Landmark Booksellers

Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the baptism of my best friend's second daughter, Anna. I had been fortunate enough to have attended the baptism of Anna's older sister, Becca, almost four years ago, so it was nice to continue this tradition. I was happy to spend the time with my friend and her and her husband's family, and I was glad to share a celebratory brunch with them all. Still, several hours of this left me drained, and as we departed the restaurant, I knew I needed some time to refresh. (I also wanted to ensure they had plenty of family time together because I know how very important that stuff can be.)

It was rainy that afternoon, the kind of downpour that encourages one to stay inside, curled up with a good book. When, however, all that awaits you is a serviceable but sterile hotel room, exploring in the rain doesn't seem so bad. Luckily, I had an idea in mind. 

In preparing for my visit to Tennessee, I had done some research on Franklin (the town south of Nashville where my friends live), and the one website I kept returning to was one for an independent bookshop, run from a gorgeous older house on the main street of the historic downtown area. Like libraries, bookstores cast a spell over me, luring me in and making it very hard to leave without something new in my hand. This store in particular, though, was imbued with a special sort of charm, no doubt one reflective of the owner.

My arrival was announced by the jingling of the bell above the door. The owner immediately greeted me, an older gentleman with broad smile on his face and a welcome drizzled with the honeyed-accent of the South. He explained the layout of the place and then left me to explore on my own. 

It was strange at first, wandering through the rooms of this old house. It was definitely a far more intimate experience than one ever feels at even the nicest of large bookstores. Each room held books for a particular genre, and in each room, there were a few places to sit and browse through the massive collection available. I imagine if I ever leave my book lust unchecked, my house would look very much like this. Bookshelves covered just about every inch of wall space (outside of the bathroom, which had its own unique decor). The books that filled the shelves were not the standard mass paperbacks found in your local Target. They were first editions, signed copies, books with their own histories beyond the ones captured between their covers.

If I may indulge a bit of a Romantic notion, this place reminded me why a complete shift toward digital books would be a huge loss for society. Not so much that the stories of each book will be lost, but the stories that are often shared with the book. How can you tell how well-loved a particular book is if you do not have the worn, tattered cover and dog-eared pages? How can you replicate that strange connection between you and a previous owner when exploring his marginalia? How can you ignore just how powerful it is to be in a room filled with books, books that hold within their covers promises of knowledge, adventure, love, life? Sigh...

(Stepping off my soapbox now.) I slowly made my way through each room, browsing the different titles, not really looking to buy anything but to get a feel for what was there. When I finally made my way back to the front of the store, I had to compliment the owner on the store. I asked him about what compelled him to begin this business, particularly with the challenges facing independent bookstores. Quite simply, it boiled down to his and his wife's love for books and their desire to do something together. For the next ten or so minutes, we shared our mutual affection for what books are and how integral they have been in our lives. Both of us had an older relative who encouraged our reading from a young age and both of us saw that a book is more than just a physical object. He shared with me a few of his favorite books--an entire section dedicated to books about books and bookselling...there were a lot, and many of them looked like an interesting read. I had to settle on just one.

I had to ask how the current trends in the economy in general (a shift to the internet commerce) and how digital technology are affecting the store. He admitted an uncertainty about how long he and his wife can keep the business running, but while there was a tinge of disappointment, there was not rancor in his words. He expressed a level admiration for how digital books will transform the industry and seemed intent on embracing it as well. And he found some silver linings--fewer trees being cut down, information made more widely available in no time at all. The part of me that desires instant gratification finds this appealing, but it still saddens me that some of what makes books what they are is fading away. 

In a world that is increasingly becoming digitized, I find comfort in the physical. The ability to hold a book in my hands, to flip through a few pages, or to start reading wherever I choose are pleasures, as simple as they may be, that I enjoy when at the library or bookstore. Thankfully, we are still several years away from a completely digital world, I am sure. And until then, I will enjoy the joy of discovering places like Landmark Booksellers, where those who still believe in the magic of books can share their love and make memories that imbue said books with even more value.

Nashville

The past week, I had been counting down the days. Not only was there a three-day weekend on the horizon, but I was heading southeast to visit my best friend and her family in Nashville. It also happened that this was the weekend her second daughter was to be baptized, so I had the privilege of sharing that with her and her family. But all the flurry of activity did not prevent me from having some time to explore the city, and while it was a cursory tour at best, I definitely was impressed by the rich mix of history and culture to be found in Music City.

