charlotte harris

For no good reason at all, my excellent boss cut us loose at noon yesterday. 

Flashback to last summer, when my company implemented a temporary flex policy between Memorial Day and Labor Day.  Every workweek ended Friday at noon and you bet I took advantage of that.  Mostly I used it as free dip-in-the-pool and read-novels time.  Sometimes I’d work out or do an errand, but it really was free time, so I usually just indulged myself.

So back to yesterday when I unexpectedly found myself with 4 free hours, I took off on a leisurely drive west to Leesburg and stopped in at Bicycle Outfitters.  I walked into this store, and found a couple of jovial mechanics working on tune-ups, and a handful of regular customers friendly and knowledgeable to the point that I couldn’t discern them from the real employees.  I met Mark, the store manager, and let him know that I needed a comfortable and energy efficient bike for a short race and future fitness riding and just let him take it from there.

I should mention that to hand over total control, especially to a complete stranger, is very out of character for me.  But I did recently finish reading The Paradox of Choice, and in the spirit of Barry Schwartz, I have decided that I’ll be happier and less stressed if I don’t perfect my bike shopping experience to death. 

Mark explained the differences between a few bikes, and I let him know my preferences.  From there, the expert and I narrowed the field to ONE bike.  So I took it home with me!  It was so easy and stress free, and I am very happy.  If I had attempted to research and decide all on my own, I would still be fact-finding online, comparison shopping, and developing a massive headache.

Mark outfitted me with all the accoutrements, such as bike rack, helmet, and some flat repair goodies.  The mechanic, Paul, who installed the bike rack for me was a fellow Jeep driver so we had some friendly car talk out in the parking lot.  Mark gave me a small discount for being a Jeep lady, and guaranteed me two full years of free tune-ups.  He fitted the bike for my stature and showed me how to change gears and how to fix a flat out on the trail.  Which is basically to just be a girl, and five guys will be along to help me any minute.  Ha ha ha. 

I took the bike home Friday afternoon, and went to bed last night sooo excited to wake up and hit the trail.  For my triathlon training program, I needed to ride just 6 miles today.  I woke up this morning, and saw a gorgeous sunny warm spring day ahead.  I got geared up, scarfed down a Luna Bar and some coffee on my way out… and headed straight to the gym for spinning class. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Maybe tomorrow. 

Every so often I re-read the travel journal I kept through three separate trips to Europe.   The pages are scrawled with my hurried script, where I scribbled notes to remember which pubs fry up the best fish and chips, which cafes serve the freshest croissants, and which tapas bars slice off the best quality serrano.    I wrote the names of every attraction I visited, and oddities I observed along the way.  I saw pink toilet paper in nearly every loo in London.  There are fast-food paella restaurants dotting street corners in Barcelona.   I wondered why I was served a little bowl of potato chips before every meal, even at the upscale joints?

I described in thorough detail several adventures.  Like the night in London my sister (she lived there) and her friends and I closed down Manoush, which at that time of night was operating illegally as an after hours pub.  It was an underground club in both senses of the phrase, and I felt like we were walking into an old speakeasy.  From the sidewalk, we descended a short flight of stairs.  I suppose one of Sis’s local friends knew the secret handshake or knock or something because soon we were being led quietly through the belly of a dark commercial kitchen and back out into a dimly lit room.  There we joined Sis’ friends and drank passion fruit malt liquor beverages from a can until nearly 4am, trying to be as discreet as drunk kids can be.  In six days, we did everything a visitor should do when in London, including trying on Doc Martens in Covent Garden, and people watching while sipping Cappucinos out under the heat lamps in Leicester Square.

The following year, I wrote of the week Sis and I traveled together to France and began our trip in Nice, a place she’d visited the year before.  Since she’d already done the touristy thing, Sis lounged on the beach while I struck out on my own.  I took the # 15 bus up to the Musee Matisse, but once up there, I discovered something unexpected and even better: Les Jardins du Monastaire.  A geometric garden with a gorgeous view of Nice.  I sat there soaking it in for a good hour, but eventually left the peace of that perch above the city to go back down to meet sis.  That night we dressed up for dinner and split three bottles of pink wine. 

After dinner and some dancing, we stumbled up and down La Plage Beaux Rivage and flirted with some boys from Tunisia before we made our way back to the hotel where we flirted some more with the cute son of the hotel owner.  He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak French, so we tried to use up as much T.P as possible so we’d have an excuse to run downstairs and see him… holding up the cardboard tube and giggling.

