Best of 2007: Year in Review

It seems like just yesterday we were all hunkered down for Y2K, doesn't it? And yet we are on the eve of 2008. And you know what that means: a year-end list. I live for year-end lists. So here goes. (Keep in mind, of course, that this is completely subjective, and that it likely includes things that came out in 2006 but that I didn't get to until 2007.)

• Favorites movies: No Country for Old Men; Once; Darjeeling Limited; Lars and the Real Girl (I hope to add Atonement, There Will Be Blood, and Juno to this list before the year is out.)
• Overrated movies: Ratatouille; Knocked Up
• Favorite music: Brandi Carlile; Patty Griffin; Hem; Wincing the Night Away by The Shins; Ryan Adams's single "Two"
• Best summer song: "Say it Right," Nelly Furtado
• Favorite TV: 30 Rock; Six Feet Under (which I watched on Bravo; best series finale I've ever seen); So You Think You Can Dance?; Project Runway; Lost (I thought I was out, but the season finale sucked me back in)
• Favorite learning experience: The "Cityscapes" course I took through the UT Odyssey program--I learned about the history of city planning and development for London, Paris, NYC, New Orleans, and Mexcio City. One of the most interesting classes I've ever taken.
• Favorite books: The Last Samurai (Helen DeWitt); Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (the ending sucked, but the writing was very strong and consistent; it was a fitting final book for the series); The Yiddish Policemen's Union (Michael Chabon); The Painted Drum (Louise Erdrich); The Road (Cormac McCarthy); What is the What? (Dave Eggers); Black Swan Green (David Mitchell); Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer (James L. Swanson)
• Giant-disappointment books: Thirteen Moons (Charles Frazier); The Far Country (Daniel Mason); Special Topics in Calamity Physics (Marisha Pessl); The Historian (Elizabeth Kostova--the first 2/3 is brilliant; the last 1/3 is a huge let-down); Absurdistan (Gary Shteyngart)
• Best new friend: Aaron, my dear internet friend and fellow writing enthusiast. He got me writing again (however briefly), and I got to read his amazing work. This fella is the greatest.
• Person I would like to punch in the face: Anne Coulter
• Most overhyped thing: Election coverage; media hyping gas prices; Judd Apatow movies
• Most underrated thing: Volunteering (though this could also be filed under "Most frustrating" and also maybe "Most hilarious" and "Most likely to cause a run-in with large birds")
• Things that kept going that you wish would have died/ended: The war in Iraq; Bush's presidency; people who sound like Toby Keith; those gross nail fungus and mucus commercials
• Something new you added to your life this year: Boyfriend; this blog; dramatic highlights
• Travel: Nashville; Memphis (where I overheard a woman, holding a two-year-old boy, tell her other son, who was horsing around while they wait for the street car, “Eric, I’m going to beat you with your brother if you don’t stop right now.”); California x 3; San Antonio
• Best worst dating moment(s): After last year's hilarious misunderstanding with the local FOX weatherman (I really missed out on those double-breasted suits and pleated pants), I was ready for this year to be just as ridiculous. It started out promising...with the guy who thought it was OK to order and start eating before I even got to the restaurant; the guy who wore shorts to our museum date (come on: throw on some long pants!); the guy without a discernible sense of humor but with a roommate who strips at the Yellow Rose; the guy who works the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven; the guy whose "job" is shopping at pawn shops and re-selling the goods on eBay; and the myriad other morons who didn't even get their foot in the door. And then something odd happened: I met Chris, and the whole thing made sense.
• Biggest disappointment: Realizing that bad things will happen to good people and the only thing you can do is listen and support. It's a pretty helpless feeling. Also: Jamie-Lynn Spears getting pregnant; I find that seriously depressing.
• Most foolhardy thing I did: I threw my keys into the dumpster, locking myself out of the house. I had to climb in--all the way in--to get them. Also: see Best worst dating moments above.
• Something missing from 2007: I usually head to North Carolina in the fall, but didn't make it this year. Also never made it for our annual jaunt out to Krausse Springs.
• Any regrets?: That I let myself quit writing (again) once I had started back up. And that I haven't found a new home for George Michael yet.
• A realistic goal for 2008: More cooking at home instead of a lifestyle of Lean Cuisines. And install a new medicine cabinet.

