Today marks the halfway point of the Central American adventure; we are having a grand time. This news was pointed out by K.F.A. circa 4:30 in the morning. I guess now instead of counting up, we are counting down.

Either way... we travel on.

Up at 5:00--before the birdies began their tweeting--in pitch black K.F.A. and I executed departure. It was not until the screeching of the gate I was fully awake. The noise mocking my cries--I was not ready to leave Uvita, but we had already extended our stay by a day... and now we are on more stringent deadline since our Nicaragua tickets have a date (in addition to being paid for). So we waddled the half mile to the bus stop to catch the six o´clock bus to San Isidro, arriving just in time for breakfast. Gallo pinto con huevos, anyone? We had planned to make a stop at the post office before catching the bus to San Gerardo, but the best laid plans do not always pan out. In Costa Rica a meal is meant to be enjoyed, therefore if you do not ask for your bill, it will not come. You could look at this as a lot of wasted time, or prime opportunity to allow my cafe negro (black coffee) to cool to a drinkable--not scold my mouth--temperature. During this time I wrote the two postcards I had purchased.

Next we found a bank to restock on funds before heading to the Central Market. The market revealed solely meat, so I was quite happy with our decision to dine elsewhere before this exploration. Bus number two departed at 9:30 for the hour and a half ride to Casa Mariposa (Butterfly House). There is nothing better than a music session in route to each destination with the Costa Rican backdrop, where green-ness travels for miles. At the end of the road we had an estimated kilometer walk--straight uphill with heavy packs. The temperature in the mountains, however, was significantly more welcoming than stale beach air. Somehow we still managed to show up drenched from head-to-toe... and continued on, evading cold mountains showers throughout our this getaway. A tour of the hostel, a brief hammock session, and a sandwich later, we were off to The Cloud Bridge for hiking. The afternoon hike lead us to four distinct waterfalls along the way. The continuous up-and-down was another signal we were at the base of Chirripo, the highest peak in Central America. It was a physically exhausting hike, one though that made you crave more.

On the way home, I stopped to scale a lime tree, capturing four, despite the doubting from my travel-mate. Fun fact: In Costa Rica limes have an orange-like appearance.

Once settled in our comfy cottage, I found a table for journaling--overlooking unbeatable views--with a cup of coffee, courtesy of the hostel. The temperature continued to drop throughout the night, ¨forcing¨ me to bundle up in my fleece. I wish I could convey how wonderful that was.

Dinner was cooked by K.F.A. while I wrapped up my thoughts. The menu for the night: a vegetable medley over couscous. And for our first dessert, K.F.A. fried a plantain and cut up a mango... that rocked. Things got really wild when post-dinner tea was offered(!!!). The rhythm of our travel has found its beat, and while I am grateful to have this much time, as we settle in this routine... I am more and more aware of each minute we have, dreading the fact this excursion too will come to an end.

Day 16, obnoxious afternoon and all, might have been a trip peak. At 6:12 am I heard the first screams of the howler monkeys, later than normal and no less annoying than the repetitive tick of my alarm clock. This was as good a time as any to lace up my running shoes for a jog on the rocky back roads of Uvita, Costa Rica. The run commenced on the beach with stretching before a short walk back to Flutterby, our 'hostel by the sea.' Deciding to be extra hydrated or competitive, K.F.A. and I chugged down full Naglenes. The hostel chef had breakfast waiting, as if he was working directly for us. Our plates did not stay loaded long--this was some of the best gallo pinto con huevos (rice and beans with eggs) to date! And the switch from scrambled to fried egg was a nice touch. Yes, on Day 16 we decided we could not concoct a better breakfast, nor will we tire of this combination. For three dollars this trifecta of food wards off hunger until dinner, not only is this fabulous for the travelers budget, the bikini body appreciates this too.

Following breakfast, we walked to the supermarket for dinner supplies, officially committing to cooking from here on out. Fresh vegetables (cabbage, squash, tomatoes, onion, and garlic) and noodles in hand, we checked out and began the venture home. The groceries were labeled and unloaded. This left us with enough time to catch the (natural) 'Whale Tale' on Playa Uvita, an hour round-trip walk from our temporary home, at low tide. Returning after 11 am, my feet let me know rest time was in order. Wouldn´t you know... the tree house we were sleepìng in had hammocks tied up just below. The plan was to finish Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer but instead the hour was spent with shut eyes. To recover from the intense nap, we had lunch. I realize 1000 words ago, I mentioned gallo pinto usually tides us over until dinner, meaning the midday meal is skipped, however, a fruit and veggie truck stopped by the hostel seconds after we got back from the supermarket... and sold us on a pineapple for a dollar and change. Enough on being cheap and eating, except I am almost certain this remark is premature because dinner will work its way into being covered--it was spectacular(!!!). So if pineapple is considered lunch, we lunched.

On second thought, lets continue with budget travel. Part of traveling on what I have identified as the ´student´s budget´ means asking plenty of questions--to Ticos (a person of native to Costa Rica) in broken Spanish, to hostel owners, to your guide book, to various travelers along the way--and sufficiently researching. Onwards. K.F.A.´s previous jaunt to the supermarket led to the dicovery of a Tico Bus ticket counter... which we seeked out after lunch. When I say ´seeked out´ I mean we walked there to ask questions about bus tickets to Nicaragua with nothing in hand. To our delight--this was a place for purchasing the advanced tickets we needed. Since we had no money, we quickly walked back to the hostel to collect credit cards... only to return and discover we needed passports. Had this information been distributed prior--say when we mentioned we were going to collect money--that would have have been nice. Each leg of the journey is 12 minutes, 30 minutes roundtrip when you include time to dig through oversized backpacks, fill up water bottles, and use the bathroom. My watch read 3:06 pm when we arrived at The Whale Statue (Yes, the ticket counter was inside a foam-ish whale. Definitely not strange.) on our third attempt. Following the business model of the developing world, the one worker had mysteriously disappeared. Our avid interest in these tickets, coupled with the comment, ¨We will be right back; how late are you open?¨ apparently meant nothing. You can only laught in these situations. After 40 minutes, we gave up.

On rented bikes we took off to further explore Uvita. The problem being these bikes were priced at two dollars per hour for a reason; one bike had you so hunched over the lower back went immediately numb while the other bike I could only picture my 76-year-old grandmother cruising the beach on--this bike did NOT do inclines of any sort. The Whale Statue was a good turn around spot... and luck would have ´our girl´ back--working. The agonizingly slow process of securing tickets flew by, simply because we did not have to ride those bikes. Knowing we have seats on a bus to Nicaragua is a great feeling, days later. The remaining hour of ´bike time´ took us directly back to the hostel, with 20 minutes to spare before our last beach sunset for quite sometime. The sun set well--it did not disappoint.

K.F.A. prepared an epic meal; I watched. We make an incredible team... but I will save those details for another post. (I had to hand-draft this post, making me acutely aware of how obnoxiously long this ramble is. In addition, I am paying money to upload this post. Now I am not only not getting paid to write, I am actually being charged. What happened to ¨free¨ speech?) Luckily after dinner, the typical night--as was the case in Day 16--caps off with dish clean-up, shower, more reading, and bed.

¨We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope.¨ (Edward Abbey)

K.F.A. and I made our way to Montezuma, a beautiful beach town on the Southwern pennisula of Costa Rica, yesterday morning. It took a bus, a ferry, back on same bus, transfer to new bus. We were in bikini on the beach at 1:20 pm feeling like the luckiest people in the world. (Google image to see why!) After falling asleep at 8 pm, we woke this morning at approximately the same time as our previous travel days--5:00 am. That leaves extra time to fill today's high ambitions for our first non-travel day. Already, we have returned from a beach run. It wasn't a terribly long run as far as runs go--you runners know, beach running is quite difficult. To up the intensity (or to have an excuse to quit running) we mixed in a few Jillian Micheals' moves. She knows how to make you sweat. I'm still dripping as I write, but the rising Costa Rican sub is not helping matters. At 6:48 am I already feel accomplished. Time to go make breakfast, and by that I mean--unless K.F.A. is cooking--spread peanut butter on bread.

This isn't exactly a story of importance, instead a wish for my future--may I be as skilled at my parent's in landing stellar neighbors. They nailed it Kansas, nine years later... and we are still in touch with the good people of Lenexa. Here, in Northern Virginia, the essence of excellence has been captured again. Our neighbors, each in their own way, are awesome. I do not want to leave them behind--for a day, for a trip to Central America, for forward progress in my life. They are... that awesome.

For N.J.M.'s December 28th birthday, the neighborhood girls ventured to Georgetown, Washington DC for 10 uninterrupted hours together. There was shopping (till I nearly dropped), lunch we at Cafe Milano (no celebrity sightings), and cupcakes at Baked & Wired (holy heaven!). Good day. Better People.

I cannot document the start of 2012--a trip to New Orleans, Louisiana--without 'officially' closing out 2011. There is something idealistic about turning the calendar, whether to a new month or year. And while I can appreciate a fresh start, it has never been necessary--who cares if it is Thursday or Monday (unless it is football Saturday!), the 15th or the 2nd of November or January, the year 2012 or 2011. Entering 2012, however, felt entirely different. And that is probably because when I reflect on 2011 it feels as if nothing happened. That is not completely accurate, but the majority of what occurred was internal--establishing routine, personal growth, regaining some sense of control--or logistical--phone calls, job applications, etc. To be cliche, I have resolutions for the upcoming year. The 'plan' might derail again... and that will be okay; I have faith in my ability to reboot. (I have said this before. I have not believed it before.) I am taking steps, this year, into the great unknown, unsure where I will end up. That is part of the excitement of living though, right?

The past year is a blur of places visited. A first and second trip to New York, New York. Two trips to Detroit, Michigan. Four trips to Raleigh, North Carolina. An uncountable number of treks to Athens, Georgia and back. Divided time between Beaufort, Charleston, Columbia, Greenville, and Pendleton while working in Clemson, South Carolina. South Dakota crossed off my '50 states before 50 years' timetable. Took advantage of the Taylorsville, Davis, and San Francisco, California offerings. Had a weeklong adventure with Grandma in Arizona. Two weeks in the Boston, Massachusetts area. More than one visit to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Weekend trips in Annapolis and Baltimore, Maryland. Day-trips to Columbus, Maryland; Alexandria, Virginia; Georgetown, Washington, D.C.; and Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. A reunion in Orlando, Florida. Thanksgiving in Atlanta, Georgia. There was probably a bit too much time spent in Northern Virginia.

In the haze of travel... were the intentional friendships in route. In The Hire Up--the 2011 H family Christmas letter--Dad described me as a "voracious writer and dedicated pen pal, tweeter, texter, and blogger who manages to stay in touch with friends scattered around the world." And "1$ Megabus and cross country trips in tents demonstrate [my] ability to [enjoy time with and] see the world on a minimalist budget." In this light--people and places--I recall a better year than otherwise remembered.

Still though, with open arms, I welcomed 2012. And again, right steps or wrong, I will progress in some direction this year.

This is what happens when I have company. The is what the aftermath of the holidays look like. This is the result of two straight weeks of socializing. This is what happens when I return from a week-long trip. This is what happens when I devote three hours a night to bowl-game season. This is what preparing for a five-week Central American vacation is like.

I have a mile long, or three-page, chicken-scratched 'to-do' list. And, quite magically, it is growing. There are tasks within each task. It is maddening.

And while I would like to accomplish the works of this list before my Wednesday morning departure, I am not fretting. I am relaxed--many praises to exercise, first-rate friends, and the clean-slate of a new year.

Tis the season of a whole lot to accomplish... and far less time to write. Sigh.

This package from Lesotho awaited me when I arrived home from New Orleans, Louisiana. I could hardly contain my excitement--ripping it open before I snapped a photo of the yellow, duck-taped package itself. Awhile back I sent my friends "homestretch" packages... full of American goods for the final months of service. Three of them came together to reciprocate.

Package contents:

Stickers: Kaiser Chiefs F.C.: One of two, and my preferred, Republic of South Africa football team. The team is based in Nasrec, Soweto--outside Johannesburg, South Africa and plays in the Premiere Soccer League. The Lesotho Flag (with a Phacks Motor Spares of Hlotse advertisement embedded on the sticker): Awesome! Peace Corps Logos: "For sticking or burning!" Seshoeshoe Bracelet: When "traditional" clothing is spoken of, it usually refers to Seshoeshoe (pronounced: se-shway-shway) fabric, the Basotho blanket (sold at an Anthropologie store near you!), and the conical Basotho hat. The British still have their fingers in the country, as the Seshoeshoe material and the Basotho blankets are manufactured in the United Kingdom for sale in Southern Africa. The Basotho do not seem to mind, as they take great pride and ownership in these pieces. Seshoeshoe fabric is the last thing most foreigners would associate with African dress--it is a stiff, heavy fabric printed in intricate designs. This fabric is usually tailored into dresses that are reminiscent of British colonial dress, with wide skirts, tight waists, and puffy sleeves. Never during my service did I see anyone wearing a Seshoeshoe bracelet, H.J.W. apparently had a ton made--I am glad there was an extra for me!Mini Basotho Hat: The only locally produced item in the "traditional" dress is, however, the Basotho hat. My 'real' hat, a gift for completing training, never made it home. I actually have no use for a hat that large... so I am quite thankful for my mini replica. The functionality of this gift-- "A keychain? Hamster hat? Car rearview mirror decoration/distraction?"--was noted by J.P.B. in his 'content index.' These are all viable options. Maps (of Lesotho): Because maps are fabulous!Lesotho Highlands Development Authority (LHDA) Pamphlet: For planning my next visit, duh.Nik-Naks: I might have a reputation for eating multiple packs of these a day. They are laced with crack, no lie. I downed two packs the minute I opened the package. I promise these are good for you... and definitely vegan. (There are two brands... and these volunteers, knew my preference. Mad props!)A Flash-drive: Filled with Famu, Gospel, and House--music we listened too on full-blast at bars and in cars. Terribly music that is terribly missed. Lesotho Chronicles: My clan of Education '10 Volunteers (Peace Corps Lesotho) are utter blog failures, I am constantly harping on them for Lesotho stories. Someone needs to document the day-to-day(!!!). The biggest surprise--J.P.B. hand-wrote a 54-page book entitled Lesotho Chronicles, Volume I filled with tales related solely to Lesotho. After having been reunited with M.E.V. and K.A.B., I am much too emotional to dive into that yet, but the idea Volume I implies there will at least be a Volume II, hooray. And all this time you thought Lesotho had nothing to offer America. Lesotho is accepting apologies now. The two-grand plane ticket is worth an eight-cent Nik-Naks experience.

