LMedia

It’s that time of year again when the electric grid sheds its skin and sparks disappear into the black sky and the train leaves the station searching for sunshine and rain - lots of rain.

It’s that time of year again when the sponges on our feet paint the marble floor at work and we complain to our neighbors about the hungry gray skies.

It’s that time of year again when the cement and sand finally lose their battle against the gravel it tried to consume all winter.

It’s that time of year for us to remember to embrace the days ahead for all they are worth — without fear, without chains — spring forth my friends.

Isiah 43:16-21

16 This is what the LORD says—
he who made a way through the sea,
a path through the mighty waters,

17 who drew out the chariots and horses,
the army and reinforcements together,
and they lay there, never to rise again,
extinguished, snuffed out like a wick:

18 “Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.

19 See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert
and streams in the wasteland.

20 The wild animals honor me,
the jackals and the owls,
because I provide water in the desert
and streams in the wasteland,
to give drink to my people, my chosen,

21 the people I formed for myself
that they may proclaim my praise.

In 2009, I began to notice a steady increase of large and small businesses that were trying to associate its brand with a cause or movement.

To be fair, one of my main focuses at my job right now is to study the way consumers interact with causes. If the research we’ve conducted on behaviors is true, many of you will be buying these navel oranges from your local Whole Foods. And just in case you were wondering, yes I bought the bag of oranges.

For some reason, I keep listening to this song. Each time, it gets a bit closer. I thought you might enjoy as well so I’m sharing here.

Monday morning I woke up super early and headed to the beach. It was a rough night of “rest” to start off a week of vacation.

When I arrived at the beach, high school sweethearts were walking their dogs and grandfathers were teaching their grandchildren to fish. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the ocean whispered as it touched the shore like a mother feeling the skin of her newborn child for the first time.

A few miles away, a coastguard boat hovered. Moments later, a helicopter flirted its way up the shore, turning around just as it passed boat. Then, it began to approach the boat, dropping altitude until it was harassing the water, teasing it with rough pleasure.

Two people in wetsuits jumped out of the helicopter. It then became clear that there was someone else in the water. The boat was not alone. Minutes later, another rescue helicopter replaced the first helicopter. This time there was a basket swinging beneath the gentle giant. The Dewey beach lifeguards were practicing an open water save.

Ironically, today, the lifeguards almost had to rescue two beach-goers that drifted off in an inflatable tube. However, this time, it was not a test of strength or skill. It was a test of faith.

After several attempts to get the couple’s attention, the lifeguard sunk back into her chair, signally she wasn’t extremely worried about it. Meanwhile, her boss in the neighboring stand continued to blow his whistle, motioning her to jump back up and join in the whistle chorus.

Once the couple finally reached the shore, my friend Sarah and I overheard their conversation about their journey at sea. It was a father and his child on a deep sea voyage. They were safe, except for the jellyfish; and his years as a sailor in Connecticut prepared him for those fiesty jellyfish.

He did not want to come back to the safety of the solid shore. He knew the risks of drifting away - the uncertainty of the undertow, the sharks, and the other mysterious creatures of the eastern shore. He just wanted to spend some time in the wild.

Although these uncertainties were risks in the eyes of the lifeguard, it was an adventure in the eyes of one father. He would eventually drift back to solid ground where his family was waiting.

I think we can all learn something from the Connecticut sailor and the lifeguard. Next time I’m drifting away I’m going to ignore the fiesty jellyfish and wait for the ocean current to bring me back ashore. And next time you’re drifting away, I might decide to take my chances against the undertow.

First, 90210 became my best friend, my jeans that fit just right, and my smokin’ blue-eyed, shaggy chocolate-brown haired McDreamy. Then, it was Friends and NYPD Blue. Soon after, Greys became the perfect rebound and Law & Order always has held a special place in my heart.

Then, life got busy. Tennis replaced Greys and working late replaced 6 o’clock Law & Order reruns. Today, I find myself in quite the predicament.