All right, all right. I missed you, too.

I never know when to use the comma with "too." But it seems like I should. Know, that is.

Anyhoo.

Ok, I'm going to get better about this. Here I am, a young lady of 31 who has been writing in some sort of diary--online or otherwise--since I was in high school. But sometimes it feels strangely liberating not to write stuff down, like I'm breaking a rule and I know better but it kinda feels good anyway. But the rest of the time it feels lazy and like I haven't digested anything because I've not committed it to the internet for any random stranger to read.

So what does Oprah do when she wants to reward her loyal audience? She secretly invites them to her Favorite Things taping. And the people shit their pants. Well, guess what? You're [not] get[ting] a car! And you're [not] get[ting] a car! And you're [not] get[ting] a car! It's Cambria's Favorite Things [Lately] episode!

Cheesecake
Only because it 's deceptively simple to make, and as long as you cover the cracks on the top with chocolate ganache (and you know I did), people will hoist you onto their shoulders and boyfriend's parents will hug you approvingly. I made a raspberry cheesecake with Oreo crust and the above-mentioned chocolate ganache for Thanksgiving, which I spent with Chris's family at his sister's house. They loved it, and they loved me. Perhaps there is a causal relationship there, perhaps not.

Massages
I finally used my birthday spa gift card from Chris and got an hour-long massage on Thursday. Sweet sassy molassy, that was a great hour. Turns out, I'm a little tense along the shoulders and perhaps around the thumbs (?) because she--Bonnie the masseuse, who bore a uncanny resemblance to Barbara Streisand--kept pulling at my thumbs. If you are ever stuck on what to get someone, get them a massage. Except for the laser leveler I am asking for for Xmas, it's about the best gift I can think of.

Cormac McCarthy
Both The Road and No Country for Old Men are remarkable books. The Road made me cry; I've read a lot of McCarthy and tears have never been an emotion that his books have moved me to. No Country for Old Men is well done and deftly crafted; the same ingredients and characters would have fallen flat--or even corny and trite--in lesser hands.

Lars and the Real Girl
I never cared much for Ryan Gosling, but this movie made me a believer. He is just outstanding. The movie also has Emily Mortimer, best known (and loved) to me as "I have hollow bones" from 30 Rock.

Comedic Karma
My sister has a rule never to make fun of people for the things they do because it almost certainly certifies you will end up doing the same thing when in a similar situation. I am finding that to be true. I always used to make fun of my friends for having to call their boyfriends or husbands every night when they were away from them. And yet suddenly that makes complete sense. And I feel like the season of comedic karma is just beginning for me. Should be fun. It's like schadenfreude on yourself.

Recipes
I've decided to start really cooking again. I think it helps to have someone to cook for/with, because it always seemed like too much of a hassle to cook for one and then eat the leftovers for the next week. So, if you're hungry, I will cook for you. It'll be like an experiment. I even bought a small food processor and a hand mixer. It's on, sucka. The soup, that is.

The Dollar Store
I had forgotten the joys of the dollar store. Which is somewhat odd because my dad works in the corporate office of a certain dollar-store chain. But you can buy the whole store for like $50. God bless America. And packs of gift bags, 3 for $1.

Consumer report.

Three things have come across my radar this week that I just need to share:

