all the locks in her house, Lois followed me to my car.

“Where we going?” she asked.

“Do you like pasta?” I asked.

“Oh no. I just like real simple food. Like … Captain D, or pork tenderloin.”

I went a little white at the thought of pork tenderloin and the bill afterward. “Captain D’s it is then!”

On the way to the fried-instant-reconstituted-frozen-fish-substitute emporium, Lois told me the first of many of her heartbreaking stories, all in her unfazed yet slightly paranoid stuttering manner.

“My mom and I used to go to Captain D every Friday. Are you Catholic? We’re Catholic. We had fish on Fridays, so we’d go to Captain D. That was before Mom died. Now I haven’t been there in three years. And then we used to go to – what’s it called – oh Frisch’s, every Saturday. Mom and me. Now I hardly get out.”

My heart was melting. As was the rest of me, since Lois had mentioned on the way out she gets cold faster than anyone on the planet, and always brings a sweater, even in 80 degree weather, so the AC stayed off.

“But I can’t stand the hum-midity,” she’d say.

We came up to the counter at Captain D’s and Lois ordered from memory the exact meal she’d last had with her mom in 2009, with no regard for whether any of those items were actually on the menu.

“I know what I want; you just tell me what it costs,” she said. “And I’m getting hers too” -- pointing at me. This she repeated emphatically as I reached for my wallet.

“Aw thanks Lois,” I finally conceded.

“Well it’s just that I don’t get out much and I really ‘preciate you taking me to dinner since I don’t drive.”

I aimed for a booth by a window, but Lois stopped and surveyed the ceiling.

“Better sit in the next one,” she said, pointing to the corner. I noted the A/C vent in the ceiling and agreed, already wishing I’d brought a sweater.

We tucked in to our meals. Well, I did. Lois talked into her meal.

Through a light mist of flecks of battered fish and fries spewing from across the table I learned that a) Captain D’s is just as unappetizing as I remembered, b) Lois’s mouth works a little like the levies in New Orleans … when a hurricane-force storm of thoughts comes, the dam bursts and an unstoppable surge of words pours forth, and c) Lois is lonely, but not a complainer.

This last part I want to emulate.

Lois is alone. And she misses her mom and her dad. And she’s downright paranoid about drug trafficking in our neighborhood and her neighbor breaking into her house and stealing all her belongings. And don’t start her on that one or she’ll run out of air before she stops. But she doesn’t complain. And she was so thankful for my tiny gesture of saying hello and going to dinner.

“Am I talking too much?” she said, grabbing a breath.

“No, Lois you’re fine. I want to know about you and your life.”

“Oh good. But just let me know if I talk too much. I don’t want to bore you. I just so appreciate you getting me out of the house. Cuz I don't get out much.”

We finished up and headed home. I was a little exhausted from the effort of understanding Lois through her stutter, but what she said on her way home about took the wind out of me.

“Since 2009 to now, since my mom died, so 2009 to 2012, you’re about the only person I’ve had to talk to,” she said.

Wow.

I cry myself to sleep every night because I can’t get over my loneliness and missing home, and I feel alone, but I do have some friends and I have hope that I will eventually have friends who know my soul. I can’t even put myself in Lois’s shoes, but I ache for her, and I’m thankful for the time I get to spend with her as her neighbor.

What I really learned from college

I miss college so much right now.


Everyone said the weirdness of graduating would be worst when August came back around. And it's true. Today, as so many of my friends welcomed the beginning of classes and the return of college, I said the final goodbye to college. It's final. This isn't just a summer job, despite my growing restlessness, which I'm conditioned to feel after sticking with something for two or three months. I'm not going home. Welcome to the world, they say.

I miss the excitement of new things. I miss the overwhelming options of activities and causes to get involved in. I miss the endless energy of freshmen and their willingness to follow you wherever you lead. I miss the openness to friendship that comes when you throw a bunch of same-aged people into a new place. I miss living in a community where it's acceptable to knock on your neighbor's door and ask if they have chocolate chips because you ran out, and you desperately need your college-kid-Reese's-fix (Ritz crackers, peanut butter and chocolate chips). I miss running out for food at 12:50 because Alpine Bagel closes at 1 a.m. and for no good reason, you're still up and inexplicably hungry. I miss sharing almost every meal with a friend, or 15.

