Thoughts from the Hill

No, this isn’t a report made walking through the some-spots-somber-and- some- areas- jubliant halls of Congress.  I am not hiding behind a marble column waiting for sad Democrats to pass by.  I am sitting at my dining room table, in my pajamas, about a mile away from where the aftermath of last night’s election is taking place.

I won’t lie.  I caught a smug grin adorning my face when I saw the results of Florida-24 called early, confirming that Suzanne Kosmas would be exiting the stage after only one term.  This one was kind of personal; this was the woman who beat my boss, Tom Feeney and cost my office mates and I our jobs. 

Imagine choosing a team to root for, then joining that team, putting on the uniform, and watching the opposition try to shove your captain’s face in the dirt.  You retaliate by waving a sign on the street corner.  This is kind of what working on the Hill feels like.  You pick a side and before you know it you are doing everything you can to strengthen your guys and stick it to the bad ones.  But with politics, people are on opposite sides not for reasons like “My high school is better” but for actual reasons that matter.  It is because in their heart of hearts, people find a reason to stand up for something: Taxes are too HIGH/A woman has a right to CHOOSE/We HAVE to win the War on TERROR.  It is a fire that gets in the belly of each active citizen and suddenly it becomes personal.  And for those that make their (meager) paycheck by it, it sometimes means that you have to pack up and look for other employment. 

At the end of an election, it is natural for the winners to feel jubilant and the losers to feel  like they should move to Canada.  Elections are a swinging pendulum, and so at some point, everyone will have smiled and everyone will have looked into purchasing a heavy winter coat. 

But this is what I wish: I wish that we’d just cut the crap and work together on areas where we can compromise and agree to disagree on areas where we can’t.  I wish that politicians would legitimately unpack from their power trips and focus on discussing good ideas.  I wish for an arena where the minority party isn’t shoved in a proverbial closet but is given a chance to speak.  I wish for a time where if my taxes are going to go up then I can see the taxes  I am already paying being put to good use and not wasted away.  I wish for the President to recognize that he needs to be the one to lead others in working together. 

I think this is ambition is simple, but lofty.  The right to freely disagree is part of what makes America unique, but also part of what will likely ensure that the pendulum will live up to its name and one day swing again.

The Hilarious Dorothy Parker (Fischette)

As September 16 passes each year, I think not only of football game days and how temperatures less than 90 degrees are tantalizingly close to reality, but also of my late grandmother, Dorothy Parker Fischette.  September 16 was her birthday, and this year she would have been 81 years old.  And if she knew I was announcing her age to the general public, she’d whack me on the back of the head.

Dorothy, or Dot to friends, or Mimi to grandchildren, was one of a kind.  She was puzzingly short, coming in at 5’2” (when she fibbed).  She was impeccably stylish, never missing the opportunity for a trip to the hair dresser or a sale at Jacobsen’s.  She gave both of her sons names that began with the letter “C”, probably so she could call them either name and have it be close.  She made us laugh constantly, all the time.  Sometimes it was at her, but it was always with her.

Mimi was no stranger to hardship.  She and her five children lost my paternal grandfather, Earl Warren Parker, to cancer when she was in her thirties.  Her second husband, Stumpy, was taken from this world in a tragic shooting range accident.  She sat through numerous heart bypass operations with the grandfather I knew, Jim Fischette.  Her kids knew these hardships as well; remembering at times very different versions of my always-doting Mimi that I could never do justice describing.

But we can all agree that she was the sun in our skies for better or worse.  She spent much of her time volunteering as the area president of the American Cancer Society and establishing the major fundraiser, the Cowford Ball.  She took us in when we were sad, she kept us overnight when it snowed in 1989 and the roads were too icy to go home, and she made our family Christmas Eve celebrations enviable by any standard. 

As I read freshman essays for work, I can’t help but remember the very last thing Mimi said to me before she died.  I was going off to college at the University of Florida and had gone to visit her at her house.  As I was backing out of the driveway, she motioned for me to roll down the window of the Cherry Bomb, our dependable Toyota Corolla.  She looked straight at me, in her voice of a cross between Scarlett O’Hara and Blanche Devereaux , and said; Now Lindsey, when you go off to college, don’t you do cocaine.” 