I have no show.

As part of my detox from reality, I’m determined to find a new show so I can carry on fake conversations about the fake connection I have with individuals I will clearly never call my friend. After two hours of brain cell sucking tv, I find myself only recalling details of one show, Dating in the Dark. How I Met Your Mother and Rules of Engagement clearly did not stimulate my right or left brain.

Unfortunately, the ending of Dating in the Dark was such a downer I could never call it my show. After several dates in the dark, one of the ladies walked away because the guy tried to kiss her, the other walked away because the guy was 3 inches shorter than her. So, what you’re confirming for me is that my assumptions about people really are true.  It’s ok for people to judge each other on looks and real connections and shared commonalities really do not mean much at the end of the day.

Got it. Today we salute you for teaching us all America really is an amazingly shallow place.

Stay tuned for my review of Tuesday’s shows. No promises, however. If I have to watch another show like Dating in the Dark, I’m sure to end up purging in the bathroom, running from Dewey to Georgetown, or most likely at the Starboard.

This evening I find myself unable to refuse the magnetic force of my lyrical soul that’s screaming to release a couple of thoughts that have been screaming through my body as I leave the real world and begin my detox from reality.

All I can think about this evening is writing. As I listen to a couple of my favorite Wilco songs the words are trapped in my head and looking for a place to escape.

For years, I’ve heard rumors of this exotic place. The sweetness of the words those who have come and gone shared was enough to alert me to the orgasmic goodness I should expect if ever given the opportunity to meet its delight face-to-face.

Naomi Watson wasn’t lying when she said the line was out the door last night at Georgetown Cupcake. As we turned the corner from M St., there it was, along with the smiles of many neighbors and certainly many virgins, like myself.

It didn’t take a detective to figure out where Georgetown Cupcake was. As we sat in Tackle Box restaurant making sure the lobster roll and fish tacos were safe to eat, we stared at the forbidden fruit. Two girls decided to tease us with these marvelous cupcakes on the sidewalk right in front of the window we were sitting behind. Fortunate for them, the glass shielded them from any attempt by us to steal the cupcakes.

Most that passed by the girls stared with delight and some ended up stading with us at 1209 Potomac St. Although the girls were brave in their decision to get a 6-pack, we opted for the 4-pack, which was possibly the best decision we made all evening. After all, we now have a reason to go back. Mocha was my favorite.

While walking back from my tennis match this evening, I had a conversation about the death grip some journalists have on tradition and perfection. Some are turned off by this believe it or not and some would even equate this to being unhappy.

“This is the way we do it,” or “that didn’t work because (a), (b) and (c).”

How many times have you heard this during your career? Picture yourself in the middle of a brainstorming session. You are pitching a grand idea, which you’ve been planning for many weeks. Wait for it. Wait for it. There it is. Someone in the room informs you of some situation, at some point in time, at some job when your perfect idea was their perfect idea. And guess what, it failed.

The veteran in the room often becomes casted as the bitter “Dr. Know It All.” Unfortunately, experience, or institutional knowledge as some like to call it, can often create negative consequences in the workplace. It’s important journalists remain vigilant of this.

The conversation today led me to an explanation similar to this one. It then led me to second-guessing my very own expectations. During my conversation, I proclaimed I was once a bitter perfectionist, with a death grip on life and pursuit of happiness, however, I am now over it. As I sit here I wonder if I really am.

Why is it so difficult to let go of what we created even when we know it was flawed from the beginning?

Fortune magazine interviewed my colleagues Jodi Gersh and Yuri Victor on Friday afternoon. The story is well written in that it introduces the idea that so many sectors in America are affected by furloughs. Surprise - it’s not just the media.

The writer mentions furloughhouseswap.com at the end of the piece. We appreciate the coverage and would love to see an inline link to the site!

In other news, one of our coworkers, Kathleen Sullivan used furloughhouseswap to find Miami Herald’s Lori Todd. I can’t wait to hear about her stay.