I miss the mentoring relationships naturally created by the hierarchy of upperclassmen and underclassmen -- that ability to look up to those who have gone before, and then to pay it forward in your turn.

I miss being in a community that felt called to minister to and serve the community it lived in and was surrounded by.

I miss the driving passion that leads students to start term papers at 3 in the morning, not primarily because they are lazy or procrastinators, but because they've spent every waking hour of their day til that point giving to others, be it working to raise money to build schools in Africa, to comfort and provide for children and families in the hospital, or helping to make a freshman's transition into college that much easier.

I miss the live-it-up mindset that leads every senior to craft a bucket list to make sure they don't miss one ounce of the essential Carolina and/or college experience.

And it seems a crime to leave all that behind. With so many things in my life changing with my 500-mile move to Ohio, where I knew no one, I've started to ask myself, why does everything have to change, just because my life is no longer mostly contained in the 729-acre campus bursting with the enthusiasm of 18,000 undergrads?

After approximately two months of off and on moping, crying myself to sleep, and doggedly following on social media my friends who are lucky enough to have one, two or three more years of college, I have resolved to defy the conventional wisdom that all those advantages of college have to end when you zip up your gown, don your cap and smile for that photo by the Old Well.

So here's what I really learned from college, which I am doing my best to apply to life in a slowly recovering, midwest industrial city:

1. Life is about relationships, and you can't afford to discriminate.
Who says a neighborhood street has to be any different than a dorm hall?

Your hall mates were party animals? Who cared! It was part of the college experience, and you invited them over when you got that midnight craving that only a bowl of popcorn and She's the Man could satisfy.

My next door neighbor drinks and listens to loud music on his front porch?? I'll grab a beer and go join him.

When I run out of chocolate chips, before I run down to Krogetto I'll knock on doors and see who has any to spare in hopes we can share the treat and a conversation. If I make too many cookies, I'll deliver them to whoever is home.

Instead of ignoring the baggy-pantsed boy with the cell phone glued to his ear who walks past the house at least five times a week, I'm going to get to know his name, and take him up on that offer to play disc golf.

I'm going to find the broken and hurting people in my neighborhood and give them the love I've been given so freely.

2. Life is about making every second count.

When presented with the options of sleep or adventure, I'm going to choose adventure. Midnight meteor showers? Heck yes. 2 a.m. Waffle House runs? Skinny dipping? 24-hour frisbee tournament? I'm down.

Forget the senior bucket list, I'm working on a Dayton bucket list. Who knows how long I'll be here? When I leave I wanna say I got my time's worth.

3. Life is about pursuing your passions.

Although my butt still has to warm a desk chair for the better part of my daily 9 to 5, I'm going to find something here that I'm passionate about, and plug the quarters into my idea-machine-brain, pouring all my spare time and energy into leaving this place better than I found it.

4. Life is about influencing others.

There may not be any underclassmen asking where's the bathroom, who are the easy A teachers, what's your advice for senior year, or is it true there's a haunted castle on campus? But there are definitely people who can learn from me and will follow me, if I'll stand up and lead. So I'll tutor, and I'll invest in every relationship, and I'll find the hidden treasures the native Daytonians don't even know about.

I've heard the phrase "freshman at life" in jest before, but I'm in earnest. I want to approach life in Dayton with the same energy and excitement of a college freshman, and everything that comes along with that. Who's with me? Cuz I'm just getting started.

Captain D's?

Moving to Dayton has made me realize two things about myself:

• I’m like a shark. I can’t breathe unless I’m moving forward.
• I can’t stand being alone. If I spend an evening without being around people in some form, I go to bed depressed from being starved of human interaction.

This second point has led me to develop an evening habit of sitting out on my porch. My Ethernet cable and power cord for my laptop both reach out there, so I like to set up and watch the cars and people go by. I hope someday to be able to greet everyone who passes by name, but for now I just try to wave. People probably think I’m crazy, or spend the next five minutes trying to figure out where they know me from.

