Touring the gardens at George Washington’s Mt. Vernon on Sunday
with Capital Photo History Tours
For someone who has always believed she’s terrible at math, I sure crunch a lot of numbers.
Cost of gas.
Cost of groceries.
Sale price at 20 percent off.
Number of minutes to work.
Number of minutes to my parents’ house.
Number of minutes on my lunch break.
Number of miles on a road trip.
Cost of that latte.
Cost versus just making that latte at home.
The numbers are everywhere — all around me. Admittedly, I spend most of that “number-crunching” time calculating how long it’s going to take me from Point A to Point B . . . because I’m punctual.
Sometimes too punctual.
I grew up believing tardiness was akin to laziness — and disrespectful. With a military grandfather and parents who just generally worked hard to make sure we showed up on time, I don’t tend to suffer lateness gladly as an adult.
There are exceptions, of course. Living in the D.C. area, we’re acutely aware of how quickly traffic can derail an otherwise flawless plan — and a five- or ten-minute delay is understandable. No big deal. I don’t sit in a restaurant tapping my watch and stamping my feet; I know things happen, and it’s cool.
But a half hour? An hour? A text message with an “I forgot”? Forget about it.
Generally speaking, it takes me 15 minutes to get anywhere in or around my hometown. Fifteen minutes to and from work; 15 minutes to the grocery store; 15 minutes to Lowe’s, where we spend about half of our waking hours these days. Fifteen to see my grandparents. Ten or 15 to see my sister. And on it goes.
Nothing is “close,” exactly, but nothing is far. Downtown Washington is about a 45-minute drive, and we can get nearly anywhere in the vicinity in about an hour. In fact, that’s a carrying joke: Annapolis, Solomons Island, Lexington Park, College Park, D.C.? About an hour.
So I do a lot of math. Calculate times, mileage, Google Maps directions. I don’t like having to rush, and I’d much rather be early than late.
Rushing doesn’t work for me.
At the ripe ol’ age of 29, I’ve already figured out how much I hate having to hurry. If I’m going to feel rushed through a meal or event, I’d rather not go — period. I hate having to constantly check the time, and despise the pit of anxiety that opens in my stomach when I realize I’ve gone over an hour-long lunch break.
It’s a weird quirk, but it’s real.
As an East Coast girl through and through, I’m used to over-scheduling and piling on too much responsibility — sometimes calculating my day down to the hour, to the minute. Before work today? I wrote (most of) this post, edited a batch of photos, started packing for a weekend trip, drank way too much coffee, fixed some code on my dad’s website, answered emails, showered, dressed, etc. — all in about an hour.
About an hour.
Though it feels good to be productive, that “must do this NOW” feeling makes my stomach hurt.
My mission lately — and heading into fall — is to work on slowing down, absorbing, enjoying the moment. Nothing I haven’t pondered before, but now that we’re settled in the house, crossing projects off the list and looking forward to the fresh season?
I want to soak it up. Worry less about constantly being on time and just work toward enjoying that time.
Planning less, hanging more.
Less math, more moments.
A good trade.
I held out as long as I could.
With kids lined up for buses on every other street corner this morning, fall is definitely in the air. I woke up looking at the golden light with a sense of excitement — the same one I mentioned last week — and pulled open the front door to let a cool breeze in as Spencer was leaving for work.
We got so much done around the house this weekend. Two months into homeownership, we still have boxes tucked into nearly every room . . . but Spencer finished the pantry, friends, and it is glorious. I know I sing the praises of my handy husband all the time, but trust me when I say that every word is true. The guy is awesome.
As a side note, we apparently have tons of sauerkraut, taco shells, grape jelly and canned corn beef. So if you’re hungry?
Finishing the pantry created a domino effect: we could then finish unpacking all the bags of canned goods, kitchen appliances and other food-related goodness because the contents of the cabinets could be shuffled to the pantry. That means I could continue emptying the boxes in the future library, which has been operating as a makeshift pantry.