Were you aware that in Nashville, you can stroll along in a park only to find, looming before you, an exact replica of the Parthenon? Built for a world exhibition at the end of the 19^th century, this homage to Ancient Greek culture dominates the beautiful landscape of Centennial Park. The park grounds are simple but lovely, and I would have stayed a little longer if it were not so oppressively hot. Summer still has its claws firmly in place here (while I hear that in Kansas City, fall is making a quiet entrance), and there is nothing that puts a damper on my adventurous spirit than excessive heat and humidity.

Still, not being completely dissuaded, I headed further into the heart of Nashville, looking to explore a bit of the city center while having my heart set on one destination in particular—Nashville’s downtown library. I had not read anything in particular that made me seek it out, but noticing it on my map, I felt drawn to find it. And, eventually, I did.  However, the directions I had received from Google Maps had failed to take into consideration the fact that a good number of roads were shut down for some kind of festival over the Labor Day weekend. Being at a disadvantage already for not really knowing where I was going, I found myself circling around blocks a few times through, stopping once when I happened upon the Farmer’s Market. (It has nice facilities and some intriguing permanent stores, but I would argue City Market in KC offers more variety of goods and produce. Still, I was able to sample some delicious sour dough bread and some decadent chocolate peanut butter cheesecake. Cannot complain about that!) Eventually, I inadvertently stumbled upon my destination, only recognizable by the sculpture of a stack of books in front of this massive neoclassical building.

Nashville Public Library

My endeavors were worth the effort. From the copper engravings on the front doors to the enormous, airy atrium that greets you upon entry to the three jam-packed floors, I was enthralled. I took my time walking the stacks on each floor, observing the layout, the services offered and the like. Part of this is a professional hazard. More of it, though, was just this sense of appreciation for a space where people can come to read, research, relax even. The number of windows, facing all sides of Nashville’s downtown area, added to the beauty of the surroundings, instilling it with a certain character and charm that helped soften the imposing elegance of its particular architectural style.

While the books were my initial draw, I also discovered that the library has several of its own little art galleries. The one I walked through was a collection of portraits featuring those arrested during the Civil Rights era, the backgrounds of the portraits dotted with ephemera from the era capturing their supposed crimes. Each work seemed imbued with a sense of strength, beauty and sadness. The history of Nashville had not made an impression on me until then, and yet I know  so much more waits to be uncovered. It will be those things I explore on my next visit, when there is a little less chaos and a little more time. 

Cymru

In my last post, I mentioned the waves of nostalgia that wash over me this time of year. When I noticed the date today, I realized that it was on this day nine years ago I arrived in Heathrow Airport for the first time. The memory of the trip over itself is a blur. I vaguely recall leaving behind a hot Texas summer, a short layover at O'Hare, and a long flight where sleep proved evasive. All around, I heard variations of the English accent I had so much loved, and that alone was enough to make me smile. However, it took me asking the passport control agent three times to repeat herself before I could answer her questions (her accent was quite thick, and my head was a bit fuzzy from the lack of sleep). Still, once that little hiccup was resolved, I collected my two suitcases (I would argue that since then, I have managed to fit all my necessary possessions in two suitcases or less), and I spilled out into the arrivals area. (I'll try to keep my asides to a minimum, but I have to say watching the opening scene of Love Actually always reminds me of my second trip to Heathrow, when I wasn't emerging a complete stranger actually had a couple of friends there to greet me. I'll save the harrowing trip I took to get to Wales for the spring semester, but all the struggles, worries, and frustrations were immediately erased by smiling, familiar faces.)

Back to the initial arrival: Since everyone was arriving at different times throughout the morning, the bus that was to take me and my fellow study abroad students to Wales wasn't scheduled to leave until 12:00. It was only a little after 6:00 when I arrived. Having two large suitcases made exploration a bit tricky (I was on my own at this point, so no one to watch my bags), and I was little more than concerned about how easy it would be to find the others.  The novelty of being in England was waning, and I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I needn't have worried, as a couple hours later, I saw a familiar red object in the air. It was the folder each student had been mailed weeks earlier in preparation for their time abroad. Even more surprising, the folder was in the hands of an acquaintance from my home institution (Greg, who I had met a few times through campus ministry and through my friend Matt...Greg played quite an interesting role in a surprise birthday party now that I think about it. I forgave him that, though...). I quickly moved toward him, relieved to see a familiar face. Soon, there were lots of us, exchanging life histories, travel plans, and the like. I didn't know at the time how much an impact these people would have on my life, but the newness of it all renewed my enthusiasm, and I couldn't wait to get out of the airport and explore.

