Uncloseted

I came up with an ingenius way to hang up my belts and purses in my closet: these big ‘ol plastic hooks from 3M (or Command or whatever). So, although the rest of my apartment is still in disarray, my closet is to die for.

Only when I came home tonight from work and saw my closet I wanted to die.

The hooks were ripped off of the wall (and one is still missing), my shoes were scattered off their metal racks, my belts and purses all up in the sole mix. And wires were hanging from the wall.

Early this morning—well, earlier for me, at least—a slew of men came knocking at my door and ringing the doorbell repetitively. They claimed to be folks from Verizon wiring the buildings in my apartment complex. I knew they were supposed to be coming, but I thought, perhaps during the last three weeks that they were supposed to be coming, they’d already gotten my apartment. Of course not. They waited until the absolute last day. So when I came down to the door just in time to stop them from breaking the chain lock, they informed me that they couldn’t come back another time. And they promised the whole fiasco would be painless and only take five minutes…LIARS!

Begrudgingly, dressed my my most attractive pjs and head scarf (not), I let them in, folding my arms in front of my chest so they wouldn’t be able to peep any more than through my thin shirt than they already could (although I did want to stick out my arm or something and trip the guy walking up the stairs).

So they drill and my grogginess subsides to a splitting headache. Then the light-eyed genius, who in any other circumstance I may have considered to be handsome (but at this moment I knew was satan’s spawn), informed me that they’d have to come back in twenty minutes.

So I waited. And waited.

An hour later, I decided to get dressed and get on with what I needed to do and go to work.

And so, I returned tonight to find what they did while I was away. (I want to hunt them down and kick them in the shins with every pair of heels I own!)

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“You should be writing this down,” my best friend informed me early yesterday morning as I suggested a hilarious “what if” situation.

She’d called me because she couldn’t sleep due to the extremely loud lovemaking going on in the dorm room beside hers. Yet another thing I should put in some short story or screenplay.

I should be writing. I should be doing more with myself than what I am. That’s what I’ve been telling myself all week long. If only I could finish unpacking and organizing, I could actually be doing something with the time I have here.

It will happen. I know it. Until then…

My first

I keep seeing these bulletin postings on Myspace titled “Do you remember your first?” or “Do you remember your last?” Afraid they’re some weird way for hackers to steal our identity, I haven’t opened any of them. Yet I’m curious (and I’ve previously discussed what curiosity gets you).

So, how will I remember my first…night in my new apartment, that is?

For more than three weeks, I’ve been paying for an apartment I haven’t been living in. During my first week in Virginia, most of my worldly possessions where still in Illinois. After everything finally got here, I slowly began to unpack—spending an hour or two each day before going to work.

Well, I’ve finally done enough to spend the night. And while my first night was quite uneventful, this place has definitely given me some stories.

The skeleton in my closet: I found an actually skeleton. As I was cleaning off the shelf in my bedroom closet I can across what looked like a tiny hand and arm. Maybe it’s just a rock, I thought. Finally mustering up enough courage to pick it up, I saw that it really was a skeletal arm and hand. Thank goodness it was plastic!

My voicemail’s full: Before I even had the opportunity to set up my voicemail, the inbox is full of messages. Someone really loves me? Well, more than someone does, but no one actually called for me. I’d just like the person who had my phone number before me to know that their test results came back normal, there was a dentist appointment for Tony (I hope you made it), and a rabit raccoon is on the loose in Virginia Beach.

A warrant for my arrest: Actually, there’s a warrant out for Shirley, who apparently lived here before me. Could it have something to do with the skeleton? I don’t know, but when I got home from work last night, there was an official-looking piece of paper on my door. After calling the bank (and leaving the wrong phone number because I have yet to memorize my new number) and the City of Richmond, I was told to just trash the warrant. I just hope the boys in blue don’t show up for me…hmm, unless one of them is cute and single.

What matters most

The other night, I got into a rather passionate discussion with one of my friends concerning the state of American media.

He was telling me that he doesn’t watch the news because the media is too into entertaining viewers and delivering bias news. Instead, he gets his news from the BBC.

After hearing a few of his blanket statements, I saw red. Anytime anyone criticizes the media with little to back it up, I take it very personally. Grant it, there are flaws, which I’ll gladly participate in a discourse over. But I find any discussion in which broadcast journalism gets grouped in with print and encompasses tabloids, the paparazzi, and anything reported on E! to be ignorant and a waste of my energy. Thank God, my friend’s statements didn’t continue down this path.

Sadly, we agreed that there is a vicious cycle out there that prevents people from getting the news they deserve and journalists from providing such quality news. Lucky for him, however, he was hundreds of miles away when he suggested journalists should sacrifice some of their pay so the industry wouldn’t be so dependent on advertisers. How can you really be paid less than peanuts? (Keep in mind, this is being suggested by a computer engineer.)

The truth is many stories are out there; they just aren’t given the time and space to be told. But then again, there are some journalists out there that have also forgotten what matters most.

Take Jena 6, for example.

For weeks and weeks, I have received countless e-mails and myspace postings about these six teenagers. Yet, I couldn’t find anything on the news wires about it. At first I wondered if this was all an Internet urban legend. I had to do more digging.

What I found was taht there was indeed a story, yet for some reason on one was telling it (and for some reason, in my mind, I kept seeing Kanye West at another telethon now talking about the media). New man on the totem pole or not, I had to say something.