Tonight as I was getting ready to Skype a friend, my neighbor across the street stuck her head out the front door.

“Olivia, do you want your plate back?” she hollered.

-“Oh sure!” I said, and jogged across the street to retrieve the plate I’d delivered the blueberry muffins on weeks ago.

Lois filled me on her last week and invited me in, but I was waiting on a call and had left all my electronics exposed on the porch, so I stayed in the doorway.

“And oh those – what were they? Cookies?”

-“Muffins.”

“Were delicious! I had my neighbor try them first cuz I didn’t know what they was, but then she told me, and  I had one, and oh, mm mm.”

“I’m so glad you liked them, Lois!” I said.

Lois asked if I might be able to give her a ride to church Saturday afternoon, and I told her to check with me on Saturday because I might be out of town.

“Well sometime, if you’re not out of town, maybe would you want to go to Cap’n D or something?” she asked.

“Oh sure! That would be fun!” I said. I haven’t been to a Captain D’s since I was about 12, and all I really remember is grease and making redneck lemonade with lemons and sugar packets.

Lois looked so taken aback that I wanted to hang out with her I had to say it again for..

“That would be great, really,” I said. Then I also invited her over for s’mores on Sunday nights. I hope she comes!

--

I also have some exciting adventures coming up. I'm playing in a 24-hour Ultimate tournament raising money for Boys and Girls Clubs. It's at Ohio State, so I'm excited to see the campus and a little bit of Columbus for the first time, and just to get out of Dayton. I'm also carpooling with a very nice *39-year-old* (for the record I have a new most embarrassing story), and I'm signed up to play two shifts in the wee hours with a volunteer shift in between. I love Ultimate, I love doing crazy things and staying up all night, I love meeting new people and I love awesome fundraisers. So I'm sure I'll have some stories about that one. 

This weekend I'm putting my flannel on and going to a square dance put on by the city. This could be interesting. 

Tuesday morning at work I got an awesome surprise while scrolling through my email. I won two tickets to the Downtown Dayton Revival -- a music festival featuring Train, John Legend, Mat Kearney, Andy Grammer, Rusted Root and a whole bunch of people I never heard of. I really wanted to go, but hadn't gotten around to buying tickets, so now I'm really excited.  

And finally, Sept. 13, I will be taking a brief break from work on a Thursday afternoon to do something that exceeds even my definition of crazy. I'm rappelling down all 26 stories of the Key Bank tower to raise money and awareness for Big Brothers Big Sisters. I've never rappelled before. Now I get that cold-sweat-back-hairs-tingling-stomach-dropping-feeling every time I pass the tower on my way to work and crane my neck around to *try* to see the top of the building. Yikes! 

Dayton and the professional life

Dayton has lots of fun things to do.

For instance, last Sunday, Abbie and I came home from church after getting an early lunch at Panera to find our neighborhood flooded with unfamiliar cars.

"What's that truck think he's doing parking in front of our house like that?" Abbie asked.
It was pretty soon apparent that truck, along with the 50 or so other cars lining our street, were attending a rare community event just up the street: an estate auction, a.k.a. the Olympics of people-watching.

Sidenote because I'm watching time-delay Olympics: It has occurred to me that if Usain Bolt were a Frisbee player, he could catch his own endzone passes from the opposite side of the field. I'll have him on my team, thanks very much. "I show de world I am best." That's right buddy, you sure did.

"You want to go?" Abbie asked, grinning.
"Duh!" I said as we both hopped out of the car.

The auction began at 11, so we were more than an hour late, and they were just getting to the good stuff. A hot dog truck was parked in front of the house.

"Aw man, we should have just gone here for lunch!" I said, checking out the prices and getting hungry again by the smell.

We followed the sound of sweet deals around to the back of the house where a tent was set up in front of the garage. At least 50 people were crowded under the tent in a semi-circle around the auctioneer's table. Behind him, auction minions mined treasures untold in the garage.

As we walked up, a barbie classic Chevy was up for bids.

