Fish Out of Water

After being in denial for the past four months that I have officially left Washington, D.C., I finally got a good glimpse of what my new life will be like in Del Rio, Texas (pop. 40,000). Shawn, Shawn's dad, and I started unpacking the new boxes in our lovely new home in our new town. I have to say that the house really is beautiful. I seriously lucked out in marrying someone with similar taste. And I think when we have it all landscaped, it will be a wonderful haven.

The problem for me is the town. 40,000 isn't tiny, I realize. Frankly, that's the size of a decent college campus. The issue is that the closest BIG town is San Antonio. A debilitating 2 1/2 hours away. This is not okay. (I realize that it will have to be, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it.)

I've done a lot of traveling this summer, spending some time visiting my friends in New York, San Francisco, and back to D.C. For each of these visits, I've stayed with people in the city - in great neighborhoods where I could walk to "stuff." While these trips were great, they made me long for the big city more than ever.

If I'm being fair, I should admit that I've never been a true city girl. I've always been more of a suburbanite. But still - the city was always right there. And the suburbs had their own charm (charm = the great chain stores I frequent, such as Target, Barnes & Noble, World Market, The Gap, etc. etc.). In Del Rio, I will have none of those conveniences. Instead, I will be forced to get comfortable with my nemesis, Wal-Mart. I will have to get used to ordering everything on-line.

It really hit home when I visited my nemesis Sunday, in a mission to find dish soap and a few other goodies for the house. I went through five different aisles before I heard a soul speaking my native tongue. It's not like I haven't heard Spanish spoken in a store before. Whenever I visited my nemesis in Alexandria, VA (during desperate times, of course), I often heard customers speaking Spanish. I don't have a problem with it, really - I don't.

But for the first time in my life, I truly felt in the minority. A fish out of water.

The Ding Letter

If you've been following my sporadic posts, you may have learned that I am an aspiring novelist. I learned quickly that it is a tough business, and that you will go crazy if you don't develop a thick skin. As they say in the publishing world, everyone has been rejected at least once, but you have to persevere. In any case, I would much rather receive a ding letter than nothing at all.

Going through this process brings back fond memories of my favorite ding letter of all time. While I doubt it's the norm in any business to take pleasure in drafting the DING!, in this particular case, I have no doubt that this person was sitting at his desk and laughing as he composed this masterpiece. I am sorry that this comes at the expense of my good friend from law school, whom I'll call Mr. Smith.

Here goes:

Like many diligent job seeking law students (note that I did not fit in this group), Mr. Smith set out early on in our first year to secure a summer internship for the transition from obnoxious 1L to even more obnoxious 2L. (This is a generalization, of course. Incidentally, Mr. Smith is one of the least obnoxious people I know.) Mr. Smith's search was very impressive. He visited the career services office and found contacts for dozens of law firms. He dipped into his law school loans to spring for the expensive bond paper (because these were the days before everyone had e-mail). He sent out these letters by the tens, being careful to address each to the hiring partner at the firm to which he was applying. This was the year 1996.

A few months later, the letters started pouring in. Many were the standard, "sorry we don't hire summer associates, we have already fulfilled our internship needs, etc. etc." But one special letter stood out from the rest. It was so special, in fact, that it was gingerly placed in the display case by the library in the spring of our third year, the highlight of all of the good times we had as law students. And this is what it said (more or less):

"Dear Mr. Smith,

Thank you for inquiring Mr. Jones [contact person from career services office] about a possible summer internship at [insert name of firm]. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones will not be getting back to you any time soon, seeing as how he died in 1981.

Love,

[insert name of surviving partner/associate laughing ass off while composing letter]"

It was classic.

Journalism At Its Finest

Now that swimming is over and I've just watched two American gymnasts get robbed in the event finals (I'm not biased, I swear - how can a woman who lands on her knees in a vault knock poor team finals choke artist Alicia Sacramone off the podium - I mean how bad can that poor girl's week get anyway?), my interest in the Olympics is starting to wane. For some reason, after former fantasy boyfriend Dan O'Brien got too old for the competition (I was inexplicably drawn to that gap of his), I lost some interest in track and field (okay, the whole Marion Jones scandal certainly didn't help matters - disgraceful!). So in reflection, I thought I would revisit Michael Phel . . . err . . . I mean swimming.