Eight years later, Mimi… We still miss you and you still make us laugh.  Thank you for sharing your life with us.

Summer Camp

This is what childhood is supposed to look like.

These words echoed back and forth inside my head as I casually strolled through an eerily quiet YMCA Camp High Harbour a few weeks ago.  Located in the Northeast Georgia mountains and on the shoreline of my favorite place in the world, Lake Burton, High Harbour is where I spent eleven years worth of summers before I moved to Washington, DC and got a “real job.” 

Actually, scratch that.  Working at camp IS a real job.  And if it weren’t for the fact that I made $1.73 an hour at my highest paid position, I’d jump at the chance to don a whistle around my neck in a heartbeat. 

When my family and I decided to rent a lake house for the week, I figured that I would make a trip to High Harbour.  What I didn’t anticipate was that each time I went for a solo spin in our rented pontoon, a magnetic force would strangely navigate the vessel around the bends and under the bridge to the camp.  On one trip, I decided to tie up the boat and have a look around. 

Shy of two weeks out of the last session, the spiders had already gone to work on their web construction as I walked down the wooden dock that borders the girls’ side of camp.  When I wasn’t swatting webs out of my eyes, I could close them and almost hear the telltale sounds of summer camp: little feet pounding down the boardwalk to get a good place in line for free swim sign ups, the din of twenty eleven-year-old girls practicing a cheer for their cabin, or the excitingly ominous boom of a suntanned counselor jumping off the diving board to the blob, giddy because he is about to make a 60-pound child sail through the air and into the water.

Yes, this is what childhood is supposed to look like.

I know not every kid dreams of packing a trunk, picking a bunk, and not needing any particular reason to paint her face.  But this kid did.  I anticipated my time at camp each summer more than any first day of school, family vacation, or birthday.  In the moment, I saw opportunity to be in my favorite place, to learn to water ski, to stand on my chair at lunch and cheer until I was blue in the face, and to make new friends.  As I grew older and moved into leadership roles, I saw the opportunity to do all of those things instead of work a summer job at Chik-Fil-A, to influence children in a positive way, and to be outside all day long.  As I directed programs as a college student, I saw the opportunity to be a mentor, to retain the innocence of childhood, and to laugh the kind of laugh that fills your whole belly with goodness.

But it wasn’t until I entered into adulthood, got a job, and had to make things happen for myself that I realized that camp gave me so much more than I knew.  Remembering that no one is going to do it for me and that I should take initiative, I had to convince someone to give me a job.  Charm school lessons at the beginning of each session ingrained in me the importance of a strong handshake, eye contact, and forming an immediate connection.  And it was summer camp that first opened my eyes in a real way to the presence of God in my life. 

As I took my family and our friends back to High Harbour on our last day, I noticed several trucks parked outside the dining hall up the hill.  Opening the familiar doors to where I ate so many meals and cleaned so many dishes, I saw Ken O’Kelley, the camp director and a man on more people’s “Top Ten Favorite People” list than I could count.  After I hugged his neck, we walked down to the waterfront where my father and his fraternity brothers had opened the gates to the blob and were taking turns shooting each other through the air.   It was at that moment that I realized camp would continue to show up in my life as I grow older.  That, and you are never too old to be a kid.

San Juan Islands, Washington

As I licked me cone of Java Smash-Up ice cream and pondered how it very well may be the most delectable concoction on God’s Green Earth, I realized that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a photographer from the Patagonia catalog emerge from behind the row of manicured bushes to snap my picture.  I had the best seat in the house, sprawled out on a gentle decline that ended in a rocky shoreline and expanded out to Friday Harbor in Washington’s San Juan Islands.