"Who will start the bidding for this priceless-Barbie-car-a-True-piece-of-automobile-memorabilia-Don't-wanna-pass-this-up can I get a TEN-ten-dolla-ten-ten howbouta FIVE-five-gimme-five-here's-a-FIVE! Five-here-gimme-seven-and-a-half seven-and-a-half?-we-gotta-five-here and SEVEN! 10-now-gimme-10-ten-TEN? Sold seven dollars to number 146!"

And just like that, the late-thirties-something man sporting long scruffy sideburns and a bright orange NASCAR shirt with holes in the armpits standing to my right became the proud owner of Barbie's first car.

"More stuff I don't want," he mumbled under his breath, adding the car to a stack of loot including a child's bike, a baby doll stroller, a vintage coffee grinder, and a car-battery-powered tire pump.

As the minions showed off a vast collection of antique board games on the auction table, I caught a look around the group. Attending estate auctions seems to be a multi-generational family affair in Dayton. A grandmother sat in a plastic patio chair (no doubt acquired earlier in the sale) with her granddaughter retrieving her purchases. A father stood with his arms resting comfortably on his middle-school aged son's shoulders, he and his three sons all dressed in heavy boots. Leaning against the garage and so inconspicuous I didn't notice him until he'd bought up a small fortune's worth of aged household items. Dressed in black cargo pants, a utility belt and a thin black frocket tee with a face that looked like he'd never heard of sunscreen ... or shaving cream, he looked exactly how I'd expect an antiques dealer not to.

In addition to providing wild entertainment in the range of characters present, the auction made me introspective as each item brought up for sale expanded my picture of the person it once belonged to, assuming their former owner has passed on. A collector's edition, but unassembled model steam engine, a nearly unused food processor, an industrial-strength french-fry press, a child's toy cash register. Grandkids? Crafty? Foodie? Modestly wealthy, but too busy to appreciate it? What would people wonder about my life if all my stuff were lined up on tables and presented to the world as items of great worth to be obtained for a steal?

Thunder rumbled lightly in the distance and sprinkles started to tickle our shoulders, so we decided to tear ourselves away from the spectacle and walk home.

Another fun thing to do in Dayton, but that I haven't yet tried, is to eat lunch on courthouse square during your work week. Or at least, that's how it's pitched in the weekly downtown e-newsletter. I'm hoping to take advantage of this when the weather turns a little cooler, as I don't want to miss the opportunity to perhaps rendez-vous with a few friends who work downtown and maybe enjoy a really terrible Pearljam cover band or something.

If you're free Wednesday nights, you can wander down to Yellow Springs for a night of "Brains are Sexy" trivia conceived by Ultimate-Frisbee-master-and-admitted-hippie-but-the-nicest-guy-you'll-ever-meet Todd to compete with regulars such as the rowdy "Go Home and Hug Your Little League Trophy," complete with little league trophy, or the less-disruptive "Drunk People At the Bar," who tend to make out surprisingly well considering their self-professed state of mind.

For business lunches, the Dayton Racquet Club offers the best in ambiance of the whole dang town. Situated on the 29th and highest floor of the Kettering Tower -- Dayton's largest and most prestigious skyscraper -- the view and the sweet potato fries beg me to return often.

When it turns cold, I hope to take advantage of the public ice skating rinks found everywhere there is water because OH YEAH I KEEP FORGETTING I live where the ponds freeze up. Except maybe not this one:

My final occasional pleasure in my semi-professional existence is as much as source of perplex-dom as joy.
Coffee meetings are a regular part of my work-week, and not being a coffee-drinker, I've spent some time evaluating coffee-shop menus to determine what drinks will be least offensive to my palate. For a while I played it safe with the iced chai latte, but recently I've branched out to the caramel frappacino, discovering that it about as closely resembles coffee as post-facial-reconstruction-and-skin-bleaching-Michael-Jackson resembled his teenage heartthrob self. But with this intrepid foray into the world of liquid dessert comes the age-old question:

"Would you like whipped cream with that?"
-"Excuse me? Is that even a question?" I respond. Do I look like the type to turn down the taste of frothy heaven that is coffee-house whipped cream?
But here's my frustration. When I answer yes, they seem to take that as permission to spoil the treat by putting it on top my drink. I then take the drink from the counter and turn to meet and greet whomever it is I'm meeting, but my mind is on one thing. How do I get the deliciousness into my mouth without wearing it as a supplement to my makeup? Where's my spoon? You can't inhale whipped cream through a straw, and while my mouth is large enough to swallow up the impressively swirled cream mountain in one pass, I'd like to preserve my inkling of credibility.
Would I like whipped cream with that? Why absolutely! But next time, can we skip the cup and deliver it straight to my mouth? You know, late-night-refrigerator-raid-style, unmediated, straight from the can?