Thank you H.J.W. Thank you J.P.B. Thank You K.A.B.

I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. An older dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. A cuddle obsessed dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. Arunning companion [dog]. I want a dog. Iwant a dog. An obedient dog. Iwant a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want adog. A kennel trained dog. Iwant a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. An outdoorloving dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. Iwant a dog. A sweet, other dog adoring, dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. Iwant a dog. A mutt. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. Amedium-size dog. I want a dog. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. A house-broken dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want adog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. Iwant a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a femaledog.

This was a slow year for reading...

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy ChuaSwallow the Ocean by Laura M. FlynnLittle Bee by Chris CleaveHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire by J.K. RowlingMs. Hempel Chronicles by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum Food Rules by Michael PollanThe Help by Kathryn StockettThe Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud by Ben SherwoodA Stolen Life by Jaycee DugardBossypants by Tina FeyThe Lottery by Patricia WoodSing You Home by Jodi Picoult The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins Catching Fire (The Second Book of the Hunger Games) by Suzanne CollinsMockingjay (The Final Book of the Hunger Games) by Suzanne Collins The Good Neighbor by Ryan David Jahn31 Days to Finding Your Blogging Mojo by Bryan AllainCadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water by Marc Reisner The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca SklootIs Everyone Hanging Out Without me?(And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling Serena by Ron RashThe Invisible Wall: A Love Story That Broke Barriers by Harry Bernstein"Literature is one of the few kinds of writing in the world that does not tell you what to buy, want, see, be, or believe. It's more like conversation, raising new questions and moving you to answer them for yourself." (Barbara Kingsolver)

If my records are right, Thanksgiving was over a month ago... and our family trip to Atlanta, Georgia has gone undocumented. I could go on, unproductively, with a list of excuses, or simply unfold my notes into a readable account of the holiday vacation.

I arrived at Reagan National Airport on Monday, November 21, 2011, revived from a weekend in Orlando, Florida, and on Tuesday, our family--minus the one we were on our way to visit--was on-the-road North to Baltimore Washington International Airport for our in-the-air flight South. The first two days of the trip, I was off--I chalked that up to a bout of dizziness and ongoing sleep deprivation. The revival had the effect of a sugar high. I was back on my feet with a drink, food binge, and some rest.

The remainder of the trip followed suit--excess eating and drinking--minus the whole sleep part.

We stayed with our dear family friends, a few houses down from our old Alpharetta home. As with any trip to an previous hometown, I marveled in the changes; the rapidly growing suburb of Altanta, nestled in north Fulton County, had some unrecognizable alterations. On Wednesday, our family day, we ventured to C.D.H.'s, I mean S.M.S's place to visit with our guy and his girl. The time was chatty... as if we had not been together in years. We check-out their place, and even got a brief walking tour of the surrounding area. He bypassed the option to stock up on groceries at Whole Foods, instead dragging the family to the "Murder Kroger." At least he has fine taste in restaurants, for dinner he took us (on Pop's bill) to Flip, a fancy burger boutique, owned by some Top Chef finalist. I was impressed by the number of vegetarian options! The burgers were fabulous, though the real show winners were the accompanying liquid nitrogen milkshakes. Or did the Krispy Kreme donuts we picked up for dessert, erase all memories of Flip? (Re: Eating and drinking in excess!)

The rest of Atlanta was filled with the obvious holiday occasion, more togetherness, a Mexican lunch, good coffee, Black Friday shopping (It is these sort of occasions I am thankful I do not have actual sisters.), a trip to the nail salon (Retract last statement. This experience is far superior with 'sisters.'), chopping down trees, and S.K.H.’s 29th birthday celebration.

We found a few minutes to spare before our flight home to catch part of the Michigan/Ohio State game, unfortunately we were mid-air for majority... though when we landed, The Big Blue had prevailed. 'Hail to the Victors!'

(The delayed account allows me to express my disappointment in another ill-planned flight time. Long before kick-offs--and locations, in this case--were announcements, I was forced to purchase roundtrip airfare. I be mid-air during the--Michigan/Virgina Tech--Sugar Bowl... and leaving New Orleans, home of the Sugar Bowl. This is bad. Worse: It is wreaking havoc on my attempt to make Orange Bowl plans.)

We were home in time for the Clemson/University of South Carolina game, however, an unfortunate incident with the sister of a friend prevented me from catching the game--the one condition I had for driving to Alexandria to hang out. The emotions have subsided, and since Clemson wound up losing to their in-state rivals, I was better off without game coverage. (I am done believing, forever a fan.) And without the distraction of football, I was able to focus and catch-up with the fellow Peace Corps volunteers.

You can buy my love with books. (This year: Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Born to Run: A Hidden Trip, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen by Christopher McDougall, Is Everyone Hanging Out With Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling, Seriously... I'm Kidding by Ellen DeGeneres, a national parks guide, and a Kindle gift card.)

You can buy my love with coffee. (This year: A Keurig--including K Cups and reusable filter, Starbucks gift cards, and a porcelain mug. To boot I was treated to my first Café Glacé experience... and a final cup of Turkish joy!)

You can buy my love with shoes. (This year: Gold Glitter TOMS, Hunter Boots, and faux UGGs.)

But this year--2011, three marvelous people entered my life... and I think they are here to stay. In April I started corresponding with M.R.B., mother of fellow Peace Corps volunteer, J.P.B., and was later able to visit her outside of Boston, Massachusetts.In August I made a virtual friend in H.M.M., at the time a soon-to-be and now currently serving Peace Corps Volunteer in Lesotho. Our exchange may be limited to email--the friendship, though, is intentional.

Lastly, in September, Latte Woman became a regular part of my life. And you have already heard plenty about her as she is regularly featured here(!!!). Here we are at our last 'playdate' of the year.Each one of these women is older than me; together they have taught me a great deal about adult female friendships. I am astonished by the depth friendship can travel when women move beyond the cattiness that plagues our gender stereotype and into authenticity and trust. You cannot buy friendship.

Most of our company is still gathered... but after a two-hour morning stroll and a hot shower, I needed 10 minutes of this:

A Blood Mary lesson for J.W.M. from a 'Bloody Throw Down' winner. Christmas Eve Fondue.Santa even made an appearance this year. Christmas Eve PJs. Need I say more... Our houseguest posing on Christmas morning in his "new" surroundings. This famous sweatshirt, which is older than me, is only worn on Christmas day. Our neighbor, S.J.M., has come to love this Christmas classic... never lacking an "excuse" to be photographed with Pops in gear. Puppy's first Christmas. He was swiped after tearing through boxes. The only two traditional Christmas evening photos we managed to snap. Few were to be distracted. We had a full day, but this has to be my favorite image of all. The neighbor sharing his Playstation 3, so C.D.H. could sample his FIFA 2012 game before reuniting with his own machine after the holidays. 'Tis the Season.

That's right, folks, the Christmas Eve fondue is waiting... for C.D.H. He should be in the final minutes of his 10-hour trek home today. Since we cannot count on the weather to set the holiday mood, we are anticipating this guy's arrival; He may never outgrow the thrill of Christmas(!!!).

My wish from him is some one-on-one time; I sorely miss his company. This request was met with refusal and disapproval--he believes in tangible gifts. Either way, I have the fortunate opportunity of spending the holidays with him (and the rest of my family, of course).

I think he is pretty awesome.

If it is not one excuse, it is another. This time I havebeen away as a result of faulty internet. The ‘disconnect’ came at arespectable time; I was in need of a reprieve, from the search for employmentabove everything else. I will not pretend I missed it. Unemployment update:Will wash dishes for food. Will clean houses for rent. In all seriousness, myresume has been stuffed with key words and after composing over 60 coverletters, one would figure I have this process down to an art. I have done a‘heck ton’ of networking—an unimaginable chore—too. The reality of beingoffline is an uncomfortable amount of free time on my hands—everyone will bereceiving Christmas cards this year(!!!). (And if this paragraph seems out of place... this post was pushed back a couple days to address other happenings.)

Before you get carried away in these words, let me informyou of my current state. I have been on edge… of the highest cliff—likebreak-down on the phone, break-down in public, break-down over spilt milk… hardly slept a wink all week, engulfed bythe most heartbreaking of memoirs. This is not necessarily a bad place to be,it is a dreadfully moody—do not cross me—place. My mom is bearing the weight ofit… seeking new residence as of January 4, 2012. Anytakers? The out-lashing is partially justified, or so I believe. Mom has alwaysbeen one to (over) share my story; not in a boastful manner, instead shecarries on no different from all mothers. She is inclined to feel that herdaughter is a superior being endowed with only the greatest qualities. Thistime, rattling her mouth to one too many neighbors and relatives, I have totell myself she is excited for me, not shameful she raised an unemployabledaughter.

The announcement (before you receive a personal note fromMother): In January, I am heading to Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and Panama with afriend. My grandma took me to Costa Rica when I was in high school, whileK.F.A., my travel mate, studied abroad in Costa Rica during college; betweenthe two of us, we have a fair lay of the land. This will certainly be anadventure of fresh experiences, though not a take-your-breath-away vacation.(For comparison sake, I am infinitely more eager for New Orleans than CostaRica, round two.) Costa Rica is an outdoorsy tourist’s paradise. This is newswe are familiar with—we are fulfilling a longing to return to the heavily toutedterritory. Nicaragua and Panama, on the other hand, might electrify thosereevaluate life emotions. (Stay tuned.)

This secret lingered on the backburner as a protectionmechanism. I am done justifying my life. This is my story, and I will continueto write it with minimal input from others. My parents, predominantly Dad, areagainst the trip. Explaining the decision to them merely fueled mydetermination to be hush hush about the looming journey. I do not want toreason this out for everyone. I understand the concern—my parents think mybreaking for travel each time I get discouraged has been unproductive thus far.This might be true. But again, this is my life, and I am not guaranteedtomorrow. To this I am a witness. And because most of ‘my circle’ does not havethe international bug, they cannot always comprehend. Do I sit here and wallowin the misery of being an unemployed 24-year old living at home? Or do Iproactively make a change? This is the time of my life to take this type of vacation.

To further protect myself from the unsolicited advice of theoutside world, I customarily have a ‘monkey bar’ approach to life. I findletting go difficult unless I am latched on to the next phase of life. Thisranges from releasing information, redecorating a plan, or opening ‘my innercircle’ for new friendship; I cling to my comfort zone until the leap is wellthought out. This Central American escape is out of the ordinary in the sensethere is nothing to return to for. I am not trying to be melodramatic—I havefamily, friends, and shelter, I am lacking accountability. K.F.A. will comeback for dental school. For her, the audience can easily validate this trip asa celebration or a last hoorah before she enters the next level of school. Mylife is without plan, the plan was broken—it is still being repaired.

If you ask my mom, she will tell you a different story. Shewill insist this is a break in the monotony of home life before I buckle downon the prerequisites for nursing school. Her hopes lying in the possibility Icould accomplish this goal before the start of the fall semester. This is aviable option. One I have considered (A career in nursing—the hours (namely),the interaction with people, no cubicle, and (international) travel—meets mycriteria.)… and resent (I have an undergraduate degree in biology. Why whywhy do I need additional classes to get a SECOND UNDERGRADUATE degree in nursing?). Though this isleading the way in options, I fear plans after watching my own dismantle waybeyond my control. This coupled with my indecisiveness, which is deeplymisunderstood as a result of my multitude of opinions, makes settling on thenursing school path seem limiting. I do not want to lead a life of goingthrough the motions. I need to keep my options open. I can change my mind, proand con, thousands of times between today and tomorrow and be okay with this.When plans go public, mass confusion ensues when strategies are altered. I haveyet to discover an appropriate tactic for handling this dilemma.

Now I feel vulnerable having exposed myself. I have not evenprocessed the meaning of five weeks away or paid for the plane ticket. Thoseare none of your concerns—be merry and bright—for you individuals areup-to-date on my next step. From here on out, do not feel excluded—I have myissues, my growing up to do. In this moment, I will go—go on to CentralAmerica—happily, healthily, and safely. Surprise adverted.

I have been relocated from my bed of choice. I have been banned from certain food items to preserve the quantity necessary for cooking. I am not able to run my typical morning route. And my sleep pattern is out of whack. My 'normal' surrounding are in upheaval... but it is temporary. These guest are gathered at our house for a purpose, food is bulging out of the pantry for a reason, and holiday errands are being run all over the place with people in mind. So, at night, when the day is winding down, it seems necessary to stay up at tad later with 'my people' celebrating the season.