So at this point, you're probably thinking that I'm about to go off on another rant. And ding-ding! You are correct. I would never take anything away from Michael Phelps, and believe me - I was just as excited as anyone else when he out-touched that poor dude to win the 100 meter butterfly by one one-hundredth of a second! The guy is amazing, and he deserved every single one of those gold medals. What bothered me was the failure of a certain journalist to appreciate the efforts of some of his teammates as individual athletes instead of simply supporting characters in Michael Phelps' quest for Olympic history.

Now, I am sure the other swimmers knew that their efforts in the Cube would be overshadowed to a certain extent by the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps. They probably had a special support group just to prepare them for that. But what really got me was when a journalist interviewed Jason Lezak about his clutch performance in securing that gold medal in the 4 x 100 freestyle relay. Jason Lezak, who not only redeemed himself for a previously disappointing performance in the 4 x 100 relay in Athens but who came from behind against the world record holder, beating his personal best by one and a half seconds.

So, as a journalist with a prime two minutes of Jason Lezak's valuable time, what would you say to him? Here's what our friendly correspondent for NBC decided to go with: "I bet the fact that you were helping Michael Phelps keep alive his quest for eight gold medals in a single Olympics helped motivate you for that strong finish." Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point. Are you kidding me? Yes, random NBC correspondent who apparently graduated from the University of Disrespect, even though Jason Lezak was born a decade before Michael Phelps, he has trained for his whole life, all thirty-two years, with the hope that one day, one day, he could play a small part in someone else's dream. It was not besting his own personal record that helped him edge out the trash talking Frenchie. It was not helping his relay team (which, at last count, included four people). It was all for the cause of one single American.

Jason Lezak - just in case you're reading this, I want you to know that I thought you handled that embarrassing question with as much dignity and grace as humanly possible. And I thank you for gently reminding our friendly reporter that, in fact, the dreams of Michael Phelps were not what drove you to reach that wall first. What drove you was your own passion for swimming and your desire to win for your teammates.

Yes, as in plural.

The Trash Talker

Okay. I admit it. I am a sucker for the Olympics. In the months leading up to them, I ignore all of the hype. I don't watch the trials. I don't follow what's going on with drug testing. I don't rush out to buy a bunch of red, white, and blue garb so I can follow along like a crazed fan from my living room.

But once they are on, I get hooked. And my favorite part of the Summer Olympics, I've decided, is swimming. I love swimming for many reasons, just one being that I know for a fact how ridiculously hard it is. I was never a serious competitive swimmer, but I did spend two summers swimming for the Forest Lake Country Club in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, and believe you me - that was plenty. It was positively grueling. I also love swimming because it is one of those sports that truly shines in the Olympics. The game-related sports like basketball are totally boring to me because these are professional athletes who are just taking a break from their million dollar salaries to give this little 'ole Olympic thing a try. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm sure Michael Phelps does quite well in endorsements - QUITE well. But swimming is at its pinnacle on the Olympic stage. The contest is over fast, and it's always exciting.

What I don't get is the trash talking. The French swimmer dude (sorry - can't be bothered to look up his name), saying prior to the 4 x 100 free relay, "The Americans? We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." Is that right??? You didn't come to represent your country with honor? You didn't come to win the gold? You specifically came to bring someone else down? I mean, it goes without saying that, to win, someone else must be defeated, but still - what kind of sportsmanship is that? ESPECIALLY during the Olympics! Not to toot our own horns or anything, but the NBC coverage, while certainly America-centric, does focus on some of the athletes from other countries who deserve to be celebrated. I believe all Olympians do.

I have to say that I was rather proud of the Americans in their response. Of course they let the swim speak for itself. And it did. It spoke volumes, in fact.

Stress for Breakfast

I once had a boss who liked to say he ate stress for breakfast, like it was some ridiculous badge of honor. Well, I ate stress for breakfast, lunch, and a mid-afternoon snack today, and you know what? It tasted terrible.

I had two major "filings" due today for work, and I've once again proven the theory that, no matter how much time you have to complete a project, you will always work until the very last minute. We almost made these filings a month ago and gave a big sigh of relief when we realized we had a whole extra month. "Woo hoo!" we exclaimed. "Now we don't have to rush!"

Yeah. I wish I had a time machine to go tell my 7-8-08 self, "Get it together. Let's nail this thing down so we're not racing the clock trying to get it done at the eleventh hour. Maybe this time, you'd prefer to finish something without that awful tension building up in your back so severely that you can barely move at the end of the day. Maybe you'd like not to snap at your husband when he calls in the middle of your giant C.F. to ask you a question about your bank account."