... I'll never be an adult.

Here's another funny -- but completely unrelated -- story about me trying to pass for a professional: This Thursday I was on the phone interviewing a source whom I'd never met nor seen a picture of, nor she of me.
After twenty minutes of questions, followed by furious typing and mindless noncommittal murmurs of understanding to fill the awkward silence while I hammered the keys to keep up with the quotes, I asked my final question.
"And in what year did you found the company?
-"1985, which is before you were born, isn't it?"
I laughed. "Is it really that obvious?"
-"Oh yes. You're what, 21 years old?"
Blown away, I nearly dropped the phone. "How did you know?"
-"You say the phrase 'very cool' a lot."
Frrealz? Just that and she knew? I resolved to drop my voice two octaves for all future phone interviews, and perhaps substitute a computer-generated picture of me in 10 years for my company photo.

That's all for now!
Love,
Olivia

L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.

I realized yesterday that I want to get an A in my job. I've been conditioned since I was 10 years old to work for a grade, and measure my effort by the grade. Since they were so motivating for me, I find myself missing graded evaluation at work. I'm kind of insecure about my job performance anyway (friends can attest to the fact I thought I was doing a mediocre job at my summer internship last year ... when it turned out my editors were very pleased). But the job is going really well, and I got good feedback on my first six weeks from my bosses, so I'm excited to keep improving in all areas. 

Here's a look at my last two weekends in pictures:

Pre-Road Trip Anticipation Face ... at 1 a.m.

Amish Country! In Goshen, IN

Mt. Baldy! Never thought Lake Michigan would remind me so much of the Outer Banks

atop of Mt Baldy, all covered in sand, I lost my poor meatball...

Balloon launch at the Elkhart County Fair

We enjoyed this beautiful sunset from the ferris wheel. 

Mom came up for a delightful weekend visit last weekend.

One of the fanciest restaurants in town sent me this gift card for starting my new job. So Mom and I went there when she visited me. 

Say goodbye to productivity. 

Suspenders! Someone who shares my appreciation for them. 

Two cheese coneys from Skyline... not really my favorite actually. 

Really cute jewelry at 2nd Street Market. 

Delicious brunch from 2nd Street Market. 

It's only work if somebody makes you do it

Compliments from old people are my favorite.
You know they're not trying to get something out of it, and they're usually uninhibited enough to say exactly what they're thinking. Like the time a 63-year-old man told me I "exuded athleticism."
Or like yesterday, when I tried my hand at mowing the lawn for the first time ever.
Hey, I have four brothers. It would be a crime if I'd mowed the lawn with all those strapping boys around.
Thanks to what's apparently the worst drought this area has seen in like forever, our lawn was dead for the first month of living here. I was fine with that.
Then last week the skies opened and despite all we'd done to neglect our yard, it turned green and grew a foot.
So I called mom.
"How do you mow the lawn?" I asked.
Mom talked me through step by step as I rummaged around the garage for a gas tank, topped off the mower and revved the engine.
I may or may not have used the mower where a stump remover would have been more appropriate a couple times, but otherwise my first mowing experience was uneventful. No cleats required, although I struggled a few times against inertia on the slight hill next to our sidewalk. As I rounded out the last row, I realized I didn't know how to turn it off. My hands had been glued to the handle since I first yanked the cord. I let go and it magically puttered off, and I realized I had two bulging blisters on my right hand.
I looked at the tall grass next door.

I went to Judy's porch and rang the bell.
"Can I mow your lawn?"
-"Aw sure, how much do you want for it?"
"I don't mind to just mow it. I'm already out here and sweaty cuz I just finished mine."
-"Yeah I saw you out there. You looked real cute."

...Thanks? 

I guess my mowing brings all the boys to the yard.