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Annapolis

I’m not sure where I call home anymore, as I’ve lived in six states over the past 15 years.

But for the first 17 years and 10 months of my life I lived in Annapolis, Maryland. Being stuck that long in one place, seeing the same people day after day and driving the same roads year after year only contributed to my desire to leave, to get out and see the world.

I didn’t understand the intrigue of living in Annapolis until I went to college in Pittsburgh and told my classmates – many of whom had never been outside of the West Virginia-Ohio-Pennsylvania region – where I was from. They oohed and aahed and said they’d seen the exits for Annapolis on their trips to … Ocean City. Had I ever been there?

“Real Marylanders go to Nags Head,” I explained. Geez, all I needed to do was lace up my topsiders and fling my lacrosse stick over my shoulders, and I was set.

The truth was, I hadn’t gotten out much more than they had. But because I was different, and from a different place, I knew I had a different perpective.

The truth is, I fondly look back at the time I spent in Annapolis, time I didn’t appreciate until I had left the East Coast and had actually gone out and seen the world. My first trip back home, I spent a day driving around the town, taking pictures to show my friends in Texas. There’s such charm in the town, especially when you think of the role that Maryland played in the early years of the United States – heck, there are taverns in Annapolis where some of our founding fathers drank beer and caroused. And the tavern owners will brag to you about that.

I miss Mike Riordan’s bar across from Market Square. I miss Dahlgren Hall, the ice rink on the Naval Academy campus. I miss driving over the Eastport Bridge. I miss cruising up Main Street with my friends, many of whom have also left.

I’m somewhat torn about going back to Annapolis next summer, because I have little left there besides a few friends. My parents have moved away and reunion won’t be in Annapolis proper; instead it will be in one off the neighboring communities, in a barn. And really, there’s no one left to impress from my high school. We have Facebook to take care of that, don’t we? (ha ha)

But it is definitely a part of me.

***

Speaking of my history, I was thinking of my high school boyfriend from the Annapolis days, and thought of a story a mutual friend of ours told me.

“You know his mom got into a lot of trouble about a year before he met you?”

“Excuse me?”

Something about stealing money from the social security administration, and paying restitution and that the reason he worked all the time was to help pay his mom’s bills. I looked it up in the courts records, and there was the case against her.

For years I thought his reticence to get serious came from the fact that he had been ceremoniously dumped a year earlier by a classmate whom he thought was “the one.” (She wasn’t. They were in the ninth grade. What did they know?) And I remember his mom being very chilly, very distant. And they went to Washington every weekend – later on I found out she was working in the city to make money under the table. It was all very un-Annapolis.

He never mentioned it to me, which tells me that the relationship wasn’t as serious as I thought it would be, and I wonder if that came out of shame, embarrassment or the mere wisdom that he, at 18, had as a way to not get me involved in any of the mess. I’m leaning towards the previous two thoughts.

I told my mom about it, and even she knew, all those years ago!

“Mom, why didn’t you tell me!?!”

“Because you were 16 and you were in love. And besides, you would have told everybody about it.”

He broke up with me, and when I was 16, I probably would have told all of Annapolis had I known.

I never brought up the issue with him, all these years later. But I get where he came from.

Why the hell do I run?

Honestly, I don’t even know how I got into running – and why I’ve stayed into it, because it’s painful and arduous and agonizing. For years, I refused to jog, after I graduated from college. When I had to jog in college as a way to stay in shape for soccer and softball, it was an obligation.

But once I went into the working world, I tried. And I couldn’t jog more than a mile. And it sucked. And I gave it up and traded it in for a bike, which was much easier but still gave me a sense of satisfaction.

I can trace my innate fear of running. In elementary school – yes, in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL – we were required to run a mile as part of the Presidential Fitness Test. Yes, President Reagan mandated that we run a mile. I’m that old. Anyhow. We were never trained to prepare for the mile run, the dreaded mile run. We were never told to run a lap around the soccer field as a warm-up before class, or that this test would be coming. We’d just show up at gym class and Mr. Lord (who was more like Mr. Devil) would announce, “Guess what, kids! You’re going to run a mile on Wednesday!”