The stresses of the season frustrate me (in there own way... and more than most); we--the inviters, chefs, purchasers--bring these stresses upon ourselves, then allow the decisions to exhaust us. In too many words, I am hinting at my heinous holiday character. Each year, I attempt to prevent the 'Grinch' in me from revealing itself... and until hell freezes over, I will fail.

My coping mechanism has been altered this year. The weather in Northern Virginia has been quite balmy, and while the spirit of the season suffers, these temperatures are doing wonders for my outdoor need. Taking full advantage--I am seeking refuge outside. The result has been a positive correlation in Vitamin D time and mood. (I find having a better understanding myself, a joy in aging!)

The family--parents and brothers--love Christmas. The traditions--decorating each nook and cranny, buying and receiving presents, seasonal music, cooking festive meals, visits from Santa, and Christmas movies--continue. Not to be mistaken for materialism, the highest delight is found in the Christmas morning gift exchange. They speak 'gratuity' while my language is 'quality time.' They thrive on pouring love, thoughtfulness, and effort into each gift. This, to me, is a foreign language (undeterred by my having been raised by these parents in this house)! My simple-minded self needs an ounce of your time, the roads for running, and a (preferably full) Naglene bottle; these 'buy' my happiness.

Their stress is rooted in the rush of holiday madness. My frustration materializes in their actions... stress over hosting family (unconditional love?), preparing recipes made year after year (seasoned?), and shopping for frivolous wants. To really make a statement: It all seems dumb!

My tolerance level for spirit and vigor bursts around this time (Re: Grinch, Failure). I wish I could lock-it-up... it should be hard to be frustrated by the sparkle in their eyes, the energy, the wonder... of their Christmas anticipation. I am a holiday joy-sucker.

Since I am the sole person with a 'nature' requirement, I am in charge of scheduling the outdoor activities. Tonight we traveled to National Zoo in the district to witness the lights, and, I think, few were disappointed! The animals might have been tucked away in their geothermally heated pens, but they made a fine showing in light form.

When we arrived home, to their preset-to-bake ham and potatoes meal, I felt refreshed. I escaped the confines of the house, stretched my legs, was frisked by the chill in the air, and was in the company of 'my people.' I might have my cure.

My Sweet Neighbor hosted a cookie exchange on Sunday. I felt honored to be invited and grown-up participating! As a child, I can remember staying up late on cookie exchange night--waiting for Mom to come home with the assortment of the year. Below is the 'hostess with the mostest' opening a few gifts...

Poor N.J.M. was feeling under the weather... and still went through with the occasion. In these Northern Virginia parts, she is famous for her soup--whipping up two pots in her condition. And for fear that you forgot how her 'Sweet Neighbor' titled came to be, yet another reminder--she made BOTH soups vegetarian. This woman is a gift, she "does" extravagantly.

The concept of the event is quite simple, if you actually bake. I do not cook. I do not bake. I burn. I over-add. I forget ingredients. Disaster ensues when I enter the kitchen. Usually I have Mom to bail me out, but she had her own five dozen cookies to prepare. This time, C.J.R. rescued me. On her drive from Charleston, South Carolina (where she is in school) to Boston, Massachusetts (where she is from), I am her stop-over. I allowed her to unwind, prior to enlisting her help. We talked the evening hours away with a coffee date at the local joint... where we stayed past closing... not realizing they do not compete with Starbucks' hours. Then we (inhaled) a gourmet dinner cooked by my parents. I should have let her go to bed following our late meal, in order to insure she had adequate rest for her second leg, another nine-hour journey. I granted her no such permission, I instead insisted she make cookie dough (for my share at the upcoming party) while I did dishes. Then I promptly froze the dough, did not allow her a single cookie! And we were off to sleep peacefully, knowing I would have home-made cookies come Sunday.

This is how our swap worked: You bake a lot of cookies. (Like I did, fresh on Sunday after thawing.) You package the cookies. (Like I did, attempting to bring an eco-element to the occasion...

or like Latte Woman did, with gorgeous--over the top--festive holiday decor.) You go the exchange. (Like I did, after showering.) You eat a lot of cookies. (Like I did!) You swap cookies (Like we did, after sampling). You bring home an overwhelming amount of cookies. (Like I did, double because I had a mother in attendance.) You do not know what to do with all these cookies. (Like I wondered, no longer having an appetite for cookies.)

Be merry (and fat!). Or thankful you have Latte Woman, featured above, as dedicated partner in exercise.

I met Latte Woman early this morning to carpool to the 8:30 am kickboxing class at her gym. We had to be there half-hour prior to start to stake claim in the combat zone, apparently gym going women wage war over classroom positions. Instead of guaranteeing front row, mirror seeing territory, we might or might not have slowed for a game along the way... which inadvertently would set the mood for the morning of adventures.

For the sake of ease, I often reply, "District of Columbia," when questioned on my place of residence. What I really mean is way way way out in the country--long windy roads, quite a distance from sprawl, an area flooded with more deer than people. Though, you could argue, my town is disguised suburbia, with the added excitement of many dirt roads. And on these dirt "roads" are ice-covered ponds. True story, no exaggeration.

So weaving over the ponds and through the wood--to the gym--Latte Woman and I went... when a royal blue Honda Fiat started to tailgate us. Erring on the cautious side, Latte Woman was not having this. She slowed from 10 to five miles per hour for the next mile. The Fiat Man continued to push the limit as she pushed the brake. The end eventually came. We are laughing hysterically, knowing we had agitated this driver. (Not exactly nice. Do not tell Santa. I am counting on those gold glitter TOMS!) The right turn on to civilization had not even been completed... and he is in motion to pass. (He is dumb. This is a dirt to pavement turn. On a solid-lined curvy road. With heavy school traffic in both directions.) We were given the middle finger... which only fueled our giggles. This reaction was classic. (Predictable people bore me!) The middle finger was not enough--he proceeded to angrily fist-shake for as long as he remained in sight. which was a short time as he sped off; he had much ground to make up.

A bit guiltily, at the expense of the emotionally poor Fiat Man, our ultimate goal--fun, ahem safety, was accomplished. The classroom was filling as my nerves settled in. I am a stick-to-what-you-know girl, specially when exercise is involved. New experiences have potential to be grand, be that as it may, I am easily frustrated by the learning curve of new skills--ones that take a bit more work. I was going to be brave, swallow my pride, for this hour of kickboxing. I survived. I was far from perfect. The quick-paced routine did not jive well with my lack of coordination. I felt insure going left when the group was punching right. As a child everyday is about navigating the ropes of new activities, rules, subjects, etc. I aspire to embrace the patience, and often encouragement required, to increase my comfort level for the unexplored areas of life. And while I certainly ruled 'kickboxing instructor' out of my future, I am not opposed to giving the student role another go. (I had to tuck this nugget of 'lessons I'm learning' in. A new experience can be classified as an adventure.)

When class ended, we climbed on the StairMaster. My relationship with this machine was over before it started. This is quite a different muscle group from the running set. Drenched in sweat, we departed for Global Food... and could not pass up Starbucks on the way. (Hooray for reusable mugs!)

Here, I knocked over a perfectly displayed shelf. If the noise of bouncing plastic was not loud enough to demand attention, the laugh from Latte Woman was. Together we managed to repair the shelf and not-so-neatly display the contents... when Latte Woman mimics my klutzy maneuver. We were not well received, for the second time today.

The coffee was supposed to put us at ease. It might or might not have revved up my enthusiasm, already at a high--I have been dying to explore Global Food. (We, the H's, are running a three-drivers-to-one-car operation. My nonexistent paycheck makes me a low priority on the totem pole.) Latte Woman is a local at Global Food, but she happily futzed through each isle with me.

I might or might not have said, "in Lesotho... " one too many times because at one point I was demonstrating 'my life in buckets' when I found the exact replicas. (Lesotho was not actually being represented, business in Lesotho is predominantly Chinese-owned. If you are in the market for some cheap, brightly colored, plastic recommend purchasing these in Lesotho, the price tag, in dollars, is read in Rand over there. The exchange rate is not 1:1, not even remotely close.)

As I jumped in the bucket with Starbucks in hand, Latte Woman shouted, "They do NOT have Starbucks in Africa!" The Store Manager promptly addressed business in our isle. Not before we had our fun:

Other highlights: Being read to in Farsi. The discovery of guava paste. Impressively low priced produce. And an introduction to Latte Woman's favorite Korean dish.

Then we continued with her errands, which became my errands, before deciding we were hungry and should make headway home....

To this discovery in route:

The Virginia Department of Transportation made the executive decision to administer a lesson in karma. Caffeinated to an extreme, we took the teaching in stride. The 30-minute delay passed with excess laughter and 100 pictures to document the occasion. This might or might not have been the funniest thing ever.

I am still laughing... envisioning Fiat Man's extended finger... and remembering the delightful tone this set for our morning.

Sunday, December 18, 2011 marked my first full year back in the good ole U.S. of A. after the abrupt termination of my Peace Corps service. The end came before I truly got started. (The first year of service is about acquainting yourself with culture, developing relationships, identifying needs, and establishing trust.) When "I" agreed on Ghana, knowing Lesotho was not longer an option, I was aware my story had veered down a path of its own. Instead of the 'normal' two year stint in a single country--a single village--I would have two first years. I had the lone advantage of understanding--to expect nothing. I would learn a new language and, with time, slowly find my place amongst a far more Westernized culture. For this 'less is more' loving girl, I was skeptical and unsure of my ability to handle a second first year.

The alternative was quitting... which was not actually an alternative.

I must have arrived in Ghana to utter chaos; the month-long experience has been 'blacked-out' from my memory. That was not my intention; I still tug at my brain for memories--the name of the my headmaster, the name of my school, or the name of my village. If it were not for the four words of Twi (principal native language of Ghana) I learned or the grand total of six people interacted with, I would argue I spent a month on the tarmac of the Kotoka International Airport.

I boarded the America-bound plane and panicked. If you have not met Rock Bottom, allow me to introduce you: Shrieking. Numb. Oblivious. Tears. Confusion. The United Airlines pilot privately escorted me off the plane to address "my condition" as he referred to it. I would learn, I could not be in this state at the time of departure... or I would be left behind. I searched for a metaphor in this.

I never found my metaphor, but I found good fortune in the form of a six hour delay. There was a crew shortage... which, in retrospect, is probably why the Pilot Man had to deal with me. Then were was engine failure. I was able to stay outside under the warm Ghanaian sky, while the rest of the passengers sat--starring out their blurry oval windows--inside. Special Treatment? Pilot Man had his newest Crew Girl call me inside to my seat. I adjusted my seatbelt... and started shaking and sweating. We were in motion when the waterworks began. Another lecture. People were whispering about sedatives. Mom taught me not to take candy from strangers so I was not about to bum drugs off Randy Random(!!!).

There was a minor victory when faulty wheels were discovered seconds before take off. I was re-released to the now brightly covered starlit night while repairs were made. And then the Boeing 767-300 and I were actually ready to go... at this point I felt more at ease than my fellow passengers appeared.

I landed on American soil between breakfast and lunch to the whites of my dad's eyes. He came inside to get me… or carry the luggage I did not even bother to bring home. I did not want belongings tainted with 'the end' of something I was unprepared for. I got to our snow-covered home and climbed into bed. After sleeping on a thick-ish pad in Ghana under a towel--soaked with sweat by morning--my twin-sized Costco bed luxuriously welcomed me; I climbed in for the winter hibernation ahead. I slept for six straight daytime hours--the most I had consistently slept since September 3. Minor victory #2.

The holidays skated by in one big blur. I could not wait to be out of the season of joy--this time of year is the blatant reminder we are without one.

In an ideal world, I would have shared this story yesterday on the one year anniversary. It was not, however, until today that I was able to combine the first half saved online with my word documented ending. What might seem ugly and embarrassing, even funny, to the masses is a display for myself of the length I have traveled between then and now. It is far to easy to count this year as another loss, after all, I still catch zzz's in my Costco bed... which between last year and night has become more unwelcoming than ever.

(I was in the heat of this post when our internet cut out. It was revived this afternoon. This chronicle, delayed from Wednesday, ispredictably upsetting. Had I been able to finish writing as my sadness flowed through that moment--you might have accurately caught my gist. And I amrambling…)

My plate is full. I should be scurrying around trying to make sure everything that needs to be handled before full-time holiday mode sets in is complete. I have a list a mile-long, with 'secure a job' at the top.

When I refreshed my email, I had a link to this article regarding an old beaver pond in the Beartooth Mountains of Montana boldly waiting in my inbox. I can all but guarantee you will have no interest in the contents of this article... but I had to share my devastation. I am momentarily flustered and quite off track.

So I am here, writing, at noon on a weekday. I poured another cup of coffee. I have The Avett Brothers playing on Pandora. My Rocky Mountain Field Ecology pictures are pulled up... and I am scanning for the old beaver pond. The author of the article, nature/wildlife photographer Dan Hartman, took my Ecology 491 class to his treasured spot, this old beaver pond, on our May 2008 trip.

These are the images I have from my brief visit to the (Beartooths and) pond. They are low-quality, forgive me, I was working with 3.2 megapixels. It really is a gem to be "treasure[d] for its' purity... packed with diverse habitat."