• Bounce dryer sheets. Don't try to save $1.50 by buying generic-brand dryer sheets. Once you go from those to Bounce, you will never go back. It's like embracing the Snuggle bear while being wrapped in a sun-warmed blanket hung out to dry in the spring (yes, it mixes brands, but I can't help what I feel).
• AAA Roadside. I've been renewing this every year for $55 and have never used it. Until this year, when I've used it twice. Both times, the AAA person has come in less than five minutes. It was worth $55 alone to have someone change my tire on the side of I-35 after my blow-out...but did you also know that the service is transferable? Last week my neighbor locked her phone, purse, keys, and dog in her truck. I called AAA, they came in three minutes, popped the lock, and everyone was happy and healthy. It cost nothing, and I was the neighborhood hero. I highly recommend.
• Banana Republic sweaters. Don't bother. I've always known this, but I always forget it, especially when they are one sale. Pretty much ever BR sweater I've ever bought has balled up within 90 seconds of putting it on. Today I was nearly overcome by the fluff and fuzz drifting off my sweater--I was like Pigpen with a halo of dirt. But instead of dirt, sweater fluff. And of course, the sweater was balling like a mofo. I am just saying no to their sweaters from now on. (Or maybe starting after Xmas, since I'm sure some of those might be under the tree.)

Pics from the Haunted Cabin

Shake it, shake it, Cali.

So after my second trip to California in as many months, I have this verdict: the Bay Area is deceptively attractive in the fall. When you can see every building in San Francisco sharp against the horizon, and trees are changing to orange and yellow, and it's in the mid-60s with a pin-prick sky, you can't help but think: I want to live here.

Of course it's not practical. Or affordable. I would have to trade my little piece of heaven in Austin for some rented hovel in the Mission District for twice the price, where I would have to nudge bums and used needles out of the way to get in the front door. And then the whole thing would collapse in the Big One.

But no water bottles and no plastic bags, and health insurance for all city residents!

Strangely enough, I didn't even go to San Francisco while I was there. That's a lot of longing for not a lot of visiting. Instead: me, six friends from college, and three of their children went to my parents' cabin in Twain Harte, about an hour north of Yosemite. Beautiful, fun, haunted: all the things you want out of a vacation cabin.

Did I get haunted?

Yeah, I think I did. But please take this with a grain of salt, since reality can roll up and slide sideways when you really want something to happen. In fact, I was so riled up for something to go bump in the night that I eventually got too scared to get up in the dark and go to the bathroom. But for the record, I will say this: I think something touched the side of my shirt while I was sleeping the first night.

Also, the second night, I might have been sassing a ghost when I apparently said, very calmly, in my sleep, "I don't think so. Nice try, though."

On the way home yesterday, on my flight from Oakland to Los Angeles to El Paso to Austin (I like to stop at as many airports in the western U.S. as possible, apparently), we flew over several of the fires burning in Southern California. And even though the Santa Ana winds were well over 60 mph and were whipping the fires forward, from the air the plumes of smoke looked still, like someone had captured them on film and posted them in the airplane window. A terrible beauty.

Stock taking.

I stole this idea off someone else's blog, but I'm always evaluative around my birthday.

20 years ago
I was 10 years old and living in Mission Viejo, California. My proposed Halloween costume that year was Baby from Dirty Dancing. We both had perms; I thought that would be enough. My mom would not let me be her. (Put in a corner!) My 6th grade teacher was Mr. Schick, a smarmy single guy who drove a lime-green convertible and who hit on my mom. This was also the year that I drew my own birthday invitations (Garfield sitting in a pan of lasagna!), but only one person came to my party because a rival girl threw a party on the same night just to spite me. I'm sure it was totally fetch.

10 years ago
I was in my senior year of college at Point Loma Nazarene College in San Diego. I was writing the back-page column in the student newspaper for the second year and was editor of the opinion section. I was living off campus with three girl who had already graduated. We lived close enough to the bay that we could hear the seals when our windows were open. We liked to smoke clove cigarettes with boys from our school who were in a band. I had no career aspirations and no future plans other than I never wanted my life to change from what it was that year.

5 years ago
I was "staying" with my parents in Walnut Creek, California. I had graduated with an MFA in May and couldn't find a job, so I had moved from Memphis to California with the idea that I would find a job in San Francisco and live my life on a fault line. It never happened. I went to the City at least once a month to see my poet friend Mark and his then-girlfriend Kim, a professor at Berkeley. They lived in Noe Valley and threw excellent parties with interesting people. I got a job temping at the local newspaper and spent my non-work time with my then-18-month-old niece. Within two months, I would fall down the stairs while carrying her to look at Christmas lights and break her leg. I stayed at my parents for nine months.