Which means I’m one step closer to having a library.
My reunion with my books — now languishing in boxes for three whole months — will be a joyous one.
But back to autumn, the most fantastic of seasons. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t imagining pumpkins in every nook and cranny back when we were just looking at the house in March. As soon as August rolls around, I’m usually dreaming of cool temperatures and county fairs and boots, and this year is no exception.
And I have a whole house to scatter with gourds. This is so happening.
In my pursuit of only buying pieces for the house when I have a “clear vision” for the space (ha), I finally broke down and bought a console table for the hallway. It’s kind of funny to be decorating when you have boxes and stuff everywhere, but whatever. We’ll get there.
I wanted a little table and found a little table, but that little table was just so . . . barren.
It needed pumpkins.
But what doesn’t, really?
I know it’s late August . . . and that I’m quite possibly jumping the gun. But I’m just so pumped and totally in the “pumpkin everything” camp. From drinks to designs to just the burnt-orange color itself, I’m all about fall and gourds and happiness.
And now I can spread that to the hallway.
Seems only appropriate.
Though the humid days and sticky nights will soon fade into autumn, there’s still time to enjoy a summer treat — and Emery Lord’s Open Road Summer may well be it.
Life on the road with music superstar Delilah “Dee” Montgomery is always an adventure — especially for Reagan O’Neill, Dee’s childhood best friend. Happy to shimmy away from a troubled year back home in Nashville, Reagan throws herself into keeping Dee happy and energized while trying to block out memories of the last few months.
After a scandal threatens to sully Dee’s deserved “good-girl” image, a scheme to pair her with Matt Finch — a musician who earned fame with his brothers, but is decidedly all grown up — hopes to put a spin on the situation. As Reagan gets to know Matt away from the harsh glare of the spotlight, she realizes there may be more to him — and life — than she’d anticipated.
What I really loved about Open Road Summer was its honest take on first love and friendship. Having a best friend requires nurturing and care just like any other relationship — something Reagan and Dee acknowledge and understand. Though they’re ridiculously tight and always looking out for each other, they fight and fret and have their disagreements, too. They’re like sisters — and as with any dynamic, there are ups and downs.
Still, the bond the teens share is admirable . . . especially as the enter and leave one another’s orbits. As Dee’s honest lyrics and sweet persona catapult her far from their high school, she could have left Reagan behind — but she doesn’t. Though the “scandal” concerning Dee is extremely mild, especially by modern standards, I bought the idea that pairing her with “wholesome” singer Matt Finch would be a positive for them both.
Especially because Matt was pretty swoon-worthy.
I couldn’t read Open Road Summer without picturing Taylor Swift as Dee and Nick Jonas as Matt, which worked for me. Their stories paralleled their famous counterparts enough to create the comparison, but they certainly weren’t copycats. Matt, in particular, is shouldering his own pain alongside Reagan — but being a tough girl and all, she doesn’t want him to know it.
As a narrator, Reagan was the right combination of jaded but hopeful. She puts on a good front, you know, with her rough-and-tumble boyfriends and high heels — but we know she’s secretly striving for connection, just like all of us. Her evolution from damaged to trying was believable and commendable, and I definitely bonded with her and wanted her to succeed.
This is a quick, enjoyable read about hanging on and letting go — and I loved its accurate portrayal of friendship and love. While the ending was hopeful, it wasn’t sappy . . . which I really appreciated given, you know, we are talking about teenagers here. Not to be a cranky Old Married, but honestly — stories about 17-year-olds pledging their undying love sort of provoke epic eye-rolling in me.
But there were no rolled eyes here. Only big grins.
Fans of contemporary young adult novels, tales of first love and stories centered around the rich and famous (but nice!) will find lots to enjoy in Emery Lord’s Open Road Summer. It’s the perfect companion for a late-summer weekend . . . virgin daiquiri not included.
4 out of 5
Over the weekend, I had an interesting chat about chatting.
What we talk about with others.