Last Tuesday, I went to my editor and asked her if Link had run a story on Jena 6. She told me they had run a brief when everything first happened but hadn’t run anything since. Well, my editor and I agreed that the whole thing was a big deal and we should have some kind of coverage (although at this point still nothing was surfacing on the news wires).

What resulted from our conversation was her making a call upstairs to our parent paper The Virginian-Pilot. She suggested they write a story covering the local angle—a busload of people were driving to Louisiana to participate in the Thursday rally and universities in the area were holding different events.

When it came down to us, I was given first dibs on editing the story for our paper, which was going to be featured on our cover.

To many of you, this may mean nothing. To me, it meant the world. I was shown just how much my voice, and everyone else’s voice at work, matters. I got to see just how dedicated the people I work with are to doing their jobs right.

Journalists can actually impact the world (and we do it every day). I am so proud of what I am—how I get to play a role in what matters most.

What I am

Here I am again, back in IHOP, only it’s a different IHOP. With so many great restaurants within walking distance from my apartment, I became overwhelmed this afternoon (Wenesday). So in a panic, I returned to the tried and true.

Plus, this IHOP has James. Except I don’t see James today, which probably is a good thing considering I’m short on time. Which probably is a good thing considering I’m short on time. Last week when I came to this IHOP covered in dust and stairs on my shorts from God knows what I was unpacking and cleaning, I met James. Finding it hard to believe that I was single and eating alone, the server came by my table flirting profusely and talking a lot.

Was he serious? I looked like crap.

I felt like crap the week before when I met Dorian, the delivery guy. Getting over to my apartment early in the morning to wait for my furniture, I had thrown on what ever clothes I could find and had slept on the floor. So, when I opened the door, I had to look like a mess.

Yet this guy continued to ask about whether I had a husband, boyfriend or whatever. He asked for my number, but I told him I’d get his instead. Then I said I’d call, and I had ever intention of calling. But I haven’t.

“Do you really want to date a delivery guy?” my mom asked me when I told her all about it. I thought she was being cruel and judgemental.

“He’d be someone to do something with.”

“But are you interested in him? Do you see yourself dating this guy? Because if you don’t, it wouldn’t be fair to him,” she continued.

“I just want to have someone to hang out with.” I thought this conversation was way too much for something so simple.

Yet, I’ve been thinking about what my mother said to me over and over again. And I haven’t called him.

The thing is, I realized, while I do want to meet people and find friends here, I don’t want to start off dating a whole bunch of people. That’s just not who I am.

Man, after Jeremy and I were dating for a while, I was relieved. I thought I’d never have to go through all of this again. When I date someone, I’m looking for my future husband, not just a good time.

So, to avoid so much future heartache, I have to start being more selective, more specific in knowing what I’m looking for. Seriously, I’d rather be single (as much as that pains me to say) then go through all of the heartbreak again (and again).

Don’t get me wrong, the only way to you get to know someone is by hanging out with them and spending time together. Therefore, I’m not going to sit around in my room awaiting Prince Charming. I’m sure they’ll be plenty dates before I meet the right one. But I shouldn’t start off with the wrong one thinking he’ll change to be the right one.

Call me judgemental or whatever, but my mom was right. I couldn’t date a delivery guy like Dorian because there were no sparks. I’m not trying to snub delivery guys at all. It’s just not who I am.

Does that make sense? Am I coming off as mean?

I’m still working out the kinks in knowing what I want in a mate, trying to rationalize what I do and don’t deserve.

Anyone care to shed some light?

Gone sweet

Yup, I’m back in the South where the only thing more plentiful than Confederate flags is sweet tea.

I can get sweet tea anywhere I want. I ordered it yesterday with my daily meal (notify Mary Kate and Nicole Richie, I’m down to one meal a day and carrots) from Sonic before I even looked to see if they had it. Sure enough, they did.

Now all I need to make life perfect is to finish unpacking, get more sleep, make more money, and find my soulmate. Just kidding. I don’t really believe in soulmates (and if I did, mine died more than 10 years ago).

And I’m not too sure what I believe when it comes to Confederate flags (ahh, back to that). I used to cringe every time I saw one. OK. I still cringe, but not as much.

I remember going to Stone Mountain as a child and watching the spectacular laser show (which, the way, has yet to change in my lifetime). It was there I heard Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” for the first time. And there, I first saw a Confederate flag. I remember cheering along with the crowd as the image lit up the side of the mountain.

Since then, I’ve learned what the flag signifies, and it offends me. But not all flag bearers offend me. I can explain.

In undergrad, there was this white guy that would come restock the vending machines in the newspaper office building. He was the nicest, sweetest man. Then I remember catching a glimpse of his Confederate-clad cell phone. How could a guy like that be so nice and work on a black college campus?

And what about Kid Rock? At his concert a few years ago, I was having a good ‘ol time with two of my dear friends (we even had RJ getting into it) until an enormous flag dropped. My friends (who were white) suddenly didn’t know how to react. And, quite frankly, I didn’t either. Kid Rock’s son is black. He couldn’t be a racist, could he?

The argument has gone on for years. What does the flag stand for? For me, it is an awful reminder of a cruel time. It reminds me of just how much my ancestors were mistreated in this country. That type of treatment should never be celebrated. Yet some fly it high to celebrate Southern culture, not necessarily condoning the institution of slavery. And these people don’t offent me. I’ve actually tried to understand their argument. An argument, I suppose, they are entitled to.