Four laps around the massive field behind the elementary school. Being the non-athletic kid in the class (believe it or not, I was once unathletic), I’d find a way not to run that mile. I’d wear the wrong shoes that day. Or I’d go to school in a turtleneck and skirt. Or I’d feign an illness.

Finally, the day came when I had to run that mile. Or fail gym class and disappoint my parents.

Mr. Lord barked at us, telling us non-athletic fourth graders how awfully out of shape we were, and that we weren’t competent athletically and generally laughing at the kids who couldn’t run that mile. It was mortifying, and he did that to every kid in his class who couldn’t turn a cartwheel or kick a soccer ball … or run a mile.

Mr. Lord had no business being a teacher, did he?

Years later, as I started to jog again, I realized a few things:

We are likely never properly trained to jog. It’s not an easy endeavor, and so much of it is about mechanics. Efficiency is as important as speed, and sometimes even more important.

If you can jog a mile, you’re doing OK. Keep going.

There’s one more thing I realized, long before I started jogging again. I made the softball team in the ninth grade and I remember getting off the bus after an away game. Mr. Lord was the girls soccer coach at my high school, and was talking to some of his players. He and I made eye contact, and I nodded to him. And I thought one thing:

“All that yelling you did at me when I couldn’t run a mile, you probably never thought I’d become an athlete, did you?”

*Bleep* that!

I will admit I have a foul mouth. I will own up to the fact that I cuss. My best friend from college and I try to out-swear each other whenever we get together. We like to joke that it’s because we’re both Italian, and we’re “emotional people!”

One of the funniest stories I’ve told is about the first time I cussed at the dinner table. My father asked me, “do you talk like that at the dinner table at college?”

My response? “Yeah, I do!”

That was 18 years ago. My father made me leave the table. To this day, I still haven’t cussed at the dinner table in front of my parents. And I’ve learned that in my role in the work force, saying one of the “seven words” doesn’t make you sound cool to other people.

There’s a time to hold back from dropping the f-bomb. Or using the s-word. Or calling someone the d-word. And when you use that kind of language as a professional or as a representative of an organization, it reflects badly on you and on the people who sign your paycheck.

So when a Division I football player said of me and my cohorts that “you just write shit down” – on the record, on the podium, during a live press conference after a game – I wasn’t taken aback by the fact that he tried to belittle or question my profession. Heck, we question what he and his team do at least four times a day.

I was more shocked that he had to resort to using a profanity to make his point.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Maybe I’m one of the few people who still believe in the importance of manners. Maybe I put too much value on people having a certain level of professional decorum.

When you use that kind of language to reinforce your point as a professional, it’s all over. You’ve lost. You’ve relegated yourself to the lowest common denominator.

You’re no better than my trashy neighbors. And probably no wiser than that college kid who cussed that one time at the dinner table.

15 years ago …

… I didn’t know any better. I wanted to get a start on my life. I’d graduated from college three months prior.  I was living closer to Mexico than to my hometown. Literally. The offices of the first newspaper I worked at were 11 blocks from the border of Mexico. I was 2,000 miles away from home. 

As I watched the FX series “The Bridge” earlier this week, I saw images of the border town I once knew – dusty, bilingual, foreign yet familiar. 

It was strangely comforting. And then I realized something: Has it really been 15 years since I took my first job out of school? 

Yes, it has been. The first job didn’t come without its struggles. 

Sure, I thought about quitting, about a month into my job, when my editor pulled me aside and told me in so many words, “you’ve got to prepare better for this, because clearly, you’re not.”

I drove back to my apartment and cried. I wondered if I could hack it. I thought about going to the news side. Duh, I told myself, this is what you love, you’ve come this far, why go back? Then, I went home and got a good night’s sleep, and took my editor’s advice to heart.  