2 years ago
I was several years into my life in Austin and was working my dream job at what turned out to be a short-lived nightmare of a company. I was the editor of literary resource books, which meant lots of reading and writing and thinking about literature. Heaven. The company went under after 8 months. I had also just bought my condo and moved in; the only rooms that were painted this time 2 years ago were the kitchen and the guest room. It was an adjustment to be living in a place big enough that my bed wasn't in the same room as the front door (first time in 5 years).

1 year ago
I was 4 months into my current job and trying to figure out if I hated it enough to jump back into the job market. Turns out I didn't. At night, I was sleeping with my hands balled into fists to keep my new kitten from attacking my fingers--behavior I was assured would pass (still waiting). I was in the middle of sanding, priming, and painting my kitchen cabinets, the single worst home-improvement project I have ever undertaken. I was just back from my annual weekend in North Carolina, where I missed the fall foliage by about two weeks for the 3rd straight year.

Today
I emailed, talked on the phone, sent faxes, thought about commas. Then I bought new sheets and listened to Brandi Carlile. Tonight I will go to Movie Nite at the co-workers' house.

Tomorrow
I will email, talk on the phone, send faxes, and think about commas. I will start a class on Modern literature at UT with Chris, and then we'll go to dinner.

Write this down: zoo, illness, flowers.

Now: write a short story using those three words. (I actually have an assignment like this, but my words are arugula, wondrous, and bandit. Strangely, an idea came to me right away.)

Zoo: I took my Little Sis to the Austin Zoo on Sunday. Note to self: don't go to the zoo in the middle of the afternoon during the summer. I have done this twice now. All you get for your trouble is heat stroke and animals holed up their dens. Nothing frolicing, nothing roaring at you, nothing to make you thankful for the thin, chain-linked line between them and you.

Except we did see some tigers fighting in their swimming pool. That was pretty awesome.

This tiger would totally kill you and use your torso as a floatation device in the pool.

Illness: I've not been feeling so hot lately, so I called my boss yesterday morning to tell her I wasn't coming in. When I told her I was sick, she said this: "Well, it's not that you can't be sick, but [co-worker] said that after that cold front came through last week her allergies have really been acting up."

Ok...so I'm not sick? Now, I won't deny that I've developed allergies since moving here, but this was definitely a cold: it had a beginning, middle, and end. Anyway, I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go after that. So I coughed a little in the phone to build my case and told her I'd be in the next day.

Flowers: Chris brought me flowers on Monday. I really had to scramble to find a suitable vase, since I can't remember the last time someone brought me flowers or that I bought them for myself. Had to dump all the random sea glass and Pottery Barn potpourri out (...which makes it sound like I live in a Michael's or Hobby Lobby). Anyway, it was sweet.

Dropping bread crumbs at my feet.

Don't look at me that way--I've been busy!

It's Labor Day eve and I've got my mud mask on, music is playing, and my writing cap is perched rakishly on my head. In other words, all is as our forefathers intended.

I got a big education on why I simultaneously love and hate weddings this weekend.
Pros: all your friends and family in one place; open bars; dancing; love; etc.
Cons: every bit of planning that goes into said event.

I ran a bunch of wedding errands with my friend Alexis on Saturday: two photographers, two florists, two dress shops. I was happy to do it, of course; that's what friends do for each other. Plus, it was cool to be there when she found her wedding dress. But man alive, there are a lot of details involved in planning a wedding. You have to know so many things that the average person has no cause to know: chapel, cathedral, or sweep train? Wrist corsage or pin-on for the mothers? Same or different for each? Reproduction proofs to the photography? Maybe I just fail in girlishness in this department.

Lord. Eloping sounds like the answer...except for the Pro list above.

What else is new? So, there's a boy...and that's going well--well enough that I know better than to write about it. Just trust me. Also, I downloaded "Summer of 69," finally (I will fight you if you try to tell me that's not the greatest song ever). Oh, and some writing--some honest-to-God writing. I know! Jewelry making with the Little Sis. Low-simmering girl-crush on Tina Fey (but that's not so much new as it is continuous).