Situated in front of me was the actual namesake harbor, with long rows of creaky wooden floating docks to serve as the pathway between everything from modest dinghys to awe-inspiring yachts.  Sea planes landed and departed effortlessly on their makeshift aquatic runway, as if that’s exactly what planes were made to do.  Boxy green ferries arrived like clockwork from Anacortes to relieve themselves of lines of cars and supply trucks.  As the vehicles exited the ferry and were parked along Main Street, their passengers also parked their work lives and stress levels too.  Smiles were difficult to mask; they were on island time now.

The San Juan Islands sit about 100 or so miles north of Seattle, and consist of three islands: San Juan, Orcas, and Lopez.  Friday Harbor, the travel hub, is the only real town of the three.

The shopping opportunities in Friday Harbor do not disappoint.  In a few aptly named small town streets (Main, Spring, Argyle) one will find a myriad of clothing shops, bookstores, coffee houses, and restaurants.  I was delighted to encounter Serendipity, a used bookshop where organized chaos is the name of the game.  Pelindaba Lavender is the in-town depot for the neighboring lavender farm, and I discovered about ninety different things one can mae from lavender; everything from soap to honey to hot chocolate.

In nearby Cannery Landing, one will find the charming David Baughn and his sweet golden retriever ready to pour samples of San Juan Cellars Wines at the Island Wine Company.  David and his wife Kathryn sell the eastern Washington-grown grape’s product only in Friday Harbor, although they will ship to some parts of the country as well.

Just a short walk from downtown is Wayfarer’s Rest, a quaint island home that the proprietor, Andrea, runs as a hostel.  Boasting comfortable beds and a large common living room and kitchen, Wayfarer’s was the perfect place to find budget accomodations on the island.  The atmosphere is entirely laid back; you simply pick up an envelope with your key and let yourself in your room.  But, don’t forget to bring  a quarter for the shower!

According to my Frommer’s guide, if one travels to the San Juan Islands and does not spend any time on a boat, they have missed the point.  I opted for a day-long sea kayaking adventure through Outdoor Odysseys.  In operation since 1983, this outfitter provides knowledgable and friendly guides and a delicious vegetarian lunch.  Donning my splash jacket and spray skirt, I set out from Small Pox Bay with my group on a flawless July morning.  Although no promises of whale sightings can be made, we immediately encountered one of the island group’s three resident Orca whale pod.  Just being in the same water as these massive animals was humbling in and of itself.  The rest of the trip offered bald eagle sightings, views of floppy, chunky sea lions, and observations of giant purple sea stars clinging to the rocky cliffs until high tide rolled in to take them back out to sea.  This was a trip and a day I will not soon forget.

Traveling back to Seattle on the Victoria Clipper passenger ferry proved to be a trip in and of itself.  The late afternoon sun made it perfect for sitting on the top deck and just taking in my surroundings.  It was an escape from everything, even if just for a short moment in time.

The San Juan Islands are a perfect, well-kept destination to just be outside and enjoy the simple act of doing so.  I will surely return, and until then I will dream of the sparkling waters and jagged coastlines whose beauty speaks for itself.

Why writing a personal statement is so hard

As I sit to write my statement of purpose, I am overwhelmed with just a sense of fog and fuzz on what I should say.  After all, how do I quantify and qualify myself well enough to look appealing to an admissions committee?  I wish I could say that being on the other side of the table and reading countless personal statements has helped me to figure out what to say about myself, but save for avoiding the soapbox on how awesome Tim Tebow is I can’t say that I have gotten much consistent advice.

It would be much simpler if the prompt was something like “Describe an encounter with the scary monster that lives under your bed.” I could easily come up with a vivid description of my under-the-bed monster (he’d be dark green) and tell a story of how he stole my socks from the dryer (because the missing socks have to go somewhere and now I live in the basement with the dryer so that is entirely plausible). 

But schools don’t ask you that question, unfortunately.  We are supposed to differentiate ourselves from other applicants by figuring out the fine line between boasting of our accomplishments and still appearing eager to learn.

I am lead to wonder if raw honesty is the way to go.  Maybe it’s okay to state that you want to change the world. Maybe it is okay to say that you have a desire to help people.  Maybe you should speak of indignant emotions at the injustices in our society.  But I think to do that and to not back it up is to shoot a symbolic bullet in the foot of a personal statement.  Words without actions are just words that appear empty.