I was 21 years old, and at the time I didn’t realize it, but it was constructive criticism. Andy ended up giving me a lot of that, which in the long run became valuable to me. Years later, Andy tracked me down after I moved to New England and told me how he saw talent in me, but that at the time it was green. 

I don’t know what happened to Andy – arguably one of the best editors I ever worked with. I sent him an email after I moved to the midwest but never heard back. 

I have a lot of good memories from my first job out of school. I met two of my closest friends, David and Rose, and met a reporter, Emma, whom I still consider one of the best reporters I’ve ever worked with – and who is still doing the damn thing all these years later. 

Two of the funniest Emma moments ever:

*When all the computers went offline in the spring of 1999, and Emma was outside smoking a cigarette. Someone complained and Emma said, “and it’s happy hour!” Marcial, a city reporter answered, “Well there’s a bar down the street,” and Emma didn’t hesitate.

“LET’S GO!” 

Four of us grabbed our bags and hustled to La Oficina, and drank wine coolers and listened to Tejano music. The computer system was still offline when we returned.

*Emma was on the phone, trying to get a response out of an official. Emma did that a lot. She was very reasonable with people, but I could tell the call was starting to get out of hand. Emma, a classy lady who knew when to pick her battles, kept her cool and ended the call in professional fashion. As soon as she hung up the phone …

“WHAT A PENDEJO!”

I died laughing. 

“WELL HE WAS!” 

Emma didn’t make excuses for who she was or what she did. 

Of everyone I worked with in the newsroom, only a handful of us are still in newspapers. Several have gone onto bigger papers, and some have stayed in the area, on the border of Mexico. They didn’t just have jobs there, but they had lives and families and genuinely loved the area. 

I didn’t get that at the time, when I was 21, because I really saw it as a springboard for the rest of my career, and for the rest of my life. And I feel differently now, that I’m in an area I like, and the fact that I have to think about two people now instead of just one. 

The first high school football game I covered in South Texas was Lyford against Brownsville St. Joseph. Tomorrow I’ll cover an FBS program. I realized this as I was driving to run an errand the other day. 

“Shit,” I said to my husband. “It’s been 15 years since I first started covering football for a newspaper.” 

I’m so conditioned to being in this city, I almost wanted to put a dateline on this post.  But each time I come here – and I’m here a lot for work – I always think about one of my friends from college, who went to school here and who lives in the area with her family, and who likely works here.

Steph went through a rough go of it in college, and dropped out after three semesters because of health and emotional issues. I don’t know if it was the culture shock of moving to the United States from Canada, of being surrounded by seemingly liberal women after growing up in a religiously conservative household and having to straddle two worlds, of having to leave everything she knew behind including her boyfriend, her best friends, her college scholarship and her life behind to uproot with her family … I remember going to visit her when she was hospitalized and I gave her a copy of one of my favorite books. I wonder if she still has that tattered copy.

And I remember seeing her again in Colorado about 10 years ago, right before Christmas. It was the best three hours of that winter, sitting at the Cheesecake Factory and telling old stories and looking through photos of our lives. At one point, she made me stop as I flipped through an album.

“Is that graduation?” she asked. It was. I wondered how Steph felt when she saw that.

I remember that when we hugged in the middle of downtown Denver and parted, a Christmas carol covered by Christina Aguilera was playing on a nearby sound system. I can’t listen to that CD without thinking of Steph.

In the 18 months I’ve lived here, Steph hasn’t returned any of my emails or phone calls – so I’ve gotten the point. Set ’em free, right?

When I’m in Ann Arbor for work, sometimes I’ll be sitting at Starbucks or at lunch and I’ll look out the window, wondering if I’ll see Steph pass by.  And I wonder if I would get up from my seat and chase her down. I wonder if it would be worth it.

Second 5K of the summer

Just finish before the pregnant lady. And the nine-year-old.

When I wrote down my goals for today’s 5k, I thought of three things: Finish it. Finish it in under 40 minutes. If you’re having a good day, finish it in under 36:10. 