The last trip detailed in my journal was Barcelona.   Doug (ex-BF and still a good friend)  and I often asked the waiters to recommend selections for us, and we ended up trying out some fabulous new foods we might not have been adventurous enough to order on our own.  We ate from the platters of surtidos de tapas and enjoyed every unidentifiable bite.  At Botafumeiro, we ate what the waiter could only describe in English as “little fish” … and they were little - we ate them whole, fried in batter, eyes and all.  The day we walked from our hotel to La Sagrada Familia, nothing could have prepared us for the awe that would strike when we rounded that last streetcorner and looked up.   We spent the morning running up and down the stairs inside the spires and covered many more miles of the city on foot that afternoon.  That night, after all our walking through the city, we ordered chocolate ice cream from room service and ate it perched on the edge of the tub, soaking our tired feet in the hot bath.

There is still half a book’s worth of blank pages, so I plan to keep returning until the book is full.  I think I have room for three more trips.   I sent my passport off last month to be renewed and once I have it back, I think I’ll start planning a short vacay.  Until then, I’ll keep re-living my past adventures in all their detail… I close my eyes and almost smell those criossants.

I can’t believe I actually registered for my first triathlon!  It’s a sprint race in mid- July.   Upstate New York, thank goodness - not in the swampy summer heat of DC!  I am in week 7 of a training program, and just keeping up with it.  I think the hardest part is the time-consumption, really.  I must work out before AND after work, and because of grad school, I will be swapping the Wednesday evening workout to Thursdays, which is supposed to be my rest day.  I don’t want to give up my Pilates and my strength training either, so I still have to fit that in on my own time. 

This all translates into not much weekday social life and certainly no dawdling for me until the afternoon of July 14th, when I hope my Aunt Marty will join me for a sick sick sick meal with which I will drink a glass or two too many of Finger Lakes Riesling. I became interested in the Musselman last summer when Marty encouraged me to volunteer with her one weekend when I was visiting her in the Finger Lakes.   I was several months into a new exercise program of my own and seeing those atheletes was hugely inspiring.  My adrenaline was rushing just being a water girl!

The mid-July weather in Geneva NY is hot but not too oppressive, the lake temps will be in the mid-70’s, and the run portion of the course will even have some shade.  After the race, there will be plenty of gorgeous wineries to visit for a picnic and chilled wine. 

Who knows, I might hafta be saved by a lifeboat 100 yards into the swim, or maybe I’ll flatten a bike tire running over a horseshoe nail (lotsa Amish in that area),  but perhaps I’ll actually cross the finish line in a comfortable jog.  But no matter how it ends, I know I am working super hard now so that I can say in July that I truly did my best.

Dear Readers: 

To the person who searched “+jeeps +suck” … You are no longer welcome to read my blog. 

To the three people (or one person three times) who found me by searching for “my imaginary friend bob” - sorry you got me instead of Bob!  Hint: I don’t think you’re going to find him in Google… or anywhere.  Bob is imaginary.

To the person wondering “anything in charlotte worth my time” … the answer is YES!  My friends Emily and Al live there!  They are fun, laid back, interesting, and they sure do know where to find a good time in and around the city.  And they have a hairless dog that’s definitely worth your time.

Finally, to the 800 bajillion homely midwestern housewives who want to know where to find “Kurtain Kraft” … Oh my gawd… why do you want to buy that garbage!?!  I know that we DC area residents are elitist and out of touch with the rest of America but c’mawwwwwn.   Try like, QVC.com or something - not my blog.  I write one stinkin’ post about Sandra Lee and her crappy invention and my site traffic literally triples.

And to the friends and family who have this blog bookmarked… thanks for all the kind words and encouragement.  Love ya!

When reminiscing with the three other music lovers I road-tripped and camped with for four days, one of us need only howl “Bonnaroooooooooooo!” and the rest of us echo in agreement.   That’s it.   With just 3 syllables and 4 big grins, we can recap one long weekend back in June 2004.

Like a college fight song invokes 4 years of wild undergrad memories, and like the one-handed-wave reminds us Jeep drivers that we “understand,” three years after Bonnaroo, a silly shout-out of ”Snagglepuss Rules!!!” gets back 4 enthusiastic nods of recognition.

It would take a thousand blog posts to describe our adventure in the detail it deserves.  I wish I could share the sentiment of that weekend with everyone by simply cheering “Snagglepuss rules!!!” 