I am struck by the harsh reminder of the way life often works in this world. I am unmistakably disheartened for Hartman's loss. This was his place. Then the reminder: life is a game. We question the rules, the fairness--unless of course it is going our way. I have been discouraged by the roadblocks in my path; my skill set limits me from competing on the level I would prefer. I want to stop. To complain. Worse though are the losses--exceeding my control--I am forced to accept. The game continues and sitting out is never an option.

Living in an area of exploding suburbia, habitats are being ruined faster than I can blink. We, the destructors, place an insurmountable challenge on our creatures, whether deer or songbird... and they never have a voice. I do not have the answers for exploding population, for our need to reconstruct and redesign nature. Instead I have distrust in we--the destructors. I have loads of raw emotion--genuine sorrow for the creatures we continually take from. The ones who silently forge on in this game of life.

As mentioned, I had the pleasure of a Sunday afternoon hike with K.L.K. in Harpers Ferry National Historic Park yesterday. The location, hike, and timing were all her call. My only job was to show up; sometimes just 'being there' is refreshing. I have never ever as much as pretended to be an event planner, however, it's rare I turn down an invitation. This makes me easygoing, not lazy, right?

We met in Knoxville, Maryland at her parent's home, then hopped in one car for the five minute drive to the Maryland side of park. This historical community is centered around the merging of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, meaning there is hiking potential in three separate states (Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia). After securing a parking spot, we walked over the bridge to West Virginia to explore the town. The scene--overdressed people, funky accents, subsidized shops, meat and potato type restaurants, historical--reading intense--museums--was not mine. Once K.L.K. had that out of her system (smile), we wandered over to the mysterious Virginius Island before heading back to Maryland for our 'real' journey.

A speedy water break later, we were off on the Maryland Heights trail. Early on our ascent up the mountain, signage revealed this trail was "steeped in civil war history." I do not usually hike to historical monuments, preferring nature in the form of wildlife and waterfalls, as oppose to ruins of Union Civil War forts. This was a new adventure, one that took a few minutes of adjusting to prior to my brain forging on with questions. My main focus being: How did these people get water? I hope they had horses. Of course, I did not have time to read all the signs(!!!). We did pause on our detour to the Naval Battery, realizing only moments following, the hike to this point was a precursor to the steepness ahead.

We reached our goal(?)--the fort--where we were greeted more history and spectacular views of the Potomac River. And it was here that I noted the joys of winter hiking: people are almost nonexistent and visibility endures for miles. Major highlight. Though we climbed for what seemed like ever... through history... I reveled in the peacefulness of just 'being there'--with company, outside under crayola skies.

"The passage of the Patowmac through the Blue Ridge is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in Nature." (Thomas Jefferson on his 1783 visit to Harper's Ferry)

I hadn't intended to be 'offline' from blogging for the last few days... but, alas, life has had other plans. My 'real' life has required a lot from me this week. Couple this with the week I had been out of town... I was already behind. I chose to let my normal 'responsibilities' go in order be where I felt I was needed more urgently--to spend quality time purposefully with my people.

There was time for a three hour conversation with my favorite pharmacy student, C.J.R. Our conversations are normally this long... and occur more often than you can imagine. The end of semester exams seemed to have us off our routine; I was happy to carve out this hunk of morning for her.

The first Saturday of the month I celebrated S.K.H.'s "last year in the twenties" with clan in Arlington. This birthday celebration entailed Mexican dinner, bar hopping, and a sleepover. (We will never be too old!) Though we already rang in the 29th year in Atlanta just the weekend before, M.J.H. was in town from Vail to help commemorate the occasion.

On Tuesday Latte Woman graciously thanked me for helping her train for America's Sweetest Race with lunch at Faang (Thai food--my first choice) and dessert at Pinkberry. And while she was busy spoiling me, I made sure her accomplishment was honored--she finished her big race and ran the entire way. Forget the newest 'get active' Couch-to-5K running fad, Latte Woman went couch-to-15K. Our two-person party continued on to a couple cutesy shops in town before heading home for, you guessed it, Turkish coffee. I had the pleasure of joining her for multiple walks throughout the week too.

Last night I was spent the night with the M munchkins. We crafted a gingerbread house, made and decorated sugar cookies, and watched Lion King while nibbling on an oversized bowl of Styrofoam (marketed as microwave popcorn). These children kept the laughter rolling with their one-liners. I simple could not cuddle them enough, meaning bedtime was closer to 10 pm, instead of my preferred 8 pm deadline.

My favorite hound dog and I discovered a new path for our brisk winter walks. He's been a disaster this holiday season--I am thrilled to take him out of the house (and off the hands of Mom) when weather permits. (When it comes to a muddy wet pooch, I can be a wimp.)

Today I traveled 40 minutes from my home to accompany K.M.K on an afternoon hike. We had blue skies for a thousand miles. I was exactly where I needed to be. In this season where calendars are crazy--extra events, expenses, errands at every turn--I am thankful my schedule is such that it allows me to prioritize what (who) is necessary.

Latte Woman--beautiful, simple, gracious, cultured, and wonderful--has outdone herself. And I thirst (Note: This is a pun. This is not a weird verb.) to share my recent encounter with Turkish coffee, except I am bogged down by my inability to encompass true emotion in my writing. This experience is not going to get the justice it deserves. I thought about adding 42 exclamation points behind each run-on sentence--then it dawned on me, you readers are smart(er) people, bear my disability in mind as you continue.

I should have had Latte Woman photograph this first. I should have had Dad take notes when I recounted the experience to him. I should have had a film team follow me around town as I tracked down a cezve. I should have reported immediately, when the excitement was in full bloom. I should have enlisted someone with actual writing capability to capture the story. Regrets. Regrets. Regrets. Oh and I should go force my mom to turn down "O Christmas Tree." This song, among others, is rudely interrupting my thought process.

The story starts like this: Once upon a time lattes were in. The story ends like this: Today lattes are out. And I carry on happily ever after.

My coffee bubble has expanded. Most days it is hard to believe forms of coffee exist outside of the French press (at home) and Starbucks (outside the home). The newest delight comes in the form of Turkish coffee. I have the good fortune of being the beneficiary of Latte Woman's worldly-ness. The two of us have five exercising hours together a week; in recent times coffee has been a weightier subject. Since we are unbelievably chatty runner girls we often run too long--leaving no time for coffee, forget afterwards, or have prior obligations following the morning jaunt. One week ago today we finally managed to squeeze in my introductory course in Turkish coffee. She brewed each cup individually and schooled me on the subject while I sat mesmerized in anticipation. New doors were opening all over the place.

Turkish coffee refers more to the method of preparation than the actual coffee itself. Our grounds were purchased at the Persian store nearby, though you can get by with beans processed to the finest powder. The grounds, sugar according to taste, and an espresso cup of water are added to a cezve (Cezve, n. a little bitty metal pot; Latte Woman recommends Teflon.) and boiled briefly. The process requires no stirring to ensure a proper layer of foam forms on the surface. Then the coffee is slowly poured into a cup and savored.The result is a thick (hot chocolate made with milk) and grainy (South Carolina beaches) consistency, bitter but delectable taste. When the cup bottoms out the fortune-telling begins. The saucer is placed upside down on top of your cup, a wish is made, and then the cup/saucer is held at chest level and flipped towards your heart. As the conversation flows you allow your cup to dry out. The inside reveals your fortune, each and every cup consumed can be read. Latte Woman cannot read cups herself, though she knows a few tricks from her cup-reading mother. And, suddenly, just like that, we have found time for Turkish coffee nearly everyday. During which sessions, we have had a healthy obsession with making up our own good fortunes based on various cup appearances.

This treat is best shared with a friend; it's not something I would want to drink alone. We thankfully have each other, and a wonderful new post-activity tradition.

"Not the coffee, nor the coffeehouse is the longing of the soul. A friend is what the soul longs for, coffee is just the excuse." (Anonymous Poet)

My friends and I will ring in the New Year in New Orleans, Louisiana. I have not seen these girls in over a year, so I am really looking forward to the trip. We will have time to explore, rest, converse, dine, and shop. I am feeling gitty already...

This is my first true 'grown-up' trip. Limited to the Continental United States, it will be three girls meeting in an unfamiliar territory to build our own adventure. I am excited to exchange normalcy for making new memories and strengthening relationships. For a week, we will share the gift of time together, enjoy laughter and smiles in new discoveries.

Our tickets are booked, the necessary scheduling has been done, and the December countdown is underway... I am practically packed.

We already have NYE dinner reservations, but if you have any New Orleans 'must do's'--especially ones we can safely navigate during the day while our host is busy--I'd love to know!

There is a house, a napping house, where everyone is sleeping. Two snoring fathers... on Tuesday, November 22, 2011:

A snoozing cat and slumbering sisters... on Wednesday November 23, 2011: A dreaming adolescent... on Thursday, November 24, 2011: Two resting women... on Friday, November 25, 2011:A dozing dog and a passed-out friend... on November 27, 2011:Monday rolled around and real life was waiting... today is a rainy Thursday... when no one now is sleeping. (Audrey Wood; The Napping House)

I am in the middle of re-settling into my routine succeeding recent travel. There are letters to write, cookies to be decorated, phone calls to return, blogs to post, runs to eliminate Thanksgiving stuffing, pictures to edit... and some might add, a job to find, if entry level openings in fact exist.

Then, a minute late, Mom casually mentions The Cleaning Ladies are coming today. This announcement sends me into an immediate downward spiral of depression. Things get crazy chaotic when The Cleaning Ladies show up three hours sooner than expected... and Mom was out walking Louis. Fails: Mother 2; Daughter 0. I am left to finish turning the house upside down in preparation while The Cleaning Ladies begin doing the cleaning I mistakingly thought I had been doing all morning. The required work deepens my depression. I am infuriated and flustered, which lends itself to a basic algebra session. Nerd, I know, but I think we have already established that fact. The calculation: How many days--The Cleaning Ladies to blame--have I wasted? The answer: 474. Grrrrreat.

Come nightfall I will jump into a bed of crispy clean sheets... and all will be forgotten, that is, until Wednesday, two weeks from today. (End Prelude)

On the 'waste today' list was Target, Starbucks, Bed Bath & Beyond (Is there a store stocked with more unnecessary goods?), Bank of American't, the ABC Store, and Bloom. Somewhere between purchase a gift for S.M.S., girlfriend of C.D.H., and deposit check for C.A.H. we (Mom + me) came across Occupy Chick-fil-A.

Tomorrow is the grand opening of the town's first Chick-fil-A. The registration for the "First 100" began this morning at six. To claim your free Chick-fil-A for a year, your presence is mandatory for the 24-hour stretch prior to the official opening. The daytime high is 42 degrees. This is a glimpse into the parking lot with seven hours down, 17 remaining:

And it gets better:

And better (for the omnivore)...

This jovial Cow Girl donated her earned free lunch to us... just because. Her generosity inspired me; Cow Girl has passion, and I am charmed by spirited people, undeterred by the fact her enthusiasm is, after all, for fried chicken. (The religious music occupying the bathrooms and lacking vegetarian options keeps my business far from Chick-fil-A, despite their boasting a mean milkshake. Never lacking an opinion.)

Now, lest I remember this as a wasteful day. Eat Mor Chikin' America, eat on.

(And for those of you Southern born and bred, who know "First 100" recipients because Chick-fil-As pop up around you left and right, this experience was a first for me--do not take away my glory.)

On Thanksgiving Day I was up early 'thought planning' the day--hoping the it would be one of meaning.

As soon as I had a black & tan coffee in my hand, all daydreaming was pushed to the back burner. Before long... my coffee disappeared... and the entire house was awake with Bloody Marys in hand. Our minds were right--liquid courage racing through our bloodstream, it was time for the annual family friendly football game. The teams were decided, positions determined, and the match kicked-off. My team came up on the short side; I, and recommend you, blame that on my quarterback of a father who refused to throw to his wide-open daughter. So not bitter(!!!).

We headed back to our quarters, following the post-game analysis, and gobbled down a French toast and hash-brown breakfast while those with tolerance sipped Mimosas. Everyone gathered around the outdoor television to watch the Detroit Lions/Green Bay Packers game--a tradition passed down from grandparents to parents to children, of both families gathered for the holiday--under near perfect temperatures. We upped the warmth--cheers be to the holidays--with a fire in the outdoor place. The audience might have been convinced this was year of the Lions, but when the Lions came up short... these Thanksgiving Day fans were not surprised.

Those cooking assumed position in the kitchen to begin heating all that had prepared in advance... while others showered... and made way to the driveway for the fried turkey cooking show. And those familiar with this southern tradition, should know there is nothing to actually see... so the entertainment became a vodka taste test instead. The winning brand by unanimous vote: Kirland Signature Vodka.

The Dallas Cowboys/Miami Dolphins game began, appetizers were offered to cleanse the palate, and the anticipated meal was served at the half. Two tables. Two turkeys. Twenty-two sides. The indulging... topped off with misery, or dessert.

When you do not help cook, you clean. I will forever think 'dish duty' is a great bargain! The remains were scooped into Tupperware for leftovers. The dishes were collected, rinsed, sudsed, dried, and returned. Then it was time for a neighborhood walk. A break from togetherness upon return led me upstairs to my phone, where I had a voicemail from J.M.S. announcing her engagement. (Tangent: To say I am elated for the perfect couple would be putting in mildly. My friendship with J.M.S. dates back to August 2005, freshman year of college. I am honored to be in the wedding party, and cannot wait to celebrate her fairy tale day in December of next year.)