My fellow travelers, St. Govan's Head

Still, there was a three plus hour bus ride west to take us to Carmarthen (Caerfyrddin in Welsh, which translastes to 'fort of Merlin'), and we had yet to meet the man who would become our intrepid leader on so many adventures. Indeed, we would have to wait longer, as it was his trusty sidekick, Mike, who met us at the airport and directed us to our coach. Our bus driver (whose name alludes me at the moment, which aggravates me!) was a bit gruff, and I admit, if I thought the accents I encountered at passport control were difficult to comprehend, I hadn't been prepared to deal with the Welsh accent. Still, we were able to load up and get on the road in no time at all.  

My eyes remained glued to the window for much of the journey to the place I would call home for the next few months (I had come to Wales intending only to stay for the fall semester), marveling at the lush greenery, rolling hills, and how everything was just so British. I will admit that when I had signed up for my semester in Wales, it wasn't my first choice of country, but it was by far the best deal. I first saw it as an entry point to explore England and Ireland and the rest of Europe. Little did I know then how deeply it would permeate into my soul.

Most everyone else quickly fell asleep, letting the exhaustion from hours of travel to overcome them, but I couldn't sleep if I tried. In a bout of inquisitiveness not usually of my nature, I asked Mike all of the questions that came to mind, probably trying his patience more than was fair of me to do. Still, I wanted to know as much as I could about what I was seeing, where I was going, and anything else I could learn. (I had already read all of the recommended reading, so I wasn't completely ignorant, but as Mike was an American who had done the same program years earlier and was living in Wales while getting his masters, I figured he would have a lot more insight that one could not glean from a book). As I watched the scenery pass before my eyes, I could not wipe the smile off my face, not knowing how to if I tried. I was making a dream come true, and the elation I felt could not be dimmed for anything.

We finally arrived on campus after having picked up the few students (one of whom, Ginny, was celebrating her birthday, so a shout out to her today) who had opted to do a home stay. The campus was small, even smaller than TLU. It was a good mile away from the town center, on top of a hill (this would make for many a long trek back when coming back from the grocery store or getting caught in the rain). We were given keys to our rooms, told to take some time to unpack and explore, and then given the option to have a welcome drink at one of the many pubs in town, Dri Eog (Three Salmon). There isn't much more to say. I enjoyed the evening, getting to know the others while nursing a Diet Coke (while only 20 at the time, the legal age is 18, but I still felt a little weird about the whole alcohol thing...). I vaguely recall wondering how we managed to get back to the college without getting lost on the winding streets (not the last time I would find myself wondering this, either), and I couldn't recall having ever felt so tired (I was running on about two hours of sleep for a forty-eight hour period, which leads to a little haziness even in the best of us, I think). But I was in Wales, and I would never be the same.

Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me reflect on memories of old. Actually, I am fairly certain it has something very much to do with the beginning of a new school year...even though I have been out of academia now for two years (since finishing my masters), I still find myself feeling that the end of August/beginning of September is meant to be a time of new experiences, transitions, change, but feeling the distinct absence of change, I look to the past to remember what all I have done.

It was around this time eleven years ago that I officially became a TLU Bulldog (complete with an orientation that mercilessly had on repeat "Who Let the Dogs Out"...there were some things I could have done without!). While there, I would meet my best friends, encounter great professors, and refine my interests, perspectives and principles. I also learned just how far a metal slinky would stretch before it would no longer retain its springy shape (about the length of a dorm hallway, if I remember correctly), how not to argue for the defense during a mock trial (it is not encouraged to make your 'jury' run up seven flights of stairs to prove a point), and how to avoid going camping with honors students at all costs (intelligence and practical knowledge are not always guaranteed to show up together). 

About halfway through my time at TLU, nine years ago, I found myself hopping on a plane to London, convinced that a semester in Wales would sate my ever-growing wanderlust. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh at such naive thought--that one semester would ever be enough to 'see the world'. I embraced the experience, forging fast friendships and throwing myself into what it meant to be an American abroad. Within three weeks of immersion in the land of missing vowels (tell me how you would pronounce the following: twydd, gwlyb, heddiw), I knew one semester wasn't going to do it. (I distinctly remember being on a train from Munich to Wurtzburg in Germany, watching the Alps zoom past, when it struck me that I couldn't go back to TLU that January. I blame this revelation for making the mistake of my travel companions and me getting off at Wurtzburg South. Note to future travelers--they are NOT the same place.) Good thing I stayed, otherwise I would have never had the chance to get hopelessly lost in a Cornish bog, sing in a Welsh choir, or make a brief cameo on the local television news (it was a walk on role, and really, my friend Lauren hogged the spotlight...). I became a much more confident, independent person during my time abroad, and I often think if I had a chance to revisit any part of my life, this would be it.