I’ve been thinking about Bonnaroo a lot lately.  I’m certain it’s because it’s spring, and every year at this time I start getting excited about outdoor shows.  Live music is a favorite indulgence of mine, but I don’t really have to travel to Manchester TN to hear some awesome music. 

I’ve already started snatching up tickets to shows and lining up my weekends.   This is the list of outdoor music events I’m keeping my eye on.

Loudoun Summer Music Fest 
Herndon Rocks/Friday Night Live 
Graves Mountain Festival

And of course, see you on the lawn at Wolf Trap!   

Sis:  Like my new buddy icon? (she IMs me with an animation of an exploding pink marshmallow in a microwave oven)

Me:  That’s sick.  Ha ha.  Have you ever actually microwaved a Peep?

Sis:  No, I don’t want to waste them.  Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Anyone who knows my sister well can’t get through the spring without passing a Peeps display somewhere and thinking of her with a smile and a giggle.  Sis loves the Marshmallow Peeps.  Love might not even be a strong enough word. 

Her record is twelve yellow bunnies in one sitting.   And it’s quite an elaborate strategy she has devised which allows her to consume marshmallow so freely in mass quantities.  In her words, “I like to eat the ears first, then the head, then the bottom.  3 bites.” 

She calls herself “old school” (and deservedly so) because of her preference for the traditional colors of white, yellow, and pink and she points out that not only does yellow taste the best, but it’s the only color she can eat in large quantities without suffering a headache. 

You’ll rarely catch her eating Snowman Peeps at Christmas or Pumpkin Peeps at Halloween.  She likes the Peeps best at Easter because she straight up prefers the bunnies!  I’m tellin’ ya people, “Peep-ing” is a precise study for Sis.   

In fact, Easter holds no other meaning for her, except that it’s open season on Peeps.   And she’s kinda bummed when it’s over.  Personally I think that’s just when she starts to come down from the sugar high.

Sis, ya have almost 2 weeks left to get your fix.  But then again, isn’t that when they get marked down to half-price?

image taken from www.thesmokinggun.com 

A few years ago, CNN was briefly scandalized when a series of obituaries were found stored on their servers, having been written in advance to announce the deaths of several celebrated public figures (Dick Cheney, for example!) who were at that time still very much alive.  I have long been under the impression that pre-packaged obituaries were considered by journalists to be in bad taste, but I don’t actually know if that’s an accurate inclination, me not actually being a journalist and all.  I did read a novel called The Obituary Writer by Porter Shreve, in which the narrator and title character amasses an “advancers” file of pre-scripted obits.  Maybe that’s where I got the notion.

It’s not that I even care if obituaries are written in advance or not, but for some reason this reference keeps coming to mind whenever I start brainstorming for my next blog post.  A friend asked me the other night if I write my posts ahead of time.  The answer is no.  

I can’t help but think that if I start to feel like I have to write in advance just to keep up with my personal goal of one-post-per-day, then writing becomes a task just to cross off my list and no longer an unpredictable and spirited writing adventure.  I think if I am too busy or just not feelin’ it that day, I simply won’t force myself to write.  This blog is not a chore.  

I realized this week that I have a slightly unusual sense of community.  It occurred to me Thursday night, after a short detour on my way home.  I stopped in at my local Chinese joint and Mrs. Lee greeted me with her usual… “did you go to gym tonight?”  My answer is always a yes, and then we repeat variations on the same choreographed conversation, learning a tiny bit more about each other with every visit. 

Mrs. Lee is the one who got me started asking for brown rice instead of white, and who will let me order the marinated beef sticks but not the fried spring rolls, if she knows I’ve just come from a workout.  Every time I see her, she laments that she doesn’t exercise enough, and I always tell her that she looks great anyway.

Mrs. Lee is one of the personalities/faces of several area businesses with which I’ve grown familiar over the past 6~ish years.  I know the managers at both Mobil stations in town; one of them comes out from behind the counter every time I gas up to meet me at the pump and invite me to dinner, and at the other station, the father/son/uncle team always greet me like old friends, and then snicker playfully whenever I ask for one of those plastic mitts.

There’s Luciano and Michelle at the pizza parlor.  Well, they seem to know everybody in town, but I am glad to be among their loyal and familiar customers.  I know just enough to remember to ask Luciano how the motorcycle riding has been and how their new store a few towns over is coming along. 