How we handle social situations.
I’ll admit to getting a little anxious in big groups, and sometimes I feel like I have “nothing to say” — or nothing interesting to say, anyway. Because I write a personal newspaper column, most of my “good” stories become fodder for my work. It may not seem tough to write a measly 450 words twice a week, y’all, but trust me: it gets challenging.
Sometimes I sit around in my pajamas and eat cookie butter out of a jar. Other times Spencer and I watch “Manhattan” and surf eBay and hang around drinking coffee, then do some laundry or pull weeds or whatever. All necessary tasks — but not exactly compelling.
When my sister and I had the chaos of planning two weddings last year, we always had something to talk about. Joint bridal planning is a unique brand of chaos that provided constant conversation with everyone we knew for a solid year, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t milk that for all it was worth.
(I did. I know I did.)
Regarding social occasions, I find that so much we want to share with others — IRL, if you will — has already been “shared” elsewhere. We post photos of vacations on Facebook; share milestones on Twitter; Instagram the heck out of an awesome meal. By the time we actually see someone, they’re well aware of what we’ve been doing and eating and thinking about.
For me, there’s another component: because I blog. And beyond that, friends may read my column and have already “heard” everything cool going on in my world.
I’ve gotten kind of used to this. It is what it is. The fact of the matter is, you know, I’m kind of boring; I only do so many “interesting” things in a day. And when I get together with folks I haven’t seen in a while, there aren’t always that many fascinating anecdotes to relay.
And that’s okay. It doesn’t matter.
Because sometimes? It’s enough to just be together. Without iPhones, without Facebook, without Gchat. It’s enough to sit and drink a cold beer on a friend’s new deck and blow bubbles with a 3-year-old and all watch the sun go down. To brush mosquitoes away from each other’s legs, hold up a beer and mouth “Another?” and laugh about silliness from five years ago — because we can.
I haven’t had a large crew of friends since high school, back when we bonded through theatre in the way that only in-the-trenches teens can. As an adult, I was folded into a large group of friends via my brother-in-law and sister — and my husband was been welcomed, too. I’m so grateful for all of them.
Maybe our conversations are about work, or houses, or children . . . maybe a little travel, if we’re lucky, or movies we’ve seen. Plans we have. Food we’ve made. Or money because, you know, we all only have so much of it; budgeting has become a common talking point.
I’ve learned from them. Been comforted by them. And even if it’s not all groundbreaking stuff, it’s more than enough for a group of twenty-somethings who have ushered in many life phases together. Though I didn’t meet the crew until we were all out of college and making our young way into the world, I’ve known them all longer than I’ve known my own husband.
It’s good, really — to look out at a porch now filled with newborns and toddlers, friends who have moved away and come back, those of us who have coupled up and married and now throw bashes in new spaces. We can’t all get together without mentioning how “things have changed,” often jokingly and innocently . . . because they have. Change is everywhere. It fills the cracks of every conversation.
But that change feels good, too — solid, real, reassuring. As we enter different phases at different times, we lend support and camaraderie. One couple actually bought their house the day before we did, and we’ve bonded over unpacking and adulthood in new ways.
Things change. Things stay the same.
And when we talk, we make the words matter.
We’ve reached the tipping point, I think.
Though this summer never reached skin-melting level here in Maryland, the air has already taken a cooler turn. The mornings are crisper — weather typically reserved for late September. The small tree outside my office window has red in its highest branches, and fallen leaves skitter across streets and parking lots.
This is premature, I know; it’s still August, and not even late August. But the store shelves have already been ransacked by nervous students. Pumpkins, witches and ghouls adorn seasonal aisles. Halloween candy beckons at the grocery store, and costumes will soon follow. Early-morning marketing emails remind us to “take advantage of summer before it’s gone!” (and buy their coconut-scented lotion, of course).
I can’t say I’m sad, exactly . . . we know autumn is my absolute favorite season, and I can’t wait for boots and scarves and holidays with friends and family. I keep thinking of this quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald, then feel a twinge of longing for all that’s to come.