Seven years ago, I moved to Chicago for a year of volunteer service with Amate House. Having packed all I would need for the next year in two large suitcases and an overly-stuffed carry-on, I boarded my one-way flight to Midway, and I began my life in a convent with eight other volunteers. Not that I was a nun. Or any of the other volunteers for that matter. Far, far from it.  Nuns did live above us though.  My housemates taught me so much about what it meant to be socially aware, passionate, loving. While there were times I hated living in community just for its occasional claustrophobic grip, I couldn't have made it without each of my housemates. Their humor, their compassion, their love. I miss them more than I know, really, but in many ways, I know that they all are making a huge difference wherever they are today, and seriously, I am not sure how I ever got to be a part of such a wonderful group.

Beyond the interesting living quarters, my time with Amate House was perhaps the most formative in learning how different life can be for those who did not have the benefits and privileges I had growing up.  I taught English to high school freshmen, sophomores, and juniors during my time there. I was in over my head in not knowing how to control my classroom or be an effective teacher, and it was the first time I had ever been confronted with a challenge far bigger than I could handle. That didn't stop me from loving my students dearly and pushing myself constantly to do the best I could do for them. I learned just how difficult a career teaching is...that the good teachers out there share not only their knowledge but their hearts, their energy, their time...everything, really. But there was something about the community at St. Greg's that was more like a family. I never missed a boys' home basketball game. I helped out with the girls' softball team. Thinking back to my students, I cannot help but smile. By now, all of my students should have graduated from high school, and hopefully, some of them were able to attend college. I started out my year with the intent of changing the world through my students, and brashly dismissed the idea of planting a seed--I was going to do so much more than that. But as is always the case in these situations, I probably came out the better. 

And just like that, I have already written so much, and I have barely scratched the surface of these memories. I should stop now, lest this post become even longer. One day, I will come back, flesh out some of the more entertaining memories (for those of you who have been part of the journey all along, you will find I am repeating myself, I am sure).  But until then, what do you think of this time of year? Were you like me, excited by the prospect of new classes, new friends, new experiences? Or did you want the summer to linger that little bit longer?  What are some of your fondest memories, the ones you revisit time and again?

Doormat

There are some days that I swear if one were to look up the definition for "pushover," there would be picture of me as an example. I have the most difficult time saying no to certain requests that I would rather avoid. I often acquiesce to the desires of others over my own because previous experience has proven that is the path of least resistance. The few times I have taken a stand, the results were rather embarrassing and not at all effective in changing the outcome.  By now, I am so used either to being taken for granted when needed or overlooked when no longer useful, that I tend to take it in stride. However, as I get older, I admit that it really shouldn't be like this. Still, old habits die hard...and I am not sure if I am anywhere near changing this.

I began thinking a bit about this as a result of what happened last Wednesday. About a month ago, I made a long-deferred doctor's appointment with a new physician (my previous one having moved away -- just as the one before him had done).  When it finally rolled around, I made arrangements for time away from work, mustered the motivation to go in the first place (I loathe going to the doctors having spent too much time in their company as a child), and  arrived the designated fifteen minutes prior to the appointment.  Almost immediately after handing over my insurance card, I found myself shuttled over to the scheduler. My appointment had been "bumped." In an apparent 'oversight,' I had not been informed of said cancellation. The next available appointment for this particular doctor was not for another month. Stunned by the sheer frustration I felt, I accepted without much thought.

If I had been able to articulate what was running through my mind, I would have questioned how I had not been made aware of this before dragging myself away from work. I would have asked why there wasn't anything available sooner considering I had already been waiting for over a month for this particular appointment. (While it was meant to be a routine checkup, I had also been hoping to discuss the headaches that have been pretty much plaguing me every day this summer.) I would have made it very clear that it was unacceptable not to communicate cancellations like this considering how many arrangements sometimes need to be made to free a couple of hours during the day (I am lucky in that I have a manager who is flexible about such things and I do not have anyone dependent on me for their care). I would have...I don't know...demanded justice or at least an acknowledgement that they screwed up. Basically, I would have done everything BUT what I actually did--meekly accepting the proffered appointment with an uncalled level of gratitude, doing my best to mask my frustration and confusion. I barely managed not to storm out of the office and kept myself from crying.