For example, if I want to get into law school, don’t I need to state the events that lead up to me wanting to do that?  It seems simple, but sharing the story of reading an article on a nurse who was forced to perform an abortion and feeling a desire to protect her right to not have to do that is a compelling reason to want to enter the world of constitutional law. 

That took a political spin I wasn’t meaning to go toward, and the example is very simple for a complex issue, but you catch my drift.

My point is that I think that we just need to tell our stories, whatever they are, and the right school will appreciate where you are coming from.  Then again, I’m not in graduate school yet, so who knows… but this is where I am leaning.

I think the hardest part of that though is the RIGHT SCHOOL will appreciate you.  If I have learned anything from working in admissions, part of being accepted is being in the right place at the right time.  You could be an excellent candidate who would excel at the given institution, but it just may not be your year to get in. 

I’m currently reading a book entitled The Chosen: The Hidden History of Admission and Exclusion at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton.  As the title suggests, it explains how students were and are chosen for admission to those three institutions, and subsequently, other institutions that follow the lead of the Big Three.   In the late 1800s and early 1900s, all three schools were very WASPy.  The sons of prominent businessmen, leaders, and politicians were groomed to attend a prestigious university.  The alumni paid big bucks to make sure this happened.  Sport and social status soon became more important than academics, and Princeton was commonly known as a country club. 

The idea and practice of selective admissions really seemed to begin when too many Jewish boys wanted to go to school at these institutions.  Admissions committees and presidents enacted admissions criteria such as “manliness” and other subjective qualities that could ensure a proper proportion of boys with acceptable upbringing to those who had less desirable qualities.

As anti-Semitism grew stronger in America, our premier higher education institutions were not immune.  Madison Grant, author of The Passing of the Great Race, adopted the view of the superiority of the “Nordics” over the “Alpines and Mediterraneans”.    Prominent men in leadership positions at the Big Three helped advocate for and pass immigration restriction laws and hidden quotas on freshman admissions.

I haven’t read the rest of the book yet, but our history of admissions has translated into the need to create a diverse and unprejudiced college campus.   This is good and right.  But sometimes it makes me wonder how much we are working into becoming what an institution wants in order to achieve that perfect balance they so desire to attain.

So as I sit and ponder my personal statement, I am resigned to hope and pray that my honest depiction of myself and my education aims will be found by the “right school” at the “right time”.  As with jobs, relationships, situations, and life in general, it all takes a healthy dose of divine intervention.

How to find fulfillment in our current working situations

As someone I knew very well back in college once put it, I “know a little bit about a lot of things.”  I am interested in nearly anything, from social demographics to summer camp to reality television.  I find the space program enthralling, am learning to knit, and enjoy playing catch in the middle of the street.  I prefered the math section of the SAT to the verbal, yet I wouldn’t touch (or be allowed to touch) an engineering career with a ten-foot-pole.  But I think engineers and the work they do is nothing short of awesome and would be lying if I said I hadn’t pondered what it would be like to design a roller coaster for Disney or equipment for our armed forces.  The comparisons could go on and on.  I have an incurable case of wanderlust, and it carries over to being dreamy with my desired career path.

Some might call this exciting; they might say that it is a gift to be able to see the world with excitement and wonder.  They would say that I could do many different things with my life and be entirely happy.  And I would agree with them in the most wholehearted fashion.  However, there is also the flip side of this wonderful “the world is my oyster” mentality, and it is this:  the lack of a tangible and fulfilling skill makes it very hard to know what steps to take.

Strangely enough, I think that the one thing that I am consistently decent at is helping other people figure out what they are good at.  Forget solving that for myself, but I think that I might be onto something.  By trying to figure out what others want to do, I automatically get to read, learn, and hear about a whole slew of different topics.  So, in my experience as a nomad, a collector of unemployment checks, a job-seeker, a passion-finder, a traveler, a mistake-maker, a Hill staffer, a camp counselor, a supermarket cashier, a retirement community waitress, a legal assistant, a coffee drinker, and most recently a college recruiter, here are a few guidelines that I have come up with for attempting  to  find passion in work. 