Then, I got to the start of the 5K, which was in what you would call a “tony” part of town. And when I saw the pregnant woman pushing the stroller with a number attached to her shirt and the kids – lots and lots of kids – I told myself the first statement of this post, and texted it to a runner friend of mine in Canada.

The starting line wasn’t really clear, just a line of blue tape across a side street. And then the race started – with an actual starting gun, and before I knew it, people started jogging. At a really fast pace. And I was jolted to run. But as I went through that first half mile, I watched all the happy runners in front of me and thought, by the first mile and a half, a lot of these people will be walking. 

Sure enough. By the time I trotted to the first mile, I passed several people who’d already begun to walk. I felt a little better about myself. I remember a lot of the run. There were lots of dads pushing strollers. Three cyclists cut across the course at one point, as a course marshal’s back was turned (smooth move, buddy). Some kid had a super soaker and I waved at him. He aimed in my direction. Man, did that cool blast feel good.

After the 2-mile mark, I came upon the second and final hill. 

OK, here’s the last hill. OK, I’ve done hills before … once before.

I remembered what a coworker told me about running up hills: shorten your stride and pantomime pulling yourself up the hill with a rope.

Then, as I rounded the corner towards the high school, something kicked in. I motored in that last quarter of a mile, and I didn’t see pregnant women or nine-year-olds. I saw the scoreboard above the football field as I crossed the finish line.

34:52.  

My runner friend wrote back to me after the 5k: “HA HA! Good luck! You got this!” 

I hate running. Absolutely hate it. But I’ve been jogging since June – I think I just woke up one day and said, “hey, I think I’ll start jogging” – and when a college classmate of mine suggested I join her for a women’s 5K, I thought about it for a day.

And then I registered.

At 7:30 Saturday morning, I got in my car and drove to the site of the 5K. I was more anxious about the time leading up to the race then I was about the race. I wasn’t used to all the waiting. Usually, I just walk a block and start jogging, on my terms.

Finally, I started jogging.

OK, this feels fine, this feels OK. Have I run a mile yet?

At one point, people handed me cups of water. I sipped. Dropped the cup on the ground. Kept jogging. Wondered if I had run a mile yet – because I have no faith in the measurement function on the Nike iPod fitness app. Then I saw a yellow sign. And my husband, waving to me.

That’s a mile? Are you sure? 

I kept jogging, wondering when that two-mile mark was. And I was a little dismayed by the lack of roads that were blocked off. At one point there was this massive tanker/18-wheeler pulling out of a parking lot and I screamed at it, “Come on, there’s a 5K going on here!”

I’m sure the driver was real concerned about all these women jogging by.

But I started to get tired around the 2-mile mark, yet I didn’t stop and walk. I slowed down. And when I came around a corner with less than a mile left, I thought, well, damn, if I’ve come this far, I might as well just jog to the end.

And I did it. My goal at the start was just to finish. Then I thought, if I can finish this in under 45 minutes, I’ll be OK.

I finished in 36 minutes, 10 seconds. I think I’ll run another one soon.