We capped off the evening with a lengthy game of Yahtzee over a glass of Baileys. At the conclusion of our game, the exhaustion set in. I retired to bed--filled in the best way.

I had the luxury of escaping the premature winter temperatures for a weekend in Orlando, Florida with a couple of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. These are people I do not keep up with in everyday life, though I find their company quite pleasurable. My experience in Lesotho turned me anti-winter, speaking on behalf of currently serving and returned volunteers I doubt many would disagree. The cold water bucket bathing, lack of heat, short days followed by long nights, bitter winds, and wet snow are hard to forget. The toughest of nails cringe at the faintest sign of the African winter.

When the opportunity to congregate in the Orlando area presented itself, I had no objections on location. Upon arrival at our host's home--I knew the decision to join the troops was a good one; C.C.J.'s place sat comfortably outside of Orlando, near enough to the beach, and came equipped with a screened-in porch and pool overlooking a deceptively large lake. The weather was a cloudy 75--warm enough for us to take a dip in the pool (and ocean). You can imagine where the majority of our time was spent.

Florida's economy is based largely on tourism, for the average tourist there is plenty to do. On the readjustment scale, we are all well beyond the 'reverse culture shock' phase; I have no doubt we could have handled Walt Disney World, an afternoon on the golf course, the Orlando Museum of Art, or time at Wekiwa Springs State Park. The want and need for scheduled activity was nonexistent though; being together brought a sense of contentedness to the group. Across-the-board we are practical and simple-minded people. Or maybe that's giving us too much credit(?)--as a unit we were indecisive. We met in the barren land of Lesotho and managed with the company of one another. We were gathered on the late-November weekend for our missing mutual friend--but I think we were all ministered to greatly ourselves. The conversation was intentional; we shared memories and spoke of the future.

As I traveled home and tried to recount to myself how sacred the weekend had felt--I found myself at a loss for words. (That doesn't happen often!) I think the best way to summarize it is this: being together in laughter, encouragement, silliness and many emotions in between recharged my batteries. Beach patios. A sandy football game. Cocktails. Music. Swimming. Card games. Frozen in these moments, I was relaxed. I could 'just be' as the overwhelming outside world floated gracefully on by.

My jams, positive and upbeat, were flowing through my iPod as I jogged alongside the wind on the unpaved roads of Northern Virginia one sub-40 degree morning when my stomach started a beat of its own. I had to stop my run, nearly two miles in; I decided to take six minutes to tend the aches before I continued on my running way. I made it another 15 minutes before my stomach, negative and nagging, needed another reprieve. At this point, I had the option to turn home... but I'm stubborn... so I continue running... until my stomach said no more. I walked the remainder home to calm the agony. Hoping this "run" was no omen for the upcoming Virginia State Cross Country Meet, I took the 20 minutes I had to prepare before the family's departure to shower instead of eat--my system was simply not taking food orders.

We arrived at Great Meadows with plenty of time to gear up for The Race. The wind was still whipping--more powerfully across the open polo fields than the wooded roads, but the sun was shining brightly above, the ideal condition for a late-fall windburn. After all the race day commotion, I realized my appetite had returned, though before I could get home to appease the hunger, a headache was setting in. I chalked it up to my morning outdoors and attempted to suppress the discomfort because the Clemson game was on. (I have no regrets--this Saturday, November 12 would mark the final game of the 2011 season as we had come to know it. The following week would symbolize an all too familiar story of feigned success.) As the game progressed, I knew this was no headache, I had progressed into migraine territory. And it was time for full combat mode: bed before eight, no lights, no noise. The demon kept me up a majority of the night and lingered throughout most of Sunday. Evil.

Monday: Despite my queasy stomach, my head was free of the brain pounding demon... therefore I planned to claim the roads as mine. BUT instead of running, I (actually) listened to my body (go me!) and walked two hours for exercise. I returned home to unbearable stomach pains. I showered because Latte Woman was having a coffee social I wanted to attend. BUT my stomach would not shut-up, and I would miss the coffee date. I laid on the couch in tears for four hours before I could move. After eating a plain bagel I perked up and spent a gorgeous afternoon on the deck finishing one book and starting another. I was alive. I hardly slept this night, little did I know... the real fun was about to begin.

Tuesday: Woke-up. Ran(!!!). Felt invincible... until I stopped, when the stomach god threw a party only my intestines were invited too. I got home and exploded emotionally, which hurt (and was embarrassing), so I stopped. I had five minutes to be at my human-sitting job. I crawled there, halving my normal pace; I was late, and my employer was forgiving.

It was only moments later when I was calling my mom for a dose of medication. Since arriving I had already tossed my lettuce leaves from Monday's dinner twice. I am fan of vomit (or the relief following a session)... but NOT at the neighbor's house. My mom appeared, magically it seemed, with pills for popping. She ended up sending me home, noting my disaster of a condition. I decided to shower, though the amount of water being wasted annoyed me. (Recall: I showered Monday. Forgive me: Running + Vomit = Disgusting) Then, I promptly threw up, round three--spoiling my cleansed body. When Mom finished my human-sitting duties, she took me to the doctor. (I could not drive; en route I debated an emergency room pit stop.) We arrived. I, ahem she, filled out mounds of paperwork. This proceeded my following the prompts of every existing test.

The pain seem to diminish while I laid low and waited a few days for results. I went ahead with my scheduled trip to Orlando, Florida--starving myself for the three-day excursion to avoid any episodes of illness. My friends were alarmed; I was not willing to risk it.

The doctor touched base upon my return. Doctor Woman told me to sit down for the results. Laugh on. Am I dying? The residual aches made me feel very much alive, though my body had been in survival mode lately. On top of what we already know, and among other "interesting" discoveries, a vitamin D deficiency was noted. Alter the diet and/or add vitamins--no big deal... except I'm skeptical--I drink half a gallon of fortified vegan (soy, almond, coconut) milk every other day. And when my diet wasn't so trendy, my skim milk consumption doubled that. In addition, unemployment allows me more 'fun in the sun' than anyone I know.

Next I learned of a severe--EpiPen toting--allergy to seafood. This is false and ridiculous. I have been around seafood my entire life; my family inhales more than most. I have not had seafood more than four times in the past four years--my once yearly allotted tuna serving. I'm an on-again, off-again vegetarian, wanna-be vegan. Alarming and absurd.

The saga continues. Opinions five, six, and seven will be sought out this week. More offices. More paperwork. More disbelief. More being thankful I'm insured. More convincing I'm allergic to fun.

C.A.H. enters my room, commenting, “You know you have notblogged in awhile.”

Me: “I know and it’s killing me!”

I encounter funks where I am sooooo over blogging, and ittakes everything in my willpower to get some words down. This has not been thecase during this eon away. I have notprocessed exactly what the brief writing reprieve has taught me, above all,it’s been recharging. There are positive things happening in my life and allaround me, but in this season, there is still a lot of junk—the negativity—weighingme down. And since I am not a strong writer, I am not sure, or always up to,challenging myself to find the purpose in each lesson.

These past 11 days have been filled with celebration,illness, travel, and friendship. I have much to report on, but it will have towait a few more days because I am dedicated to embracing my surrounding company for thislate November holiday. (I did update the last post with the results of thecross-country season.)

I arrived in Atlanta, Georgia today—the clouds were rolling in, butthe temperature was steady at 75 degrees. We reached our final destinationaround 5 pm, and I haven’t moved much. Why would I? I am on the screened inporch. The rain, which was only a possibility a few hours ago, is fallingsteadily outside. And despite the Southern temperatures, there’s a fireradiating from the outdoor fireplace. The Michigan/Duke game is playing on the (outdoor)television. The holiday we’re gathered for is two days out, and I’m already ina food coma. Though a child from each family is still in route, waiting with ‘mypeople’ over flowing dialogue is pleasantly passing the time.

Back to embracing… or the final two minutes of The Game.

On Monday C.A.H.'s Achilles tendon made its presence known; the pain in his face was undeniable. This late-season injury has been weighing heavily on his heart throughout the week, with the Virginia Cross Country State Meet looming on Saturday (tomorrow). As he wobbled around the house, we all wondered if he would even lace up for The Race. The decision has been made--he's in.

Though there is only one race left, it's the race he has been training for since the start of the year. He has built mileage. He has fined tuned with grueling speed workouts. He has raced to a new personal record, while contributing to two team school record finishes in the process. He partook in a Mountain Dew fast (=SUPER BIG DEAL!). He has tapered. And this week, the primary focus has been tending to his injury. He has popped pills. He has rested. He has iced. He has compressed. He has elevated. He has heated. He has stretched. He has devoted hours to healing.

I have been hoping for a miracle all week. Where the is witch doctor when you need her/him? My final prayer, to my broken brother, the one with the crumbling spirit:

Dear C.A.H.,

Your goal for The Race has been reduced to finishing, which will be no easy feat. I know how badly you wanted to race with your teammates to a podium finish--to be part of your team doing something more than each individual, to compete for the hardware your were "robbed" of last year. You still can, despite the crippled condition you are in.

Mute the screaming ankle. Strip yourself of the negativity taunting you right now, and hang in there for the length of time completing the course requires. You will be participating, when you had the option to sub-out.

Go out there and run YOUR race. You are awesome. You are strong. You CAN. You WILL. I will be there, encouraging you like a crazy person.

You have done everything to prepare; don't set limitations. Run with courage. And have faith.

Believe in YOU. With Love, Your Biggest Fan.

What if I had never joined Peace Corps? What if T.C.M. and I had never met? What if T.C.M. had never been killed in front of me? What if I had finished my service in Lesotho? What if I had never went to Ghana? What if I had not been medically separated from Ghana? What if I never got a parasite? What if these nightmares never go away? What if my luggage had made it safely back? What if Peace Corps cared about me as a person? What if I remain a spectacle to the media? What if I had never moved back to South Carolina? What if I never find a job? What if I never start to feel again? What if the rest of life is just going through the motions? What if these migraines and stomach aches stay with me the rest of my life? What if something terrible happens... again?

Two years ago today, I picked up my life and sealed my heart for Lesotho. I bid a tearful goodbye to both my parents... and joined 28 people, who shared at least one common bond with me, in a hotel conference room in Philadelphia's historic district. Together, we went sat through orientation, spent the night getting to know one another, and in the wee hours of the morning, boarded a bus to John F. Kennedy International Airport, and finally a plane to Lesotho via Johannesburg, South Africa. The memories began building that night... and continue to this day. So the answer to one of my many 'what if's' is I would be without the volunteers I came to know through this experience, the connections made through these volunteers, and my rural mountainside living adventure. And that would be unfortunate, but okay.

Because, today, two years later, sans the bureaucratic garbage, I can all but guarantee I would be a better person. I would, first off, be happy and, second, employed or in grad school. Sure, I would have given up on a dream, but, unknowingly, be less damaged then living the nightmare. I would be the person I left, with many of the friends I had, instead of a phantom of my former self feigning interest in dwindling relationships. And even though that person lacked self-confidence and hated more than she loved, I liked that girl a lot. I might be 'stuck' with the mentality of my 22-year old self, which is probably not ideal... but that would be okay; I could make that work.

Before I left I valued happiness. I didn't need a 'rock-the-boat' night, in turn, a wasted two-year experience, to teach me how to work for happiness. I didn't need to be stripped entirely of control, to learn to manage my control issues. I didn't need to see the pain, work through the loss, and rebuild entirely new beliefs. In this season, I'm angry; I'm not able to care about anything the way I used to... I'm cold and mean... and know it. And when I have the best of intentions, they fail me. This was not my thought process a few months ago, and it may not be five years from now, and that will be okay.

This is today. May this not be tomorrow.

Sleep: I was a champion sleeper throughout part one of my life, the 'prior to' September 3, 2010 half; these years were a sleeping heyday of sorts. No noise or action--an ambulance wheeling my dad off to the hospital mid-night, trains running along their tracks in the backyard of a childhood friend on sleepover weekends, a neighbor vacuuming my bedroom pre-sunrise, my roommate studying, or social-networking, on her computer, in our shared bedroom with the lights shining and television blaring while I dozed off to sleep, catching a nap while lacing up my shoes for the run I never ran as people slammed the apartment door on their way to morning classes, ones unintentionally skipped on this tiresome Tuesday, or animals cooing from their crawls to make their presence known in the darkness--was loud enough to wake me from hibernation, night after night I 'aced' sleeping. This might be part of the reason losing my greatest talent has taken its toll on my mental and physical well being. I never, ever learned to function without sleep.

Two days into November, my alarm sounded at 7:15 am for an anticipated average Wednesday... except this was different, following 13 months and 28 days of horrible, terrible, no good, very bad sleep patterns, I awoke startled from my coma of peace. I was alive, well rested, energized--ready to take on the world. Though the sleeping has drastically improved with each month, until I felt this calmness lingering over me from sunrise to set, I realized this was first. I had finally experienced the nature of sleep that was routine in my old life. The rest of the week was not quite as hot, but I will cling to this night of security with hope.

Dog-sitting: The human-sitting tasks have slowed for the week, but I still spent plenty of time with a few of the neighborhood pooches. The fall weather has been extra crispy this week after the weekend snowfall--throw in the sunshine with the breeze and walking dogs has been quite enjoyable.