1.  Quit thinking that you are entitled to immediate greatness.

Since we were small children, the most fortunate of us all have had parents, family members, and influencers who have encouraged our talents, found us tutors for our weaknesses, and located avenues for success.  My father, who would stand at the end of my lane during a swimming race and cheer me on until his face was red, gave me confidence that I was good at something.  My passing score on AP English and my membership in the Honor Society were just two examples of my success as a student, and they helped me to be appealing to the admissions committees of some great universities.  When I made a good grade on a paper, or was pat on the back for being proactive enough to go out and see the world, orwas rewarded with a job on Capitol Hill after passing my resume around… all of those things were mini ego-boosters that made me think, “Hey, I’m not too shabby.”  And, I’m not.  But all that being said, I think things like this give us a dangerous sense of entitlement.  For instance, I  should not have expected that at the age of twenty-two, I would be spared from completing menial tasks like answering the phone, making a photocopy, or highlighting an essay.  So many of us enter the workforce feeling entitled and I think that not only makes us miss the experience of being a gopher and therefore appreciating the day that we aren’t gophers, but it also makes us look silly and unappreciative to our more seasoned supervisors and co-workers.  Bottom line:  we need to get over ourselves and tackle any task with enthusiasm.

 

Copyright: summitsystems.net/Home.htm

2.  Look for bigger-picture, longer-lasting impacts of your current job.

Two obvious things that we all want to avoid: feeling like what we are doing is a waste of time and walking away with very little applicable experience.  I will boldly claim that with the right wording of a resume, we eliminate both of those fears.  No matter what job you are doing, “working-world experience” is a quality that all employers desire and that can’t be awarded early with good behavior or connections.  You’ve just got to do it: be out there, do SOMETHING, and learn what it’s like to work with all kinds of other people.  Your resume will only say “glorified secretary” if you let it. 

3.  Never, never, NEVER stop trying to figure out what you love and taking steps to go for it.

If you aren’t in your dream job now, that’s okay.  There is something to be said for making a paycheck, being able to visit a doctor, and paying the landlord.  (Obviously.)  But don’t stop there.  We should always be seeking career happiness and taking steps in the direction of achieving it.  If you aren’t, then don’t complain about your current state of employment.  Something I’ve found helpful is to recall the things that have made me happiest and most fulfilled in my life, both specifically and more broadly.  For example, specific experiences for me include travel (backpacking Europe, hiking across Spain, outdoor adventures in Australia and New Zealand), working at YMCA Camp High Harbour, working orientation at UF, and others.  If I think about the broad reasons that those specific endeavors have been so fulfilling, I come up with the fact that I love seeing the world and what God has created, I love creating experiences for people that they will remember forever, I love mentoring youth and fostering relationships with them, I love the whole concept of summer camp and what it does for a kid, I love the big-school, sporty collegiate experience that UF boasts, etc.  From there, I can work on identifying specific experiences and steps to take.

4.  Ask the One who makes the plans.

Not to get preachy, but let’s consider for a moment that there is an all-knowing God.  This would mean that He knows me and you, He knows our world and what it needs, and that He created me and you to bring glory to Himself.  When I think about it, if such a being exists, and I happen to believe that it does, He would be more than thrilled to afford me with opportunities to serve Him if I were just to pay attention to what He was saying.  And then that follows that if He did create me to glorify Himself, wouldn’t I find immense joy in participating in that process?  In other words, would that not be the ultimate career fulfillment?

As I work to try to figure out what a girl who doesn’t have an unparalleled musical gift, an innate ability to solve complicated math problems, or a singing voice worthy of any audience except the walls of the shower is to do with herself, I am reminded that it is as much about the journey of getting there as it is with the end.  At least, it is to me.