When I got back from my fruitless little trip, I bent the ears of two very kind friends at work pointing out the injustice of it all. But really, I wasn't frustrated with the doctor's office. I was mad at myself for not taking control of the situation. There were better options available to me at the time, yet I couldn't find the words to say or do anything, and because I never like to act out of emotion, I just let it happen. A recurring theme in my life sadly--where I sit back and let things just happen. While there are clear instances of when I have mustered the strength to do what I want, most times, I just go where someone else points, doing what I am told. It happens all the time with my family and it happens on occasion at work. I do as I am asked because I know nothing better, and really, I seem to work best doing what others tell me to do.

Has my life been adversely affected by this path? Not particularly as far as I can see. However, if I don't start looking out for my own interests, my own passions, they will get further lost as they are subordinated to the whims of others. But how does one truly go about that? I guess my reticence comes with walking that fine line between assertive and arrogant as well as the line between the line between supportive and submissive. I don't want to come across as arrogant or rude or selfish, but I am sick of feeling powerless especially since I am the one who has put myself in that position. Perhaps I just need to find the one thing about which I will not compromise...maybe that will help. But until then, a doormat I will probably remain.

(Just as a quick author's note--there is some exaggeration here. I am fortunate to have friends, family, and co-workers who do not exploit this weakness of mine. And while it does happen that I feel used or taken for granted on occasion within those groups, it is often a matter of my perception mixed with a negative mood...no fault on the parts of others.)

Dusting Off the Cobwebs

It has been a couple of weeks since my last post, and for once, it wasn't so much from a lack of material but rather from a lack of focus. There have been several potential posts swirling around my mind, from discussing my culinary adventures with my cousin Patrick (age 11) to celebrating the recent baby boom among my friends (two of my best friends had daughters within 8 days of each other...factor in about five other babies born during that week, and it makes me wonder what was in the water last September) to acknowledging (begrudgingly) my 29th birthday. Yet, every time I sat down to type something up, there was a distinct lack of coherence.

So, here is an attempt to dust off the cobwebs in my mind and from this blog :)  I won't get to everything to day (I am not that cruel), but at least there will be something new for you all to enjoy. First up--Patrick and his pie.

Patrick was born 11 years ago, a mere three days before my 18th birthday. I had been anxious for him to arrive as he was the first child for my Uncle Chris and Aunt Susan, people who I am so fortunate to have as friends as well as family and who had provided a great deal of support and encouragement as I grew up. I didn't get to meet him right away (I was in Texas still), but receiving new photos of him or hearing about his exploits were always welcome, and no doubt, all of my friends in college heard more than they ever wanted to know about this brilliant, adorable child. (He is the child who used "beverage" instead of drink at age 2, the one who instructed his kindergarten teacher on several topics, including how to distinguish between different types of insects. It's scary how smart he can be, but we have to remember not to tell him that too often, lest he get an even bigger head than he already has--he is a bit of a know-it-all.)

Fast-forward to last week, where this still brilliant (but admittedly less adorable) boy asked me to show him how to make pie crust again. (He is entering the phase where sarcasm and snark make up much of his vocabulary...nowhere near as charming as he was several years ago) He also mentioned wanting to learn how to make bread of some kind. With this in mind, I suggested that we attempt pizza dough as well as pie crust. Plan in mind, we scheduled some time to make the dough and crust with a long-term plan of using both to prepare a meal for our family as a way to celebrate both of our birthdays.

During our two sessions (the dough and crust making & then the creation of calzones and apple pie using the previous session's efforts), I was reminded that it isn't easy teaching someone else how to cook, especially if you are as impatient as I. There were several times I had to bite my tongue to prevent my criticisms from coming out as I watched Patrick measure and mix, knead and flatten. While frustrating, it was also endearing to watch him, seeing the way in which his unpracticed hands couldn't quite get the kneading motion down or the awkward way in which he grasped the spatula as he tried to fold ingredients together in a rather graceless manner. Things are a bit more challenging at 11, and I am sure that I, too, displayed that level of clumsiness in my first cooking endeavors.

I also learned that sometimes, cooking/baking is as much an art as it is a science. Trying to explain to Patrick how you know when the dough has been kneaded enough, whether or not the timer has reached the cookbook-suggested 10 minutes, or how the pie dough is supposed to look when the butter has been cut in properly wasn't easy. These are things I have just learned to recognize over time, and being asked to quantify it perplexed me. How does one explain that recipes are often just guidelines, that you learn and adapt as you go along? That cookbooks are not always the end-all authority.