Letters: My final scripted tales were mailed to the training class I entered Lesotho with on November 12, 2009. The motivation to write has dwindled recently, consequently this batch of letters was kept brief and open-ended. Ending this exchange is bittersweet, though, expectant seems an appropriate adjective to capture the mood too. I want, or am ready, to close this chapter of my book. Lesotho will always hold its own in my heart, but the thought of being a collective group on this side of the world is refreshing. I have no idea what their individual homecomings will entail... or how many of them I will reunite with. I do know--these people matter--each volunteer played a role in my story; they will be definite priorities in the new year.

14 Months: Thursday, November 3, marked 14 months since T.C.M.'s passing. And if you think I've stopped noticing the world is minus one, you have down right lost your mind. I came across this photo two nights ago, and it made me really happy.

T.C.M. has not made an appearance on the blog in quite sometime, though he's still quite vivid in my mind. There are periods of deep intractable sadness and anger, but more often, when I think of T.C.M., it's when raising a drink in cheers, in happy remembrance, or in form of music, songs that have become his songs.

Job Hunting: Ongoing. Advised by many superiors I gave in--much to my chagrin--and joined, yet another, networking site: LinkedIn. Feel free to be my friend or network with me or do whatever people do on LinkedIn or explain the site... or, better yet, just hand me a job(!!!).

Regionals: C.A.H. and his teammates claimed the runner-up trophy at the Region II meet on Thursday. Watching these kids fly up hills over the thick un-mowed grass of the beautifully landscaped Northern Virginia at five minute mile pace is nothing short of inspiring. The crowd littered the course with chants and cheers of encouragement. My voice was hoarse from screaming, "You are awesome. You can. You will." at C.A.H. The sub-18 minute race was nerve-racking with the first place prize in sight, but after close tallies... the Raiders would come up short. Though, none of the hardware earning runners were complaining, medals pinned to their sweaty uniforms, the Raiders are one of four qualifying teams from Region II for the upcoming state meet. And coming from the most competitive (of four) region(s), winning state is not a far-fetched goal.Frederick, Maryland: On a whim I went to the holiday open house at The Old Lucketts Store. The crowds left my shopping partners and I in a frenzy, so we headed out of town for Frederick, MD... where we squeezed in a bit more shopping before settling in at Acacia for an easy Friday lunch. This was my first time to Frederick, and I was a little shocked by the size; the town is much larger than I imagined. I will definitely have to go back, there's plenty of good vegetarian friendly eating, mixed in with 'vintage hip' shops. And when I return, I will bring my bike for a tour along the tree-lined streets, featuring quaint historic houses.

Clemson is sidelined with a bye this week; the Tigers should be thankful for the extra seven days to comprehend and dwell on the pitiful loss to the Ramblin' Wreck from Georgia Tech. There's still plenty of other reasons to enjoy your football Saturday. For one, at this house--nine pounds of kettle corn awaits me downstairs. For two, three, and four, Michigan, Michigan State, and Georgia.

There you have it, you're all caught up--you have no reason to call.

Long ago, 1058 miles East of here, I was given the tip "touch each [piece of] paper once" for living a practical and organized life. I would not actually heed this advice until much later in life, like starting last week, and appreciate it until right about now. The motivation to organize each loose paper, in addition to the virtual paper cluttering my life, and willpower to see this tedious chore through to the end came from a part of me that has never before exposed itself. One might say it took a lifetime to get here, I will counter that... I managed with pure determination and a label machine.

And then I took everything to a whole new level, deciding this strategy for handling 'loose ends' was applicable to the communication (and fashion) world as well. So momentarily the necessary phone calls have each been returned while clothes and shoes have been given away.

You're admitting a first--this girl is on top of life. This time, I concur. Maintaining paperwork, returning emails, drafting letters, and answering phone calls are continuous chores, some more exciting than others. But, for now, everything has a home or a time slot. I could literally pick up my life and be out of here in minutes. That alone is refreshing.

And to keep it this way, there will be rules to follow:

Mail will be read when delivered. Then each piece will be disposed of, filed, labeled for follow-up, or responded to immediately.Emails will be read in full and replied to as received... not 'starred' for do-something-with days or weeks later. As worthy links are discovered on the World Wide Web the articles will be absorbed right then and there. If the site is a continuous stream, I will bookmark it for easy referencing.Text messages will be responded to as they are read. Postponing a reply only increases the number of times I check my phone throughout the day. I will aim to carry my phone more often, thus ensuring I can answer calls as they come in, even if to announce talking would be preferable at a later date and time. This, of course, will reduce the number of voice mails, not that I ever previously listened to them. Promptly after capturing life, pictures will be uploaded, virtually organized, backed-up, and/or printed to store in my progressive photo album of life. This will prevent (hours of) wasted time digging for particular pictures days, months, and years later.Clothes not worn for an entire season will be donated, without hesitation. These seven rules reveal my more uptight side. That's okay though--the unorganized madness was weighing me down. One can not imagine the medical paperwork accumulated by an ongoing parasite issue, the never ending legal paperwork associated with Peace Corps, the numerous bills from travel, the phone calls racked up by taking a seven week hiatus from the grid, the emails procrastinated on, the number of memory cards floating around (... chronologically "organized" as documented by random pictures on this blog), or the amount of clothes hoarded throughout my life.

There will always be occasions where time does not permit, but I have always believed, if I have time to accomplish 100 tasks, there is time for 101.

smhoehner Samantha Hoehner it's monday night... #mnf is takin' ov'r the town... it's gonna be a battle in the #nfl tonight. are you ready for some football? #gochiefs15 hours ago smhoehner Samantha Hoehner I will remain a #Clemson fan despite the loss. #HappyHalloweenpic.twitter.com/aSzZ3Tl19 hours ago smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Could it be that #Clemson & #Standford fall this week as #Wisconsin and #Oklahoma did a week ago? I'd feel better if we went down together.29 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner BUT I'm taking home this typewriter... The one of my dreams... and I could not be more excited. #homedecorationspic.twitter.com/0mt66IH29 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner I'm in #BigTen territory. #Clemson football is not appreciated here. I'm not handling this well.29 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner frost on the pumpkin29 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner The alumni are rolling into A Squared.28 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner i can think of very few good reasons to have your credit card number memorized. #toomuch #onlineshopping26 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner It's #PayDay. The duties this week entailed exercising, reading, watching television, and drinking lattes.25 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner so so so so so so so so so so so so so so happy to be back in my bed. so so so so so so so so so so so so so so happy my bedroom has a tv.24 Oct sofifii Sophia rossi by smhoehnerTexting me to "call you" is best way to get me to NOT call you.24 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner There is no valid reason to stay up to watch the #WorldSeries or the#Colts play #SundayNightFootball23 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner The #Redskins play high school football, all they do is run, and when they throw, they're disastrous.23 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner How will I stalk airfares if I land a real job?22 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Few things are as peaceful as a 1:30 AM walk.22 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Did anyone notice my pants were inside-out all day? #meneither #truestory16 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner I could use a bye week. #KansasCityChiefs16 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner My friend @andreasenk just sent me virtual flowers. #whydidntithinkofthat Nicest gesture EVER.15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner I'm watching #thegame on a 13'' TV. Our big screen is viewing Garfield for youngsters. The medium screen: #ALDS . #1stWorldProblems15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Where is the defense that held #VATech to 3 total points? #StopTheTerps15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Not tonight. Not now #Clemson. I'm not ready.15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner This house is divided.15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner #nighttime reading was replaced with tetris. #sigh15 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner dog treats should not smell like human food.14 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner For the record, it is still raining.14 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner No extra innings, no rain delays, no 8:37 PM starts--I may get to bed at a decent hour. And with the #Tigers win I have a content father.13 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner rain.rain.go.away. do.not.come.back. i.do.not.want.to.play.13 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Turn Around, Don't Drown. That's encouraging.12 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner My thirst is unquenchable as of late.11 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner If you go to #McDonalds everyday you will die. #fromthemouthofbabes11 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Are these the #glorydays for #Michigan sports? #Lions and #Tigersand #Wolverines #OhMy10 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner bus rides are notorious for giving me headaches10 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Yabo Dabo Do! #8 I'm maintaining faith.10 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Tonight I learned all my delicious #EasyBakeOven desserts were cooked by a lightbulb. #ohmyword6 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Nothing masks the sound of screaming children.5 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner It's past midnight. I rarely stay up this late by choice.5 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner A music playing gas station changes the whole experience.4 Oct smhoehner Samantha Hoehner Today may be the third of #October but it's still raining.3 Oct

Happy Halloween. I hope you have spent 44 dollars--the estimated amount per household--on candy this October. And, 10 months into the year, I will assume you are well on your way to eating the 24 pounds of treats--the per capita consumption of candy by Americans per year.(This is not an original carving. Statistics courtesy of The Biggest Loser.)

Before the sun revealed itself on Thursday morning, I was wide awake... on the streets of my neighborhood running. In complete darkness I was coated in a soft rainfall--it was the peace I needed to prepare my heavy heart for a sorrowful weekend ahead. Following a shower, quick breakfast, and a stop by the kennel (to drop Louis off for his first stay. Sigh.) Mom, Dad, and I were Michigan bound.

Last Thursday, October 21, my Great-Uncle J passed away. The past three months, proceeding multiple-bypass surgery, have been extremely difficult for him... and much of the extended family too. After a lifetime full of living and loving, his body was tired. And somehow we, following our own trails of grief, will have to accept his passing. For now, I am thankful to have known him for these 24 years. I am grateful he was given 90 precious years of his own.

Even if you can look back on a lifetime brimming with memories, losing someone is never, ever easy. Here I am, sipping chai tea--the time is nearing 8 pm on a Sunday evening, short on words to express myself. To say this weekend was tough sounds redundant and weak. My relatives are aging, suffice it to say their health is beyond my control. These people are the foundation of me--I want protect them from the elements, keep them close to me.

There are too many wonderful pieces of Great-Uncle J's history to share. I will remember him as a storyteller--born in Czechoslovakia and raised on the Mississippi River--with some of the greatest tales to tell. He was a kindhearted soul who adored both his grandsons. A wise man who valued education, spending much of his career as a school principal.

I'm torn up inside accepting he's gone, though more so when I think of my Great-Aunt B--the wife, of 56 years, he left behind. Throughout the past six years of my letter correspondence with Great-Aunt B, I have learned what a dignified woman she is. She represents all that is good, living a life of grace and compassion. In all of our time together, she has never disclosed an unkind word. Likewise to Great-Uncle B, she dotes on her grandsons, maintaining a central focus on family. For as far back as my memories date, she has always been glad to see me or happy to receive a letter from me; she has taken a genuine interest in my life. And her most redeeming quality, is her unfailingly cheerfulness... so to see her this weekend, broken and sad was awful. I have never experienced the sound of sadness.

The phone just rang, it was Great-Aunt B calling--wanting to thank each of us, individually, for attending the funeral this weekend. And tomorrow, she's going to dive right back into the pool and continue her swimming routine. This is the type of woman she is, uncomplaining--able to endure and overcome.

My cousin A started his personal reflection with a Mark Twain quote the audience agreed was an accurate depiction of a life we will forever remember and honor. I will leave you with these words, "One can be a hero to other folk, and in a sort of vague way understand it, or at least believe it, but that a person can really be a hero to a near and familiar friend is a thing which no hero has ever yet been able to realize, I am sure."

(This is a non-traditional post... but tonight... I needed this.)

At one point my need for purposeful friendships and community was huge. My passion and devotion to the environment was almost as much. To temporarily wrap up my series on 'where I am at today' I thought I would hit one last note--my cynicism. Where to begin.

Throughout a large portion of my being, my affinity for Earth and my belief our planet could be saved defined me; I poured my heart and soul into protecting the environment. I changed my diet. I properly disposed of waste... and did not let food become waste. I carried one of my four Nalgenes everywhere I went. I never ever used plastic bags. I used alternative modes of transportation for the to and from school commute and carpooled--automobiles, buses, planes, and trains--whenever possible. I learned first hand the importance of water conservation while living in Africa. I quit washing my hair to avoid adding toxic chemicals to our earth. I read non-fiction earthy literature (on my Kindle) and participated in 'Students for Environmental Awareness' throughout college for fun. You get the point. (For the record, this establish lifestyle continues, very much intact.)

Raised in a half-hearted environmental house where the basics--recycling, leftover eating, composting, two-sided printing, growing vegetables--are covered, college brought first-hand exposure to the ignorance in America. I had the energy and desire to tackle the insurmountable war ahead. I started by educating my roommates on the basics of recycling. If you want to tell me that wasn't a big deal... I'll fight you. Somewhere along the way, encountering a debacle with the university over campus recycling, particularly at football games.

I wanted the earth I cherish to more than last... I hoped my generation could make it flourish. Each new hurdle became a conversation... another battle to overcome. I was an idealist--one person can make a difference. My intensity increased, just knowing together we could solve this mighty problem, reverse the done damages.

Then, through my experiences, I became overwhelmed with the need and injustices in the world...

and the word 'population' kept coming to mind. Population grows until a certain point when it uses up all the resources, and then it dies off. This is the understanding I was left with after pursuing a degree in the 'science of life and living matter' at dear ol' Clemson anyway. The only hope for this planet, is us finding another planet. And, of course, we cut the NASA program.

I am cynical--our planet it doomed; I truly believe this.

The environmental fight is not over, this is the beginning, and I'm altering my mission. In a gigantic universe I am only a spec; instead of paralyzing myself with angst, I will keep my focus self-centered. Though my environmental flaws are many, I do the best I can within my knowledge base, means, and skills. I am constantly researching ideas for simplifying and living a more sustainable life... and this alone will be enough (for me). I will forgo chastising people for their 'ignorance is bliss' behavior from here on out.