 

  

Under Review: Bill Bryson

The majority of my latest book-dollars belong to the works of Bill Bryson, a delightfully snarky, baby-boomer travel writer.  I often treat reading recommendations like one would treat the idea of a blind date.  Someone tells you that you should like a particular person, that you have a lot in common, and that you should meet.  But what about the people who you already know and love and trust?  What about your busy lifestyle; do you really want to risk wasting your time on something that could be awkward and disastrous? 

But sometimes, it pays to take a little recommendation, even if you’ve been ignoring it for quite some time.  I finally agreed to meet Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods after my father told me that I would like it.  The aforementioned work journals Bryson’s attempt at thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail and all of the unexpected bumps that come along with something so unpredictable.

I immediately loved the context.  As someone who has taken a long walk, I could appreciate the idea that walking was just simply what you did.  Day in, day out; morning, noon, and night.  It became an old friend, reliable and trustworthy.  Slowly, nothing else mattered except walking.  It is a calming and peaceful scenario at the same time that it is achy and taxing. 

Bryson wanted a companion for the journey, so he sent out cards to anyone and everyone he could think of.  He got a bite from Stephen Katz, a buddy from high school whom Bryson had not seen in years.  Surprised but relieved to not hike alone, he watched Katz show up with an overweight pack and Little Debbie Cakes as his trail food.  The banter, often described in colorful language by Bryson, was often so funny that I would laugh out loud. 

A Walk in the Woods and my second Bryson, In a Sunburned Country, confirmed what I believe to be his golden ticket to success.  He is able to see the world and it’s creation through childlike eyes and wonder, and there is something charming about that wonder spewing from the mouth and pen of an otherwise crotchety, middle-aged codger.  The sharp night and day contrast of these two emotions is captivating. 

In effort of full disclosure, In a Sunburned Country was destined to be like a favorite child to me due to my fondness of Australia.  Of course, if one is fortunate enough to make it all the way around the world to Australia, I’d argue that it’s impossible to not be fond of the place.  It is everything Bryson claims it to be – laid-back and friendly, breathtaking and inconceivably vast, remote and off-the-radar. 

Bryson’s descriptions of the sparse road system reminded me of my jaunt up the coast after my study abroad program had ended.  Tara, my new friend from California, and I had decided we’d drive north from Townsville and hit Cairns for some scuba diving outlets.  We had rented a little economy car for the journey and got a hands-on, self-taught lesson on how to drive on the right side of the vehicle and the left side of the road.  Unlike the U.S., Australia only has several “highways”, and there is usually only one main road from one place to another.  So, imagine our dismay when the only road north for 10 hours either way flooded from a heavy rainstorm, rendering it impassible.  The line of cars built up behind the football-field sized, two-feet-deep fish tank of that used to be the Great Green Highway.  After hours of waiting and perhaps a dose of stupid, we decided to tailgate a semi-truck in hopes of passing through the pool in the wake of a larger vehicle.  I held my breath the entire way as the hood began to smoke and the water lapped against the passenger door like a wave against a wader’s knees.  After making it through and pulling over to the curb for an assessment, the Aussies chuckled and punched our shoulders with a cheery “good on ya!”  I wondered how often they surfed through floods because an alternate route was just too far away.

Bryson continues with tales of adventure, community, and love of country.  One of my favorite anecdotes features Bryson and his current traveling companion throwing back one too many drinks at the local pub.  The next day, he walks downstairs and asks his friend if he did anything to disgrace himself. 

Pause.

“Well, not really.  But you are doing a summer house exchange with a family from Korea.”

Bryson: Pause.  “North or South?”

He proceeds to pull out a business card with the name of a Korean dentist and the exact dates of the summer exchanged printed in his handwriting. 

I nearly scared all the other passengers on the plane back from Jacksonville with my laughter.

A tribute to my favorite pair of shoes

My favorite shoes are not expensive.  They are not shiny, high-heeled, or pretty.  They are muddy pieces of rubber with cracks in the soles and dirt at every opportunity. 

Anyone who has heard me speak of my hike in Spain knows of my undying love for Keen Genoa Peak hiking shoes.  I was (and still am) quick to boast of their awesomeness, their stability, and their durability.  I puff my chest when I speak of walking 600 miles through dirt, mud, snow, and other interesting substances without one blister.  I loved them so much that I came home and sent Keen a picture of me in the shoes along with a story of their greatness.