But there’s something bittersweet about knowing our flip-flops will retire soon — that our warm days and humid nights will fade to crispy-brown golden afternoons. Though I love autumn intensely, I’m never so aware of the passage of time as when we say goodbye to this season.
Maybe because so many look forward to it for so long: mornings where we dash out without coats, running with bare arms and legs . . . free and unencumbered. Vacations, cook-outs, toes in sand.
Maybe because I fear another awful, never-ending winter — a frosty season that stretched for months and months last year. Buried under snow piles, the world slick with ice and salt.
But time continues, pushing us with it. We carve pumpkins, watch beloved TV specials and march on.
And how could I ever be sad in a world with pumpkin spice lattes?
As proof that I am nothing if not predicable, I discovered I wrote a very similar post almost a year ago to the day . . . on the Monday before local schools start up again. Fall brings this out in me!
There are a lot of Things in our yard.
Green things. Purple things. Weed-like things. Bushes, shrubs, flowering things.
I’ve never had a garden. I’ve never had my own yard. I lived at home until I was 28, and the collective idea of yard work was waking up to the hum of my dad’s lawn mower on Saturday mornings and occasionally ridding a small flower bed of its weeds in the spring. I remember planting impatiens with my mom as a kid, but my interest — and help! — was minimal. Very minimal.
We raked leaves in the fall and blew dandelions in summer, sure, but there wasn’t really work to do out there. My sister and I splashed in a kiddie pool, took friends to swing on our wooden bench and played with dogs in the backyard, but it was — to me — a maintenance-free space. One I took entirely for granted.
Now that we’re responsible for a hunk of the outdoors on our “property” (man, that feels fancy!), I’m learning the care and keeping of a yard is time-consuming. And I have no earthly idea what I’m doing. Since I cower from mosquitoes and bees and generally anything categorized as “creepy-crawly,” my preference isn’t to spend much time out there . . . but we have a big front yard facing our street, and people see our house.
We’re still the new kids on the block — and I can’t get lazy this quickly.
Spence and I haven’t officially selected chores yet, but I’ve naturally fallen into the role of flower-bed-keeper because he cuts the grass, chops down poison ivy (and gets poison ivy . . .) and saws through fallen logs while I have trimmed hedges and pushed hair out of my face. So I guess we’re even? (Kidding.)
I’ve unofficially taken over the task of weeding the rock gardens near our front porch because they’re chaotic and ugly, and it seems relatively simple to solve.
I mean, if you don’t mind sweating.
When my mother- and father-in-law were here to help us move in late June, they kindly tackled our grown-over flower beds before returning home. We had straight-up trees (!) growing near the shrubs, and the weed situation was pretty horrific. Basically, it was a strip of weeds in front of the house — weeds that were choking all the “good” plants that had started to appear in spring, and something had to be done about it.
I did a little maintenance a few weeks ago — the first time the yard needed work since that late-June purge. The shrubs were hacked to nubs back when we first went to see the house in March, and we worried they were all dead . . . but they sprang to life as soon as the snow thawed, and they’ve been growing strong ever since.
It looked like this in winter:
And then, left untended, it looked like this:
And then, with some cursing and sweating, it transformed into this:
. . . For now, anyway!
We have hostas, as you see — a plant I couldn’t have picked out to save my life, but visitors have all exclaimed, “Oh, you have hostas!” And now said hostas have really tall, really weird purple flowers sprouting out of them? And hopefully this is normal?
I’d like to say I’m making progress toward my green thumb, but that would require me actively caring for a plant . . . as it stands, I merely hack out what I don’t want growing here and hope for the best.
Come spring, I have great ambitions of contracting our yard out to a friend’s wise daughter and actually making some executive decisions about what to do with the ample outdoor space we have languishing here.
For now, I pull weeds from the roots, avoid bugs and wave to Spencer on the lawn mower.
A plan that works for everyone.