But no. Apparently, my 7-8-08 self was destined to eat stress for breakfast today.

Mis-Animation

My husband and I were watching "Mad Men," last night (excellent, in case you haven't jumped on that bandwagon), and I started thinking about the business of advertising. I understand from post-9-11, that when times are rough in business, the marketing budget is among the first to be hit. To me, this is a shame. I am not embarrassed to admit that marketing has a lot to do with the purchasing decisions I make. If the packaging is good, or the commercial makes me laugh, I'm more likely to buy the product - plain and simple. But sometimes, I really wonder what those people in advertising are smoking and how their proposals even make it past the boardroom.

The most glaring of these, to me, is the overuse of animation in advertising. And by animation, I mean the kind that personifies an inanimate object. Remember the smashing success of the California Raisins? Well, so do I. But that was over 20 years ago, folks!!! Come up with a new concept. Have we learned nothing in the last two decades?

Last night, I was forced to watch this commercial for Compound-W (I assume it was Compound-W - maybe it wasn't - either way, I didn't care because the commercial sucked). The geniuses at the advertising firm gave life to a wart on someone's finger. And the wart was talking smack or something and then got covered with some kind of liquid, turned white, and apparently died. Gross! This does not inspire me to buy your stupid product. I'd rather pay the extra money to have a doctor remove the wart for me.

This brought to mind two other commercials with animation that I cannot stand (again, please excuse me for not remembering the name of the product, which proves to me that even though your commercial was notoriously memorable, it's still not enough to earn brand recognition). The first of these is that awful commercial with the fungus that lives under the bed of your toenails. That commercial was so unbelievably disturbing that I would interrupt whatever I was doing and leap across the room to change the channel. I do not want to see anyone, even a cartoon, lift up a toenail.

The second was some commercial for diapers (Luvs? Huggies? Again, not sure). These advertisers had the balls to animate a DIAPER! The diaper was turned in profile and had eyes above the hole where the baby/toddler's leg would go, which was apparently the mouth of this character. Are you serious? Do you even realize what diapers are for? And what goes into them? That is beyond disgusting. And unless I have stepped into an Austin Powers movie or something, that is animation gone way too far.

Thinking of these dumb commercials makes me at least appreciate the Geico cavemen a little more. Sure, they blew it with that lame attempt at a sitcom. But it was original. I have to give them that.

Repeat, Repeat Performance

This past weekend, my husband Shawn and I went in on a couple of condos in South Padre Island with some of my Austin friends. We were pretty happy to be included, especially since we could not get our act together and figure out what we were doing until the night before everyone was leaving. This wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that it was 4th of July weekend. We got the room with the two single beds in the condo with the couple that had two kids. Call us Ward and June Cleaver.

Well, incredibly, it rained the ENTIRE weekend. This is not supposed to happen in Texas. I don't mean a few sprinkles here and there. I don't mean the bummer of an overcast sky. Oh no. I mean rain. Rain, rain, rain. So we drove four and a half hours to a beach in order to stay inside all weekend to eat, drink, eat, and drink some more. And some more. Good times. (You can ask my friend Michelle from New York, who I think tried to drunk dial me on that first night but got more than she bargained for - I'm sure I was probably twice as looped as she was, and she was the one who was eventually like, "Uh, yeah, I gotta go.").

So, take four couples and throw in some cabin fever, and what do you get? Let's call them "debates." There were a lot of doozy "debates" (thankfully none between Shawn and me), but my personal favorite involved the value of a story that one has already heard. Here's how it goes: the "day after," my friend Jenn and I kept bringing up a story from the night before. The story itself is not important. What is important is the fact that her boyfriend became very annoyed at having to hear it repeated several times. Fair enough - it wasn't the best story I've ever heard. But where he went too far was to proclaim that people should never repeat stories at all because (and I quote), "nobody cares."

Whoa! Excuse me?? I beg to differ. A good story is a good story. And each and every one of my friends has at least one of these gems. And you know what? Like a good movie or a book, I'm going to want to hear that story more than once. Heck, I just finished watching "Old School" for the umpteenth time, and it was even the crappy sanitized version on TBS. If I like a story, I'm going to get sucked in again, especially because, unlike the sanitized "Old School," there may be nuances in the second, third, twelfth time around that weren't in the first. New details = new laughs. And here's the other thing, perhaps the biggest thing of all: if there weren't any repeat stories, there wouldn't be any inside jokes.

And, where, my friends, is the fun in that???