LMedia

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.

The life of a graduate student did not allow for too much living. Every minute of every hour was charted in my planner. Every meal was accompanied by a book and every hour of sleep was spent spooning my warm laptop.

It was the life I accepted so I would remain focused and accomplish what I was there to do. It was this life that held me back from many of the unique tastes and smells I was determined to experience during my trip back to Memphis.

First Mission: Eat Bugs

(Full disclosure: I do not know these people!!)

It’s hard to believe I avoided eating crawfish for two years. I recall multiple warm, moist summer days, when jazz would illuminate the hearts of neighbors and my roommates would head out the door with a cold one to enjoy one another at the all-day crawfish festivals.

I rolled up my sleeves for the first time while I was on my furlough trip.

The host of the crawfish boil welcomed me to the table and took the honor of plowing through the mound of crawfish with his bare hands, shifting the red mass to the right, then to the left, until a critter to his likings peeped out. He then demonstrated the task at hand.

A slight break of the wrist cracks the shell of the crawfish right below the head. Then you must make a decision about whether or not you were going to be the Rudy or the Zack Morris of the crowd.

If you decide to be the coolest kid in school, it’s now time to suck the head. After tossing the head, you can crack the remaining shell, releasing the shrimp-like meat inside.

The first batch I dug my hands into was quite the treat — 80 lbs to be exact. I am sad to report I did not suck the head. It was just a bit much for a northern girl. Maybe next time?

Nothing is Free at Central BBQ

TWHS anyways.

The delightful man behind the corner at Central BBQ was all smiles as he coached my former boss on what to order. Once again, I was experiencing one of the drool-worthy eateries in Memphis for the first time - as a tourist - not as a resident.

It was Friday and I was winding down from a ridiculously eventful couple of days. The weekend high extended until about Tuesday. It was nearly impossible to focus after the Saturday crawfish boil and Dave Matthews Band combination, not to mention the elote at Las Tortugas and chicken from Gus’s.

My boss chuckled with the cashier. The decision-making was left in his hands. After all, if he could keep me sane for a year, why couldn’t I trust him to order a chicken sandwich? He settled on a half-rack of dry ribs, macaroni and cheese and a pulled-chicken BBQ sandwich.

Meanwhile, I was shopping for gifts to take home, some of which the delightful man may or may not have given to me for free.

Ten minutes later, I was in a state of shock as I tried Central’s dry ribs for the first time. The tender meat boasted with intense flavor. The meat was literally falling off the bone. It hung on ever so slightly, just enough so you could still lift the bone by the corners and indulge.

It was amazing. My expectations are so high now I’ll never be brought back down.

If you ever find yourself in Memphis, please say hello to the team at Central BBQ. After entertaining the crew in simple conversation for a few minutes, find yourself a picnic table outside on the deck under one of the canopies and prepare yourself for a treat.

After an unexpected late night out at the Willard hotel celebrating my colleague’s birth anniversary, my voyage to Memphis was off to a delayed start. It was already midday and I was just putting the last bag in my Rubicon and tightening the black elastic straps to my canvas top so it wasn’t flapping around as I flew down the windy interstate.

For my second quarter furlough, I decided it would be best to take advantage of the time off in the biggest way possible, without spending any money. The first quarter furlough was less than impressive because my wallet was stolen the week before, causing me to spend the week off replacing my life.

After reading an article about furloughhouseswap.com, my friend in Memphis contacted me with more than a house to offer. If I could get to Memphis for my furlough, he said we could work together on a freelance project, which would give me more than enough money to get to Memphis and back.

It was amazing timing because the Beale Street Music Festival was only weeks away. However, it was a tough call because it had been SO long since I left the city and I had so many buried memories.

After contacting a few of my friends who were still in the area and landing two free tickets to the 3-day musicfest, I was more than convinced it was finally time for me to go back to Bluff City. Almost four years had passed since I turned my back on the city that opened its arms and reminded me what it meant to live again.

Why Memphis?

A month before college graduation in 2003, I received an email about a graduate program in Memphis. The program was less than attractive if you only considered the history of the program and the legacy. However, two pieces of information glistened in my inbox: the program would cost me nothing - they would actually pay me to get my masters if I assisted with their journalism program; and, to apply to the program, I did not have to confront the evil GRE. Only the MAT was required, which was $40 and I didn’t have to study! Again, very attractive to the poor, burnt-out college student.

It was the perfect plan B for me. After taking the MAT, I submitted my application, barely missing the deadline for the fall 2003 class. Then, I waited, and waited, and by July I had forgotten about the program, fallen in love with an 18-year-old (context: I was 22) and found my new found career as a retail manager.

Rewind. Say what?@!

The Random Call

When I received a phone call from Dr. Rick Fischer from the University of Memphis on my cell phone at 8 p.m. on one random hot and humid August evening, I knew this opportunity was different. No “thank you for applying” sealed letter. A phone call to my cell phone, a number I was certain I did not give out.

After a couple of questions, Dr. Fischer invited me to join the U of M Class of 2005 as a fellow to the journalism program. After I pulled my jaw back to my upper lip, I hung up the phone and digested what had just been offered.

A week later, I declined the fellowship because it just didn’t feel right yet and I was still hopeful I’d land a job as a reporter at one of the smaller dailies.

Spontaneous Combustion

Months later, it was November and I was still stocking and selling clothes at Ann Taylor. After working my third or fourth Sunday in a row, I walked into my manager’s office and asked if I could take a few days off to fly to Memphis. My reasoning was that I needed to visit campus if I were to attend the university in the fall of 2004.

After a quick 3-day visit, two weeks before the Spring semester began, I was packing my 2-door black Nissan to capacity and on my way to Memphis. It was the hug Dr. Fisher gave me when I arrived at the university for my visit; the amazing 100-year old house with a beautiful furnished room, and the best roommates ever, all for only $200 a month; and the brilliant smiles shared with everyone I met that convinced me Memphis was meant to be. It was just too easy.

For the next 16 months, I would live life like never before. There is something about that place that lifts your spirit and opens your eyes to what really matters. After years of living the status game and attending over-achiever boot camp, I found myself in a place that welcomed hard work and embraced brilliant minds, yet, in the most simple, spiritual way, also embraced living in a way most of my friends and family would not recognize.

How Did I Survive?

Every morning, five days a week, I ate my peanut butter bagel and studied, then worked 8 hours at The Commercial Appeal. At 5 o’clock, I raced to class with my laptop open in the passenger seat so I could study for my daily quiz. When class was over, I spent some time at the gym, finally making my way back home around 10 p.m., at which point I began studying again and writing term papers.

Revisiting this life weighs extremely heavy on my heart. It was a ridiculously focused and admirable time in my life. On the contrary, it was also an extremely self-centered, cold and heartless time in my life. During these 16 months, I was lifted up by the community around me and owe those individuals my life and success story. I also owe those individuals an apology for being so focused on me I forgot to pay it forward.

It was for this reason, my trip to Memphis a few weeks ago was such a contradiction. I was so happy to be able to enjoy the company of those that literally carried me to the finish line, yet, I was also heartbroken and embarrassed that I didn’t show my gratitude and affection towards them as much as I should have when I lived there.

Friends in Memphis, thank you for changing my life — twice. I look forward to the next time you will be able to teach me to live again.

Avery Bishop: There is a sensitivity thing that some people have. I don’t have it. I don’t cry at movies, I don’t gush over babies, I don’t buy Christmas presents 5 months early, and I DON’T tell the guy who just ruined both our lives, “Oh, poor baby.” But I do love you.