I'm listening to Justin Timberlake right now and I don't care who knows it.

Home sweet home.

Wednesday is my two-year anniversary of being an homeowner. It's the single scariest decision I've ever made--scarier than moving to Memphis or to Austin, scarier than when I spent two weeks staying with a Spanish-speaking family in Costa Rica when I was 17, scarier than that time those geese trapped me on the Town Lake trail and I couldn't get by.

I looked for 2 months and toured over a dozen houses with my realtor, who was one of my dad's old frat brothers from San Diego State. Looked only south, past Slaughter Lane and far down on Brodie. And one stray place up north, but still within the metro Austin square: east of MoPac, south of 183, west of I-35, north of 71. And that was the one. I knew it the moment I clamped eyes on it. And the master bedroom closet sealed the deal.

What did I do the night I finally closed, the day I got the keys to my very own 960 square feet? I went on a bad date with a guy who was too impatient to wait 20 minutes to be seated for dinner and made us eat the bar. That guy sucked and I knew it; it was the only time on a date I've seriously considered making for the bathroom and slipping out the door. I kept hefting my keys the whole night, wishing I were alone in unit 101 instead.

Anyway.

I still remember what if felt like to open the door and see the condo as mine for the first time. Of course, I expected the keys not to work--like there would have been a mistake or maybe my loan app had been denied after all or I had forgotten to sign something. None of that: it opened like I owned the place. I did. And I saw every water stain, every crack, every scratch on the countertops. I half expected to immediately step on a rug that was covering a hole in the floor and to sink to my shoulders, trapped, like in Money Pit. It seemed huge: the responsibility, the commitment, the upkeep. I felt more tethered to a place than I'd ever felt in my life, after 7 moves before high school, 3 apartments in college, 2 in grad school. It meant I was staying in Austin for a while. Which was terrifying and suffocating and liberating and stabilizing all at once.

I painted all the walls myself. The kitchen sea-grass green, the bathroom yellowy taupe, the office a soft spring green. The master bedroom silver sage from Restoration Hardware, with a chocolate brown accent wall (the best room in the house). I retiled the kitchen and bathroom floors (peel and stick, but still; it's quite a chore). Painted the kitchen cabinets white. New shower head, new toilet, new kitchen fixture (ok, my dad did all these for me).

Also: a leaking laundry fixture, a rat that died in the wall, leaking flashing around chimney (three times), a horrible plastic bathtub that creaks like your foot is about to go through it with every step. Bent and broken blinds--which is my pet peeve--on three windows.

Nevertheless.

I love this place. It feels like home: some place completely mine, completely my taste, completely at the mercy of my design whims. And now, two years in, I won't have to pay capital gains tax if I ever sell.

Which I can't imagine.

Scorpio (10/23-11/21)

Things are happening so quickly right now that you're able to skip over the boring stuff and get right to the heart of the matter. Get ready for some intense physical and emotional transformation to take place over the next few weeks. Major changes are afoot.

Word Association II

Turquoise jewelry: I will never believe this is out of style. And I'm sure in some quadrants of New Mexico, it isn't.
California: In 4 days. For 5 days.
Genre: I highly doubt I'm ever going to love anything with elves or trolls in it. Sorry.
Toenail polish: light pink.
Sarah Vowell: absolutely not the "female David Sedaris."
Commercials advocating light sweaters: Are you kidding? It just started reaching the upper 90s.
Haircut: a modified "Posh."
Investing and retirement: I hope to marry rich.
Ghosts: yes.
Aliens: no.
Homeownership: the bathtub drain and an electrical socket just broke.
Precious: maybe just a smidge...
Wall paint: Lyndhurst Gallery Beige, if I ever get around to it.
Pirates: Once, on the little dock out over the Mississippi in New Orleans near Cafe du Monde, I overheard a tourist kid ask his dad if the goth kids nearby were pirates.
Project Runway: Where the hell is it? And where the hell is my chiffon?
Poetry: heroic couplets.
Name your imaginary child: Huck (and I don't care what it rhymes with).
Summer song: "Night Swimming" by REM: bring it back!
Dungeons & Dragons: I have a sneaking suspicion a lot more people are still playing this than let on.
What you wanted to be when you grew up: a stand-up comedian (ahem); astronaut; teacher; copyeditor for standardized tests (jackpot!)