Defending our planet is a tireless job. There is no way to get used to the it, the longer and harder and more effort exerted, the more it eats away at me. I can live a meaningful life, valuing the people and planet I care about, without playing an all-consuming role.

We are entitled to one life... and it's up to my internal editors to decide what to do with it. My time is precious--I want to spend it with intent. And if intent is working that job where I get to leave my positive mark on our planet in an office or field of equally passionate people, I would be happy. But it might not--it might far less meaningful, but necessary, say answering phone calls and filing papers or building block towers with children. A job is not a life, it's part of one.

I came across this link featuring excellently photographed basset hounds running on a blog recommended by a friend. The webpage has become the topic of conversation around our house for much of the past week. My family--basset obsessed--is on our third hound in my lifetime. There is no getting around it, this is the breed of my parents subscription.

If you do a little click, click, clicking of your own, you'll find several minutes of the purest laughter you have had in a long time. And if you find otherwise, you're dead inside; my sentiment anyway. The photo below, an imperfect image of dear Louis doing a little "running" of his own, is an half-hearted attempt to provide an indication of what your experience entail.Laugh on.

Friday evening I hung out with C.R.M and O.D.M while their parents went out on a 'real' date. We ordered pizza, baked cup"capes," watched Cinderella, pretended to be spooky ghosts, took baths, and read books all before bedtime. (Human-sitting Tip #1: Never take movie-night for granted. Be infinitely grateful for the 85 minute break planned by the parents.) After six hours of human-sitting, Mom and Dad came home. Life has been chaotic on both ends--allowing us little time to catch up; we took advantage of the opportunity, though late, and talked away the next two hours. It might have been 1:30 am, but my night was not over, in fact, my morning had just began. I am in charge of the dogs living in the M's basement (Nana's apartment) for the week. These are two high-maintenance dogs--refusing to do their business unless they are walked, so we set out for a 15-minute brisk stroll. Quickly after we returned, I dozed off in hopes of a decent night sleep.

But the day began at 7:24 am, after roughly five hours of sleep, when C.R.M.'s little fingers and raspy voice woke me from my slumber. Bless her heart, she has come downstairs each morning this past week looking for me, succeeding for the first time Saturday morning; I had either been out running with Latte Woman or already out walking the dogs. (She normally enjoys breakfast with her Nana--I am a horrible substitute.)

I was up and not exactly happy about it. By 7:30 am, almost five-year old C.R.M. was demanding waffles... and delightedly playing fiesta music from the boom-box for some dawn ambiance. Right after breakfast, C.R.M. lost a tooth, which meant she lost interest in me(!!!). As she headed back upstairs to show her parents, the dogs and I were off on our extended morning walk. Upon return I realized...

it was Saturday--long-run day, and as badly as I wanted to skip out, excusing myself for accumulating four hours less sleep than my normal nine-hour requirement, I shutdown my brain... and hit the road running, soaking up the glorious fall weather. My non-running mom recommended a loop-route awhile back, equipped with courage and a bit of excitement, I had the time to give it a go. I have been craving a new route, after all the out-and-back hilly recent runs. Hills are manageable if you run up them, down the backside, and then far away from them... or to the next, more painful, one, which is not the case on an out-and-back course.

So I'm running and running and running and running (down a picturesque road--crunching gravel beneath my heavy feet surrounded by reds, oranges, and yellows with deer literally trotting alongside) and wondering when I am going to reach my turn point, confident I have not missed it. An hour had passed when I could see 'my light' in sight. Only it was the wrong light... and I had to keep running, about a quarter mile further; eventually I made it to the road of my left turn... and quickly there after ran out of gas. (I had four more miles to go, and I am not in shape.) When has my mom ever correctly estimated distance? Oh right, never.

I switched my iPod from the iRun playlist to an audio version of Harry Potter and my gears to power-walk mode. Two hours after departure, I was greeted by two frisky dogs awaiting another walk. The clock read mid-morning--I was in desperate need of a shower and a cure for my wretched stomach ache.

I headed to my home where I proceeded to nurse the screaming pain from my stomach while watching the first half of the Clemson game. Expecting a win, I allowed myself to doze off for an hour during the second half. (Clemson University has exceeded my expectation--undefeated at 8-0, go Tigers!) After the game, the dogs were walked for the third occasion of the day.

I rejuvenated with carrot sticks and chai tea...

and realized the extent of my unproductively throughout the day, considering it was four in the afternoon. I booked plane tickets for upcoming journeys, sent a couple of emails, wrote a letter... convincing myself those were items of importance to cross off the 'to-do' list I am painfully behind on.

At 5:00 the dogs needed their dinner and another walk. And at 6:00 when that task was accomplished, I needed dinner myself. The rest of the night included words of affirmation between family and friends, more football, of course, including a Michigan State Spartans win, and, you guessed it, even more dog walking.

All was not prefect... but, honestly, life happened here today. I am recovering a sense of 'normalcy' in just doing life with my people on the day-to-day.

I am jobless. This translates into two concepts: First, my personal finances are sparse. Second, I have infinite spare time. My material fill for the year is over two months away, and I need gold glitter TOMS, size eight, stat. For those with an abundant wallet, I could use Hunter wellies and faux UGGs--ones that don't inhumanely harm a flock of genuine Australian sheep in the making--as well.

When (shoe) consumerism bogs me down and society waves instant gratification in my face... I forget about the 'hooray for independence' and the unique satisfaction that comes with providing for myself.

To my benefit, Mama H is all crafty--stitching together Halloween costumes, constructing holiday wreaths, and scrap-booking. At one point in childhood, she had us home-make candles at an age when children should not be sculpting hot wax. To demonstrate the insanity I have scars. This crafty phase has slowed as her children have become less appreciative aged, but she's still super diligent about purchasing supplies.

Mini Martha may not be willing to purchase my shoes; for this, I am upwards of 90% thankful. However, she is not at all above helping her daughter find a means to an end. In the midst of my need, she flagged me down for viewing when she saw Martha Stewart whip up sparkly shoes on one of her seven daily shows.

Credit to Stewart on the idea; Thanks to Mom for the supplies; Props to me for capitalizing.

My discount shopping, courtesy of Target, led me to these nine dollar white sneakers. Total savings: 45 Washington's(!!!).

These craft room staples: masking tape, Martha Stewart glitter, Mod Podge, a craft stick, and paint brushes--pulled me through.And an hour of magic in conjunction with a day of drying got me these! [The craft supplies were lacking in gold glitter... I am setting the trend with green.]

SO unemployment has turned me in to a savvy DIY girl.

In all areas, sans shoes, I have self-control when it comes to shopping. When I hopped off my parents payroll for the big wide world of independence I learned the true price of materials. Hooray for "making it on my own" and being responsible! Yeah--not so much, or at least not all the time. I quickly began translating everything to hours of human-sitting.* At this point, my career was well underway--I was making eight whole dollars an hour, 13.3 cents every minute. Parents don't be late.

*I prefer this term to babysitting because in this age of the helicopter parent, with half my life of experience, I am rarely trusted with actual babies. By the time I am left in charge, they are hardly children--they're tipping on the verge of teenagers. More excellent than making money for being a (topnotch) big sister is landing the mother's friend, ahem mother's helper, gig. There is nothing is more fulfilling than having Boss Mommy ignore my loaded resume--equipped with positions from full-time nanny to camp counselor to normal human-sitter to after-school-care-worker to church nursery experience to academic tutor. As a matter of fact--I am incompetent; there is only way to prepare Cascadian Farms Organic Cinnamon Crunch Cereal for Johnny's mid-morning snack. I have certainly ruined the chance of any future human-sitting employment. No? I am still for hire, if you want to pay me--I'm yours. To the original point, each age classes--whether mother, teenager, child, or baby--can be safely categorized into the 'human' group. Let's agree on this too.

As I sat down to write this post I had a clear direction: arts and crafts. And now I am 280 words deep, having wrapped up my rambling, urg ranting, on the proper terminology for watching mother, teenager, child, or baby while parent(s) stay in or go out. Instead of admitting I have lost my voice--I will change direction to equally fascinating, semi-related, realization.

The going rate for pet-sitter is higher, much higher, than that of human-sitter. This says a lot about our society. That is all.

Excluding the 10-hour bus ride, 14 hours of the Columbus Day weekend were spent riding in the car with a beloved friend and random variables of her family. The trip was tossed together last minute to escape the millionth day of rain and savor the last little bit of the Southern summer. I had no problem leaving the job hunt behind for another opportunity to go-go-go.

The majority of scenery was observed from the car--over real and honest conversation. We managed to contain our words for a couple of short periods of Taylor Swift, Dixie Chicks, and Natasha Bedingfield. Because K.N.K.F. would have it no other way--she is basically the only person who gets a music pass. One can only tolerate so much of her preference.

A huge portion of my story took place in South Carolina. I may have revisited familiar places on this trip, but the travel still broke up life--evoked old and developed new memories.

As K.N.K.F. and I crossed the border from North to South Carolina, I commented on the affordable cost of living and price of gas (at only $3.13--we would eventually see gas for as low at $2.97--something each party, paying over $3.50 in our respective places of residence could appreciate). She immediately provided perspective by remarking, "The financial cost of living in South Carolina may be low, but it's the emotional toll where they get you." Spot on. This would be one of our many points of reflection.

The highlights were an Octoberfest party on the pond--including a nighttime paddle boat ride, joint-parenting sweet Baby C, uncovering the history of my second mothers' younger years, an evening beach stroll, cheerleadering for K.A.K. and his Clemson Club Tennis mates, delicious meals, late nights and early mornings.

We, K.N.K.F. and I, could not be at further ends of the spectrum of mid-twenties life. This friendship works because we accept and learn from our differences; we are intentional regarding our relationship. She is baby mania and settling down and navigating the ropes of young and married. There is stability and comfort. This, to me, is limiting. I want to continue to explore the world. Travel reminds me to live an adventure and inspires me outside the confines of my town. Travel is a way to encounter compassion, to renew my respect for the ease of daily life. I want to meet new people while closing down the town. This, to her, is unsettling.

In the midst of my friendship soapbox, pausing to reflect on this precious bond was important. This weekend challenged me to further appreciate this unique friendship.

In my writing yesterday I touched on the challenge of modifying friendships. There is more to say...

I am on the mind of several people of importance to me--the continual emails, offers for me to visit, phone calls, and text tell me this much. I know many of them are sincere and willing to listen or discuss anything I want, but I have this impression--it's sincerity until a point. (Although I am aware of what happens when one makes an assumption, there is adequate evidence to validate the statement.) When I don't bring anything up, neither do they. My guess is various friends and even my family are in a rotten situation. They recognized the hurt and messy emotions and see I am stuck in a rut, while assuming I am not ready to talk about it (topics from previous post) with them, and that I may never be. It's a catch-22 I am responsible for placing them in. They can't bring it up and talk about it, but I want them to acknowledge this happened. So both sides act like everything is normal and nothing happened, and just ignore the giant elephant in the room.

This is the reason very few are let in to see what is actually going on. When I answer phone calls, I give no indication that anything ever occurred. I appear the exact same me from November 2009. But I have changed. How could I possibly be the old me? Shutting out people and putting on an act, especially for my friends, is absurd. Maybe I should open up, like not talk about everything, but also not talk like everything is fine. Few people have seen through the shield I have held up for the last year. This has been a protection mechanism; I am not sure what side I am protecting... odds on them. I would hate make anyone uncomfortable. Though I have faith, if they ever realized this, several of them would hate themselves... feel like bad friends for "allowing" that. They want to be here for the me I am today. Least of all, they would like a chance to try.

Problem being the root of much of my hurt is my inability to bring it up, not knowing where I would begin or how I could ward off the tears. Hashing out all the emotions to the virtual world has been the best therapy; writing as opposed to vocalizing is the easier route. There is nothing that can be said to amend the reality. I went to Africa and witnessed the unexplainable, from my day-to-day life to the murder. Before I left, and confirmed when I returned, a friend told me she was most worried I would have trouble finding joy in the routine America after living in Africa and being exposed to this unique culture and lifestyle. These extenuating circumstances, no one could have predicted or controlled, brought out a side of humanity I never wanted to experience. The worst of humanity robbing the best of humanity--of life.

I am here as a 24-year old, college educated, adult living at home in a world where everyone, frequently--me included, pretends September 3, 2010 and the incredible months before never existed. My Peace Corps adventure was a dream and T.C.M. is a long-lost friend.

This past weekend the change was blatantly obvious, and for the first time, everything felt right.

I relied heavily on many of these friends to get me where I am today. For our time together I am infinitely grateful. At the same time I am confident in my remodeled self and my ability to continue to mold new friendships.

I in no way intend to write off old friends. I want to ask for patience--not hasty emails and voice mails. I want you to acknowledge this time period is part of my history, acknowledge the fact there are nights I still can't sleep because I hear gun shots fired at my closest volunteer friend and me. Ackonwledge your advice is not always merited. And in the meantime, I will understand that no one, will ever be able to relate, to comprehend this experience from the grave loss to being a volunteer to the bureaucratic procedures of our government.

The test of time and trials exemplifies which friends are true.