These are things that really one can only impart by allowing another to observe. Patrick isn't quite at that stage yet, but I hope that he wants to continue learning, and I hope that he allows me to work with him in the future.  Because, seriously, when everything finally did come together, we put on one heck of a meal.

The chef proudly displaying his creations.

The first piece of birthday pie

The calzones were delicious (we offered cheese and pepperoni/sausage varieties), and the pie phenomenal. I don't think I have ever tasted a better homemade apple pie (I am old school and made him prepare the filling himself. With my grandma's help, he peeled and sliced the apples, cooked them down and then added them to the prepared dough.)! I am fairly certain everyone left our little dinner party pretty satisfied.

In the Details

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if (God forbid) one day you were found lost without any clear form of identification, unable to say who you were or where you were from?  If the only hope of figuring out who you are came from the possessions you carried with you? For some strange reason, I find myself doing this on occasion, and while I admit it is a bit narcissistic to dwell so much on myself (should these solipsistic exercises really seem so shocking?), it is interesting to think about how I have decided to construct myself every day. 

I always start to think about the few things that are always there. What would they think about the ring on my left hand, encircling my middle finger? A band of seven cherubs, all of whose features are no longer distinct through years of wear. Would they discover that it was a gift from a high school friend, someone who saw me as a better person than I ever was? That I wore it to remind myself that in spite of all my self-doubt and insecurities, there were people out there who truly cared and who really did think I was a good person. That sometimes, I thought through wearing it, I could actually live up to those perceptions and be a better person; to act as a guardian angel for others, guiding and supporting when they most need it. As the years wore on, I let this friend down, probably numerous times. And while the distance has become significant, the memories are still very important. 

On the other hand, a Claddagh ring, a souvenir from my second trip to Galway, bought in a tiny jewelry shop just off the path from the open market. The small hands hold not only a heart, but hundreds of memories of a year abroad. Bike rides, long hikes, walks in the rain. Nights at the pub, the frenetic pace of the disco, the mornings after. Different language, different culture, a world apart. A time of growth and discovery and a time of challenges and frustration.  It is worn with the heart facing out, according to tradition, to indicate the heart is still free. In all honesty, purchased with the hope that one day it would face inward. (There was a particular man in mind at the time of purchase, but as the years have elapsed, he is not much more than a shadow, and while his influence is still there, it is more the idea of him that I cling to than the actual person. Ah...unrequited love; a power stronger than many of us can honestly fathom for something that is mainly generated in the mind.) Almost ten years later, the heart is still free, and no real sight to that changing.

The only other piece of jewelry (if you can call it that) is a simple watch. The date is perpetually set to the 26th. Something with the mechanism broke within a year of buying it. However, it still manages to keep the time, and really that is all that matters. The watch may seem a bit of an anachronism for someone my age, an outdated piece of technology replaced by the ubiquity of cell phones and their precise, satellite-driven time. Indeed, the lack of a cell phone on my person would probably seem strange. What 20-something (okay, almost 30-something) does not have a cell phone somewhere within hands' reach? I own it out of necessity, but I rarely, if ever, carry it with me. It sits forgotten most days, ringer on silent, hidden in the bowels of whatever purse or bag I have used for the day. You would not learn a whole lot from it. There wouldn't be any incoming call history (no one ever calls the phone) to check, and the outgoing calls would list only one number, a number with a Texas area code that hasn't changed in over 28 years and will always be, in some way, home.

Moving beyond the simple accessories, a quick assessment would show a woman of inexpensive tastes. On any given day, you will find me wearing at least one article of clothing from Target (if not the entire ensemble), supplemented by pieces picked up here or there on clearance from other major discount chain retailers. The style is basic--vaguely professional in that what is worn is a step up from jeans and a t-shirt, but nothing that calls attention to itself either. Colors tend to be neutral, cuts classic. It is possible that some of the dresses are a bit more feminine, but never really blatantly 'girly.' The shoes will most likely be a pair of flats, worn down from excessive use and long, drawn out walks during lunch. I don't bother with make up, and my hair is allowed to do whatever it feels. While I do care what others think about my appearance as much as I don't want to be dismissed as slovenly or tasteless, I don't make much more of an effort than that. If it's clean, matches, and comfortable, then it will suffice.