Last chances.

If you want to run your fingers through my hair, you better do it now: I have a haircut on Wednesday.

If you want to make out with me, you better do it now: I have a date on Thursday.

By Friday everything could be different. Or it might just be that I'll be in California for the weekend.

Managing expectations.

This weekend my sister Kelly had a date. First one in a while, because it's kind of hard to be in the scene with a 6-year-old. Upon learning of Kelly's date, her daughter/my niece said, "I might be getting a new daddy!"

On Saturday I had a date downtown at the Museum of Art. Upon learning of this, George Michael (cat, not pop star) said, "I might be getting a new daddy!"

Turns out, no one is getting a new daddy any time soon, but expectations are being managed a little better.

As for me, I will give points for the date location (great photography exhibit going on at the museum right now), but I must deduct points for the black-and-white checked Vans with ankle socks. Culture giveth, and culture taketh away.

But besides and around that, a great weekend. Friday night dinner for Beth's birthday at Billy's, which is one of my favorite places in town for a veggie burger. Saturday night dinner with Alexis, her mom, Tim, Kathy, and Ron. Sunday trip to the mall with Little Sister, where I let her order Dippin Dots because they are the ice cream of the future. Or an overpriced sham. One or the other. Fill in the rest of the time with The Deathly Hallows, and you've got yourself a weekend, my friend.

Weekend round-up

I had a lovely weekend. It's been a while since I haven't had a weekend that was mind-numbingly boring, so this was a welcome change. And many more....[jazz hands].

Friday night: met Kathy for dinner at Home Slice, which, despite being full of hipsters and people who look deceptively like other people ("I think I know that guy, but I have no idea how"), was quite enjoyable. Except for having bird poo splash on our jeans while we sat under a tree, waiting for a table. That part was gross.

Saturday morning: met Beth for a walk. I tell you what: you need to figure something out or think out loud, go on a walk with a girl friend. All problems solved. We went for Mediterranean food for lunch. God bless the chickpea.

Saturday afternoon: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I already wrote about that. But it encouraged me to try to re-read HPatHBP before the next book comes this week. Since I have the reading retention skills of a goldfish, this is a good refresher for me. What? Who's Hermione? What's a Death Eater? Huh?

Saturday night: mourned missing out on RA concert.

Sunday afternoon: took the Little Sis to the Children's Museum, which was fun. We played giant-size game of mancala, and she beat me at it so fast I didn't know we were actually even playing. That brings my game-playing skills to like -80. I don't know what that means, either.

The ratio of losers to winners is like 100:1.

This weekend, while I wore my hair in ill-considered braids and Tom-Sawyered myself into repainting my bathroom a lovely color called Kitchen Twine, I did some thinking. When you're on your hands and knees trying to reach around the back of the toilet to paint that one tricky spot, your mind wanders to, what else: dating (it's somehow an apt metaphor). Specifically, online dating. Specifically, that I have been matched on eHarmony with 571 (!) men in the Austin area over the last 18 or so months. Though it would probably be more accurate to say that I've been Punk'd about 571 times.

571. The whole thing is rather exhausting.

Listen, this is all I want out of a date: either be spectacularly good or spectacularly bad. Because if it's good, there will be more dates; and if it's bad, there will be more stories. I can't see how anyone loses here.

And yet.