I must mention the laid-back-cool-kind-of-guy-but-precise-on-the-job-barsita in Starbucks who has my order in queue as soon as he sees me walking through the door.  I don’t know his name, but he makes my morning easier not having to speak to anyone, not even just to mutter “grande skim latte, please.”

This is my community.  I sleep here, eat here, and gas up my car here.  I don’t hang out in my town, and I don’t know my neighbors.  In fact, my neighbors have come and gone, faces changing regularly over the years.  It’s not block parties and borrowing a cup of sugar. 

It’s really been the local businesspeople who have made me feel at home here.  The folks I have “befriended” aren’t merely drones who are nice to me just so I’ll give them my business.    And it’s quite the opposite of what I’d always imagined.  In my narrow mind, I thought I’d feel “community” if I was nestled among a bunch of other people who look and live just like I do. 

My reality is quite different than my former perception.  These are my neighbors, and for now I call this home.  I am glad Mrs. Lee is looking out for me.

Good Karma, bad JuJu, pass a haytruck and don’t look back, bad things happen in threes, and best of all jinxing things.  I am super-superstitious and I believe it all.  Which is why I *think* I might have spoiled an upcoming Keane concert for myself.   

I heard ‘Crystal Ball’ for the first time while shopping in a hip clothing store.  As the soaring melody blared over the loudspeaker, the lyrics stopped me in my tracks and made my chest ache: “I lost my heart, I buried it too deep under the iron sea.”  I’ve ever since imagined I might fall in love at a Keane concert.

This elaborate fantasy momentarily slipped my mind today when a friend tipped me off that Keane will be at the 9:30 club in May.  Within 90 seconds I had logged on to tickets.com and bought two.  I guess I was feeling optimistic, but damn, why did I go and do that.  I could have just bought one ticket and been my own perfect date. 

If I really believed that I’m destined to fall in love at a Keane concert, then I’d have exactly 68 days to meet my soulmate, start dating, & school him on Keane’s awesomeness, so that by May 29th we can make my dream come true.  Sounds ridiculous, right?  Good thing I am not a nut, but it was fun to imagine.

Well, none of it’s gonna happen anyway,  because I have JINXED myself.   Ask me May 30th how the concert was and I’ll tell you then I went to the club alone, sold the other ticket on the street, and left early because all the other couples around me were falling in love while Crystal Ball swirled around us.

Does anyone else walk through the prepared foods section of the Fairfax Whole Foods and start hallucinating Elysian fields?

When I was a teenager, my dad offered to teach me some cooking basics. I refused, certain that ”when I’m grown-up, I’ll be rich enough to hire someone to cook for me.” I seriously believed that, and I envisioned for myself a personal chef or live-in housekeeper. I did like vegging side-by-side with Dad sometimes, watching Yan Can Cook and Great Chefs of Chicago on PBS (this was waaay before FoodTV), but I was convinced I’d never actually get my own hands dirty in the kitchen.

For a brief time, my parents thought it might be a good idea to have my sister and me try to prepare dinner from time to time, or at least that was the plan.  I was vegetarian at the time, so I tackled the falafel recipe from the Moosewood cookbook, and succeeded in never being asked to cook family dinner again! 

Well, I am grown-up now and it’s true that I can afford to have someone cook all my meals for me. So, although it might be the guy behind the prepared foods counter at Whole Foods as opposed to a personal chef, the point is, I don’t “have to” cook, ever.

The thing is now, I want to cook. I like to cook. A some point a switch flipped, and nowadays I read Gourmet, Everyday Food, and watch Giada DeLaurentiis. I tear pages of ideas from Bon Appetit and trade recipes with my girlfriends. I want to be Nigella.  I linger near the Whole Foods salad bar, wishing I had been the one to dream up that pairing of beets and goat cheese.

Alas,  I simply don’t get the practice.  I don’t have a spare minute during the week, and cooking for one, like I sometimes do on the weekends, can result in a lot of waste.  When I do cook, I follow recipes to the T and I am so slow that to cook one meal requires a good two-hour block in the kitchen.  Passing up my Dad’s cooking lessons years ago was a mistake, but I think I’ve finally made up for it with all the “Food 911″ calls I make back home.  Years ago he put all his most requested recipes into a homemade cookbook and gave copies to me and my sis as Christmas gifts.  That cookbook has helped me win hearts (or at least stomachs) on some second and third dates.  

I always look forward putting together a dinner date or spending a free Saturday morning to spend in the kitchen, but until then I’ve got Whole Foods.

update:  Thanks Express for mentioning me in BlogLog again!