Image

A good teammate

I was terrified of Karen. My fear of her went back to the fourth grade, when she would pick on me in the minutes before elementary school began, as we waited for the doors to open. When those doors finally opened each morning, it was a relief. I could finally escape Karen’s fifth-grade taunting.
Six years later, I tried out for the field hockey team at Broadneck. Karen had become one of the area’s more accomplished field hockey and lacrosse players, and had already been elected a captain of the varsity team.
Oh, no, I thought, strapping on my goalie pads, Karen’s going to make my life hell again.
The complete opposite happened. While Karen ran with the “in crowd” at school – she dated the quarterback and drove a hot sports car, always seemed to be going to the best weekend parties and had the best seat at the prime table in the cafeteria – she somehow was able to transcend that part of her high school life when we went to the hockey field.
We had gotten older and were contributing to a common cause as part of a team. Karen saw some sort of importance in each of her teammates, and some sort of value in them.
Karen treated her teammates with respect. Karen worked her ass off. Karen talked to everyone and told us something encouraging.
Karen became a junior college All-American and earned a scholarship to play lacrosse at Towson University. Then she became a coach. And a wife. And a mother. And waited tables. And did wedding planning. Then decided to try something new.
Karen recently stepped down as the head lacrosse coach at the high school from which we graduated. She won three state championships and has helped countless girls go to college and play college lacrosse, and probably has helped young women think about more than just lacrosse.
The notes people left on her Facebook page were touching. Former classmates of ours congratulated her on her successes and supported her choice to step down in order to take care of her family.
Former players of hers thanked them for her wisdom and guidance. I thanked her for being a fantastic teammate.
I like to joke sometimes that “You can take the girl out of Broadneck … oh, no, wait, you can’t take the girl out of Broadneck.”
When I find out my former classmates are making a positive impact and positive contributions to the community that helped shape us, I’m proud to say they were the people who made an impression upon me years ago as classmates and teammates.
Twenty years ago, there weren’t a lot of those people. Karen, however, was definitely one of them.

Why I love Meghan McCain

Politics aren’t my strong suit. There are some things that A) just aren’t worth arguing about and B) can never be agreed upon even after argument.

But I love personalities. And I love Wendy Williams. And I love the array of guests she has on – including Meghan McCain.

You’re going to relate Meghan McCain to “Republican,” right? But she’s not what has been propagated as the “stereotypical Republican.”

Flip the equation – what’s the stereotype of a Democrat?

McCain’s appeal is that she wants to do something about her party – which is sorely maligned. McCain holds firm to her principles but sees the societal benefit in the importance of her party evolving. She’s receptive to different perspectives, she considers issues that impacts us as individuals … and she even owns up to smoking marijuana!

Over the winter I read “America, You Sexy Bitch: A Love Letter to Freedom,” which she co-authored with comedian Michael Ian Black. I will admit, I had high expectations for it.

Meghan, if you ever read this: I loved this book. It should be required reading for every political, pop culture, geography or anthropology junkie. It reinforced my appreciation for the differences between people and the efforts we make to bridge those differences – or at least to understand the differences without resorting to conflict.

When I finished it, I set the book down and said, “you know what? I’d have a beer with Meghan McCain.”

Music, anyone?

I am an unabashed music fan. And even in a hectic summer, sometimes there’s nothing better than simply driving around and listening to satellite radio’s offerings. One thing I’ve noticed about the popular summer music so far is that there’s definitely a throwback feel to it. Hearing these songs take me back to the early 1980s … though I still have a Huey Lewis CD somewhere in my car.

Fitz and the Tantrums, “Out of My League” – because it reminds me of the B-52s’ “Legal Tender.”

Capital Cities, “Safe and Sound” –

Daft Punk and Pharrell, “Get Lucky” – Actually, Daft Punk’s entire album, “Random Access Memories,” has a late-disco, early New-Wave feel to it.

(Sidebar: Pharrell Williams is uber-talented.)

Robin Thicke/Pharrell/T.I., “Blurred Lines” – I’m posting a link to the Amazon MP3 sample because the video is absolutely atrocious, just a bunch of models with blank stares in flesh-colored underwear dancing around the three guys. So unoriginal.

I could go off on another completely different tangent here, so I will. This is one of the catchiest and funniest songs I’ve listened to this summer. Each time I listen to it, I think, “OK, this is about some douchebag guys getting drunk at a club and using poor come-on lines.” That would have been a much better visual.

Robin Thicke had this to say about the song, in a recent interview on Power 106 in Los Angeles: “We made the whole record in an hour and were walking around the studio like two old men hollering at young girls from the porch. So it’d be like, ‘Hey, girl. Come here.'”

But someone took exception to the lyrics, and labeled them as “kind of rapey.”

For the record, I don’t condone sexual violence of any kind. But calling a song about trying to hook up with women “kind of rapey”? Have you ever listened to Stone Temple Pilots’ “Sex Type Thing”?