Here's a random sampling of what I've gotten (this is not a complete list; there are several that I can't mention here):

• a guy whose only question to me was "Is there a late-night Arby's open around here?"
• the local FOX weatherman, with whom I got into a wacky misunderstanding that really showed his lack of humor
• a guy who collects Garbage Pail Kids trading cards (please note the present tense)
• a guy whose full-time "job" was selling his DVDs and pawn-shop purchases on eBay
• a Dungeons and Dragons player
• a guy who lived in his parents' basement
• a guy who spent an hour explaining to me why he would be buying my drink because he is a man, and he invited me out and zzzzzzzzz....
• a blind saxophonist
• a guy who stole my profile and posted it as his own (my first plagiarism!)
• a guy whose third language was English and who still managed to beat me in Scrabble almost every time we played
• a disappointingly large number of guys who name Dan Brown's Angels and Demons or The Da Vinci Code as the most recent book they've read

If this has taught me anything, it's that you need to have way more filters than you think you do. Because I didn't think I needed to weed for D&D players anymore; I thought it was like polio: eradicated, a thing of the past. Not so much, it turns out.

So why do I keep re-upping my subscription? While I stood precariously with one foot on the soap holder in my shower and the other on the ledge as I reached to paint the wall, I came up with a two-part answer: A) there have been a couple fellas on there that were pretty cool and with whom I did have a lot in common, and B) it seems like there's really nothing to lose. In other words, it feels silly not to keep doing it. A good friend of mine once said: you're going to meet a-holes no matter where you go--bars, bookstores, churches--it just seems like you meet a lot more a lot faster online. True, of course. People know how to hide the crazy until you've gone out with them a couple times: you're not going to be able to necessarily see it right away whether you're emailing or chatting in the fiction aisle of Half Price Books. It doesn't really matter where or how you meet them; you're bound to be as lucky with one as the other.

I've heard of enough Match.com or eHarmony weddings to believe that these sites do work. And I think we're far enough into the 00s to no longer turn up our noses or lower our voices about online dating. It's the natural progression from The Dating Game. And I contend, a much better alternative than auditioning for the next season of Flavor of Love.

So, I beat on like a boat against the current, borne back ceaslessly, just like Fitzgerald taught me. In the end, we're all just looking for that green dock light.

At least my bathroom looks good.

My Saturday morning routine.

Since turning 30, I seem to have lost the ability to sleep in on weekends. It's kinda like how your grandma is up, dressed, and ready to go by 6:30 a.m. I somehow feel I should be saddened by this turn of events, but it's actually led to a whole new routine that I have come to look forward to. This is what getting old is like.

After George Michael (the cat, not the singer-songwriter) gently bites me awake around 7:30 (and by "gently" I mean "savagely, with the intent to disfigure"), I check my various internet enterprises and then I make myself a cup of coffee. How did I go almost 30.5 years without realizing a cup of coffee in the morning is possibly the greatest thing in the world? Anyway. Then I sit down to a couple I Love Lucy reruns.

I do, you know. Love Lucy. I love the sharpness of Ricky's suits, I love that Fred's pants are so high that his tie tucks into them, I love that Lucy says "wondaful," I love that a fake nose and wig--possibly a facial mole--can make you unrecognizable to your own spouse. And of course, the gentle misogyny and playful threats of violence (oh how the audience laughs when Lucy says, "I'll be holding the baby when I tell him; he wouldn't hit a woman with a baby!"). I'm not facile enough to think the Cold War years were "the good old days," but I cannot resist the world that this show creates.

Then George Michael draws more blood, and I go upstairs to take a shower.

My former so-called bacchant life.

I moved to Memphis eight years ago. At the time, it was new and adventurous and so radically different from the towns I grew up in that I couldn't help but fall in love. It felt like I had cut myself out of the ropes that had been binding me in California. Driving across the country on I-40 with my Saturn sedan stacked full, I remember thinking, I have literally no idea what's around the next corner. Those moments in life are exceedingly rare and somewhat heart-stopping.

I stayed for three years. They were three of the best years of my life. I was writing. I was taking literature classes. I was going out. I was friends with wonderfully smart people. I didn't work (unless you can call teaching 1 class a semester and putting in 10 hours a week at the literary journal "working"). I loved my life and I loved who I was. But I always knew I would never stay there. Maybe that's what let me love it so much.