These are the shoes that represent the greatest adventure of my life, the shoes that carried me from France into Spain over to Santiago de Compostela.  These are the shoes that I wore when I made friends that I could only communicate with in charades, and these are the shoes that ran diligently with a twenty pound pack through a city to the finish line even though I had just made them walk 600 miles. 

These shoes were on my feet when I saw how big God is through the miles and miles of farmland, mountains, and vineyards.  They were on my feet when I realized that God was counting how many steps I was taking.

They were the shoes I wore to feed my caffè con leche addiction, to try octopus, and to buy a swim team bathing suit from a department store so I could sit in a hot tub.  They were the shoes I wore when I climbed a ladder to an attic atop a snow-covered mountain to take yoga class in my long underwear.  They sat faithfully by my bed when I slept, and they didn’t get mad when they had to sit outside although it was my fault that they were smelly, muddy, and soaking wet. 

These were the shoes that skipped when I was happy and drug when I was tired.  In just one month of time, they became the filthiest item that I own.  They are the shoes that my mother did not allow inside her house when I returned, so they became destined to live in the garage. 

I look forward to my next pair of dirty, filthy, worn-out, wonderful, mischievous shoes.   

Under Review: Buzz

Buzz Bakery & Coffee

“There is a man who comes in every morning.  He orders a cup of coffee and reads the paper.  Then he just gets up and leaves.”  The silver-haired patron willingly shares this information with me as I brush croissant crumbs from the couch cushions.  This man must come here every day himself to know this information’; today he is wearing one of those hats with ear flaps and perusing the Washington Post.

The walls are a pinky-beige and covered with funky kitchen utensils.  The entire back wall is cubby holes whose overall image boasts a gigantic piece of chocolate cake with pink frosting.  Laptop users stack into a long wooden dinner table and immerse themselves in their work, study, or, as it goes, blog.  A Spanish-speaking nanny is dragged through the door by three toe-headed children who have to know if those cookies taste as good as they look.

Beyond all of this, the first thing you notice when you walk through the corner doors on Slaters Lane in Alexandria is the impressive display case of cakes, cookies, Quiche, muffins, croissants, and desserts.  You could try an oat current scone, or a sausage and cheese Quiche, or stick with a tried-and-true blueberry muffin.  These items are refreshingly not shipped in from a far off factory, they are baked and cooked right in the back.  The barista confirmed that they even supply the same baked goods with Peregrine on Capitol Hill.  As a huge fan of Peregrine, this scored instant points for the place.

Buzz is sunny and warm and a nice change from other coffeehouses because it’s just different.  Perhaps it is because it’s part of a neighborhood and therefore draws a more diverse clientele.  Perhaps it is because one can park outside the door and walk right in, eliminating the logistical frustrations that you may experience in the city. But whatever it is, I like it and recommend giving it a shot.

Coffee beans: Cappuccino - 3.5 beans of 5

Atmosphere: 4 armchairs out of five (today it is a literal armchair)

Work-Ability: 4.5 memos out of five

Staff: 5 tip jars out of five.

Massachusetts restores just a little bit of hope in the system

Oh, maybe I am going to get myself in trouble by writing this and then posting it to Facebook for everyone from every side of the aisle to see, but I just can’t help myself.  Last night was majorly chuckle-worthy for everyone who is sick of the “change” promised to us by our new President as he was sworn in  364 days ago.

This is the opinion of an amateur, of someone who couldn’t possibly and WOULDN’T possibly claim to have all the answers.  I do not claim to know every fact, have read every article, or be familiar with the inner thoughts of our political leaders.  But, this is also the opinion of someone whose bum was kicked to the curb 14 months ago when her boss lost his reelection in the House.  This is the opinion of someone who really couldn’t have witnessed it in much more of a firsthand way than she did, unless she was a family member of the ousted.  This is the opinion of a voting American who has seen a small snippet of federal politics… and not from the cheap seats.