I had this illusion of my future and the Peace Corps was the key to it. I would join the Peace Corps after college, serve the two (or more) years and then I would be able to either get a job with them or another government agency through this connection, eventually winding up in grad school. This is why I could not quit on Lesotho during the tough moments, or when my health began to suffer. The Peace Corps was my way of contributing, to see the world, to help other people, to help the environment, to educate children, and to make a difference--regardless how small. This is what mattered most to me, serving was following my passion. So when T.C.M. was killed, I not only lost my friend in a terrible way, and almost my own life, but I lost a future. This is an unbearable lost, most people can not fathom. But this is what happened to me. And this is why it's so hard to see everyone moving on--I haven't been able to pursue the future I planned. I know this was not in my control. T.C.M.'s death and Peace Corps acting in my "best interest" threw me far from my track. This is (now) my life. This is my (new) future. And it's more. Many days, I feel as though I am living for two. In the back of my mind, whip-tee-do, I may have lost a future, well T.C.M. lost his life. I must forge on for both of us. It's the only life I have from here on out. I will always have bad days. There will be nights I can't sleep. There will always be time I need to cry and feel miserable and sad and depressed. That's never going to go completely away. No one, T.C.M. least of all, wants me to give up on my goals and dreams and live a life that doesn't make me happy and fulfilled. Easier said then done--it's hard to move on, to find a job, to leave my parent's house, to go through the motions of the day when I would rather be locked in a room alone upset. But it's what I have to do. I have to keep applying and applying and applying until I land a job. And even if it's not the one I want, it's a start. A way to renew life again. A way to reconnect.

There is hardly anyone in my circle who can relate. And, I hope they will never be able to. What I went through was terrible. And knowing I will never completely recover is scary. But I can't let my bad days or weeks rule my future. That will turn into bad years, and a bad life. I will never stop grieving, but recognize I need to push through the grief, and the pain, and the loneliness, or it will consume everyday. I have a good start at this. I pick up random jobs and visit friends... despite not feeling immediate relief from either activity.

For the past four months, and honestly much of the last year, I have had extreme difficulty relating to the majority of my friends. I am not sure they have noticed. I see myself as a soundboard--someone for them to bounce their tales off--in our conversations. They occasionally succeed in making me laugh, sharing in their annoyance with society, or getting me to discuss a hot-topic.

My friends are content. They're employed in their fields of passion. They are busy pursuing advanced degrees. They are this and that. And I am not. I strive to be each and every friends biggest supporter; I love these people, but keeping up with 13 regular phone calls is draining--not to mention the other ones in between. Though they continually ask how I am doing, it comes off quick and easy--similar to the way one would ask their neighbor when both parties happened to cross paths outside the home. These friendships, which have been building for as much as eight years, are faltering.

After moving, you quickly learn friendship is not eternal. I am okay with letting go; not entirely of friendships--but of releasing myself from the old me persona. I have to, it's time. In all honestly, it's past time. I can no longer feign interest. I can no longer pretend to relate. These wonderful people came into my life, each friend more incredible and incomparable than the last. I do not want them to wait for me, wait for a time, wait for a friendship that is not returning to normal.

Love it or leave it.

Yesterday, I glanced at my watch, only to realize it was already the 10th of October. It was a complete surprise--October 2011 is one third underway.

This month has been whirlwind thus far. I have been on the move, slumbering in a new place for each of the past seven nights...

October 4: in the queen sized guest room bed at my home base in Northern VirginiaOctober 5: in a shared queen sized bed at the home of the S family in Durham, North CarolinaOctober 6: alone in a double bed at the K home in Columbia, South CarolinaOctober 7: on an air mattress in Jackson, South Carolina visiting Papaw KOctober 8: in a shared queen sized bed in a hotel room in Charleston, South CarolinaOctober 9: on an air mattress at the apartment of the newlyweds in Raleigh, North CarolinaOctober 10: in a king sized bed across the street from my family's home in Northern VirginiaThe rest of the month is filled with many more nights of dog sitting, so I will remain in transit.

First, I hate eating in front of people, especially new people. Second, I like my food cold or at least room temperature. Third, I was vegetarian, worried each innocent vegetable was contaminated with chicken broth or animal fat. Fourth, I was in a very different environment.

Adapting to the food Lesotho had to offer was a challenge unlike any I had ever experienced. I had traveled, so not the same. This was foreign, people handing me food on a platter and staring at me while I ate. This was a carbohydrate-heavy meal, three times a day, at exactly 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:00 PM for 10 straight weeks. This was not fruit in the morning, vegetables for lunch, and a protein-rich dinner.

What felt like letting go of me was tough.

Eventually I grew to be a tiny bit more adventurous... sampling a spoonful of samp, one evening I felt particularly famished. This was one variety of the "staple" food of the country I had chose to spend the next 27 months of my life in. I was underwhelmed as the samp was loaded with butter, my least favorite food, next to pickles and sour cream--both of which I lived blissfully without for 10 months(!!!). Samp, round two, came at the end of Community Based Training celebration. My job was to help prepare the samp for the entire village, meaning I did a lot of watching other people sort and clean and stir. In the midst of being too occupied to work, I scooped out a samp sample before the gallon-sized tub of butter was added. Four bowls, at least, were put down during my shift. The other volunteers were aggravated--exhausted, hungry, sweaty... and lacking my wit. I had stunned the trainers with my Sesotho skills--spouting "I'm lazy" on repeat in times of physical labor. This got me off the hook for at least a week. Locals thought this was funny, very very funny. Yes, those 10 months were great for my self-esteem.

(Side Story: Being lazy is nothing to pride yourself on in Lesotho, a country where people are literally fighting for life. I caught them entirely off-guard--the reason this statement was comical.)

So I'm feasting, prior to the feast, on samp--can't eat enough to satisfy the void--watching fellow volunteers slave over the hot pot under the relentless African sun; relishing in the fact, there is something I could survive off, for over two years. Not only was I hysterical, I was going to be full.

I never learned how to cook samp; the process was long and tedious. When I wanted samp, I requested it from my host family. (For the record, I would usually make them popcorn or let them watch a movie in return. No, this was not a remotely fair trade.) I never even took the time to learn what samp was. I knew it was a derivative of corn, and I knew the corn in Lesotho was a different than ours here in America. I was lazy, geez.

Who could have predicted I would come back to America and crave samp from time-to-time? Not I. There was no way for me to explain samp to anyone. Not that I tried.

In my new learn-how-to-cook-so-I-can-survive-as-a-vegan lifestyle I attempted a recipe that called for hominy. I had no idea what hominy was but knew it could be purchased in a can at the grocery. I was chopping and sauteing, prepping for the hominy moment. I opened, drained, and rinsed. Then like all good chefs, I sampled. I nearly melted in my tracks: SAMP! You found me(!!!).

Since the house was empty--and Louis was not at all interested in the my news--I danced a jig, temporarily forgetting about my burning vegetables. I also scarfed down half of the can before I remembered the one in charge of those charred vegetables to which the hominy belonged was me. I got my act together and finally, the meal was complete; the taste--wonderful.

Turns out, hominy is corn that has been processed to remove the hull and germ. According to the intense food dictionary my parents rely on to decipher the ingredients in their mile-long recipes, samp is coarsely ground hominy. Either Americans or Basotho have it wrong: hominy=samp. No extra processing necessary. And with my Southern roots, I never paralleled hominy grits and papa--finely ground samp. All this time I thought the word 'samp' was not of the English language, and instead Sesotho. I do not belong in the kitchen.

If it took going vegan to guide me to my reunification with samp, it was the Best! Decision! Ever!

The world (or maybe just America?) has a national holiday devoted to coffee... I missed the memo, but c'mon everyday is drink-coffee-like-a-champion day. Further googling I learned February 27 is National Chocolate Cake Day, National Kaluha Day, and National Strawberry Day. (And all my life I had been convinced the only thing worth celebrating on this day was Uncle J’s birthday. Lame.) There is not a day without a food item to stuff your face with in ordinance of the holiday. Misewell stop writing menus immediately, there are daily celebrations to dictate your life. This is soooo ridiculously American, I can't stand it.

The one exciting discovery in all the hoopla is July is National Picnic Month. I could be into that; I do love me some picnics. A mere nine months away there is something to look forward to--July 2012, and every July following, will be the month of picnics--I envision myself doing some serious picnicking in obscure places. Yes, it will be grand(!!!).

Beyond National Picnic Month, I will declare my own occasions along the way, and consider the possible expansion of National Coffee Day into a month, or everlasting holiday…

Onwards. I was discussing coffee... and how I devour a cup, or four, everyday--brewed in almost any way. At present, and most often, my preference is black iced coffee. I recommend a cup to finish the post--stop right here and go brew yourself one of choice--whether reading this in the morning, at lunch, or nearing midnight. I've established coffee consumption is a constant throughout my waking hours.

So you can only imagine my delight when a neighbor introduced me to her at-home latte tool. She enlisted my help in her new "sick-of-an-unhealthy-lifestyle routine." Her seeking my advice is a tad scary... little does she know how lazy the 34 days of rain has made me, not to mention my diet of soy milk and Oreos has gotten a tad out of control. At any rate, mid--rainy--run we were discussing eating habits when she casually mentioned she could not rid herself of her morning homemade latte.

Say what? I flipped out. And I made it crystal clear I had no idea this process could be done, quite easily, at home. She offered to prepare her speciality latte when we got home; I'm haywire at this point. Let's pick up the pace NOOOOOOOOOOOOW. I have coffee to attend to.

The mug of joy she produced changed my life. Like a whole lot. I downed this latte as though I been tossing them back my entire life, instead of treating it as the delicacy it was. And as if I wasn't already going to dedicate the rest of my life to befriending this woman, on a sipping coffee from the front porch daily basis--she gave me one of her extra-fancy milk frother gadgets... to keep.

Now Brewing: Iced Pumpkin Spiced Vegan Lattes.

Last month I took a trip to The City, which I have noted here several times without ever recounting the getaway.

The trip started in the wee hours of the morning over breakfast with N.J.M. before a bus ride into the district. When I arrived in Washington D.C. the ground was saturated with the rain that is still falling--landing me at the Holocaust Museum. The thought to tour a museum solo never occurred to me until I was forced into the situation. In areas of interest, I indulged while cruising through the rest. From there I walked to Union Station as the sky opened--drenching my backpack and me. I engaged in the hussle and bussel of the lunch hour at this particular city center. When late afternoon rolled around, I hopped my second bus--this one bound for New York, New York. I insisted on walking the 4 avenues & 54 blocks to the apartment of my friend, where a home-cooked vegan meal awaited me. And lots and lots and lots of conversation. I was forced to bulldoze a few (too many) tipsy high, high, high heeled fashionistas partaking in Fashion Week on my way.

My pounding headache and I were equipped to seize the city on Friday. The first stop: Ess-A-Bagel. No time to stop and eat, we continued on our walking way towards South Ferry Building to catch the Staten Island Ferry, a recommended tourist attraction. Afterwards I ditched headache, and managed to spend some time walking around Battery Park before moving over to City Hall Park. Then I forged ahead up to Madison Square Park, where I temporarily paused. The next stop: Times Square. Here I listened to the voices of some singers I am told are famous in the Broadway circle. The day might have been coming to a close, but the night was young. My feet still had a few avenues left in them--taking me to the office of R.D.S., where we met and departed for Queens to cross Citi Field off my list. We caught a lot more conversation than baseballs... or ball-game. Let's face it though--the 2011 Mets/Cubs match-up did not have much potential. That is, until the exhilarating comeback walk-off hit in the bottom of the ninth. For T.C.M. and my penpal I cheered.

Crippled from the 'map-my-run' estimated previous day 14 mile tour, Saturday we took it easy. More Ess-A-Bagels. A street fair. An NBC Studio Tour. Housewarming party preparations. This entailed grocery shopping in NYC--holy high stress. Then, the obvious, celebrating all the hard-work of moving in New York...

Sunday, we did the (Off) Broadway thing--first trying unluckily for tickets to Book of Mormons and instead settled for front row tickets to Avenue Q, a show R.D.S., queen of (attending) performance(s) had yet to see. Thumbs up to that. Thumbs down to watching the Kansas City Chiefs pitifully kick-off their season to the Buffalo Bills prior to the show. I squeezed in a trip to H&H Bagel somewhere in there. Sunday night, allergy-ridden R.D.S. and I, with roommate, talked the night away.

Monday--out the door with the working girl... and on my walking way to Alphabet City, home to Ninth Street Espresso, absolute best cold-brew coffee on the globe. A calming breeze--coffee in one hand, book in the other, butt on a bench for the morning in Tompkins Square Park. There was even coaxing a random girl into a ping-pong match. I won. Duh. Backtracking to the workplace of R.D.S., I joined her for a lunch neither of us were hungry for. Then I was off to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. This was an unexpected, fun to-do, an experience I would recommend for all. Late that evening friend and I connected back at her apartment; unmotivated and still unsure of our appetites, we wasted away on her couch.

The final day I got my first early start, in order to cross a couple more 'to-dos' off the list. On second thought, Central Park and a book presented themselves as more welcoming. In my final hours, I scurried over to Top of the Rock, where the tourist quickly scared me away. In desperate need of coffee, I discovered Stumptown Coffee Roasters for more (expensive) deliciously cold-brewed coffee. Then I pretty much fell in love with the atmosphere at Ace Hotel, adjoining the coffee shop, and sat comatose there. On my way out-of-town, I stopped by Loving Hut, a international vegan chain, to pick up what would become breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The authentic conversation. The bagels. The coffee. The distance covered. The time spent in the parks. The churches. The show. The escape from the day-to-day. The 10th anniversary of 9/11. The people. My NYC memories.