So last Friday afternoon, I rented a car in Little Rock and drove the two hours into Memphis. It was my first visit back since moving five years ago. I tried to prime my nostalgia by playing Whiskeytown--which, for better or worse, was largely the soundtrack of my time in Memphis--but it didn't quite fit. I knew before I even saw the city rising on the horizon that I wasn't wishing I could go back in time. That was surprising, because I was sure I would feel that way.

On Friday night I met up four of my dearest friends from grad school. I haven't seen one of them in five years; it's been four since I've seen the others. Since then, Jerome has published a novel, Scott and Ashley got married and have a daughter, and Sarah has three children under the age of three. We live in Massachusetts, Alabama, Texas, and Memphis. But as it is with good friends, it felt like we had been apart no longer than a week. We met at the bar in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody Hotel is renowned for the ducks that live in the lobby fountain. It's the fanciest hotel in Memphis, and there are ducks that live in the fountain. This is the kind of city Memphis is. I don't even know what I mean by that statement, but I know it's 100% true. Every day at 5:00, they roll out a red carpet and herd the ducks into an elevator, where they go up to their rooftop fountain and nest for the night.

From the Peabody, we went across the street to Automatic Slim's. We shared some Thai-spiced calamari and 3 spring rolls. We might have made a mistake by not eating more.

On foot over to the new Madison Hotel and its rooftop bar overlooking the Hernando DeSoto Bridge (the one that makes an "M") and the Mississippi, which I could stare at forever.

Final bar of the night via the street car. Ernestine & Hazel's was a turn-of-the-century general store, then it was a brothel, and it is now a bar. The original paint and plaster are still hanging on--barely. The original claw-foot tub is still in the bathroom, but don't look in there. It's dirty. The lighting is low, bare bulbs with barely 20 watts. Beer only. We had one of the upstairs rooms to ourselves. Back in the day we were all living off $800/mo stipends, so any money we had went to drinks. And we were beautiful and in our early 20s and there was no future beyond the next drink. But now, all of us over 30, that many drinks takes a toll, even though we can finally afford them. Luckily, we could take the street car home. Drunk 30-somethings are not as cute as they seem at the time, I bet.

The next day I had to myself. I drove around all my old haunts, and once again, expected to be teary-eyed and nostalgic. But I wasn't. The mystery and newness that I used to feel about living in Memphis had given way to a kind of low-grade shock: the city is a little rough. Mostly it feels like it has a tired spirit: sunburned, sitting on the banks of the Big Muddy, weary to the bone, just trying to survive.

The duplex that I lived in for two years, the one without a proper shower and that only cost $275 a month, has been restored to a single-family home. It's an adorable little craftsman-style cottage. You literally can't go home again.

That afternoon I went for a walk down S. Main, which is experiencing a rebirth similar to South Congress in Austin. Ten years ago you would have been knifed walking down that street; today it's all cuteness and boutiques and coffee shops. But the turn-of-the-century brick architecture remains: sure, it's all high-ceilinged lofts and American Apparel stores, but it's not as obtrusive as a lot of new development in Austin. Whatever its faults, Memphis has managed to maintain its vernacular architecture--that's something to be applauded.

On Saturday night we went to Ashley's father's house for dinner and drinks. It was the very definition of Southern entertaining: whatever you think might fit under that idea, it was there. Dinner at 10:30, boy-girl-boy seating, roses and tulips and peonies, candles, china, crystal, silver, a centerpiece with gilded seashells. Art on the walls. Low lighting. Just magnificent. But at the same time, so comfortable and relaxed. It is a great gift to be reminded of how much you love your friends. And to know it's mutual. It is one of life's joys to feel like someone really knows you. And I haven't laughed like that in a long time.

So I was surprised that after it all, I teared up a little as I pulled onto the DeSoto Bridge and watched in my rearview as downtown disappeared on the far side of the Mississippi. I think I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be back, and I knew I didn't need to go back. This weekend was closure on something I didn't even know was still open. But: nostalgia without longing; memories without regrets. Somehow, those 48 little hours in Memphis this weekend was a like giant validation for everything that's come in my life since. That feels pretty big.