It has always been said that politics is a pendulum.  After the last couple of years, I couldn’t agree more.  I am not a lifelong politico; in fact, before I came to Washington and worked on Capitol Hill, I had only voted in the 2004 Presidential election.  That’s it.  I knew the names of the Senators in Florida, and my representative.  Anyone else?   No way.  So,when I dived headfirst into the United States House of Representatives in the spring of 2007, I surfed in on the wave of Republican bloodbath from the 2006 election without really knowing it.  At the time, I thought, “I bet I am independent.”  That sounded good.  After all, being too extreme is, well, scary.  While I have realized that I am significantly more conservative than I initially thought, that revelation has proven to be frighteningly true.

When it was popular to despise former President George W. Bush, the American public grew to despise elected officials with his same party affiliation.  As someone who used to not follow politics, I relate with the notion that representatives and senators with the same party as the President must be his cronies.  I didn’t stop to think that there really isn’t only Democrat and Republican, there are infinite levels within each party.  But, America was tired of Bush, and they wanted change.  President Obama ran a brilliant campaign, using that very idea as his buzzword.  The public was hoping for something different, and he was the answer.  In November 2008, he beat Senator McCain handily, and created a tsunami that many newly elected Democrats could surf in on. 

When we put our feet back on the ground and get our heads of out the clouds, we realize that making huge changes is not as easy as we thought.  I think that a country so eager to get out of Iraq failed to realize that simply cannot happen overnight.  Ideally, it could.  Ideally, we wouldn’t ever have to fight to defend our nation, what we stand for, and others who can’t defend themselves.  We could all live in peace and harmony.  I say this with the utmost sincerity and zero sarcasm.  I wish our world could be this way.  But it isn’t. 

Obama then tried to champion health care reform, and made it the main focus of the first year of his presidency.  This is speculation, but I wonder if one reason for this was to have a check mark in the win column because he wouldn’t have the check mark in the “Get out of Iraq” box.  I believe the sincerity and hope for providing healthcare to all Americans is real.  Please hear me; this is not about that desire.  I think healthcare DOES need to be reformed, and something DOES need to be done for those who cannot help themselves. 

Obama and company’s mistake came by being too extreme.  Instead of working to decrease the budget deficit our country is running, he has only increased it.  Writing a 2.000 page healthcare bill that will dig an even bigger deficit hole and using political tactics to push it through the process simply isn’t going to fly with the American people.  People are going to notice when their money is being tossed around, and they are going to notice when the people that they put in office aren’t playing nice.  People are tired of that, and they won’t stand for it anymore.  

That is why Scott Brown’s win last night is so monumental.  A Republican won a Senate seat that was held by the most liberal of liberals for 47 years in a state that, until yesterday, was considered unquestionably blue.  If Massachusetts is this fed up, it does not bode well for Democrats nationwide.  

President Obama and his supporters in the House and Senate have tried to be too extreme and have become very exclusive as a result.  The need to listen to ideas from both sides of the aisle and not bank on the fact that they will have enough votes to push the agenda through regardless.  I know that this is what happens in politics, and this happened with Republicans.  Guess what?  They paid the price for it.  But, just because this is the historical pattern doesn’t make it right.  The reason our country is so special is because we can argue, debate, and have opposing opinions.  In the end, the people will be heard.  Because if our elected officials don’t listen to them, then they won’t win next time.  It’s that simple. 

Watching politics lean dangerously too far to one side this past year has been discouraging, as it always is for someone who leans the other way (no matter which way it is leaning).  But last night, I once again had my faith in our system restored.  It’s certainly not perfect, but it is right.  We live in a country where we can express our opinions, and if there are enough people who agree with us, we can make changes.  Our elected officials  cannot just fade into the curtains, they have to answer to those who put them onstage.   

It is my hope that President Obama and his supporters in Congress take what happened last night as a clue to begin to compromise in a fashion that will actually get things accomplished.  If they don’t, and it may be too late for some already, then they will face the same outcome that Massachusetts produced last night.   Congratulations, Senator Brown.  Go to Washington, and do what you said you were going to do.