I decided late last week to give swimming a try, mostly because I was incredibly sick of running and all the pools in D.C. are free if you are a resident (which is the only reason I became a D.C. resident, by the way).  I packed a two-piece suit, because I don’t anything of the one-piece variety, a towel and goggles, and headed to the pool with the intention of swimming laps.

I vaguely remember some swimming lessons as a kid, and growing up in Minnesota, we were full-fledged water babies May through August at my mom’s cabin.  Many of my friends growing up were on the swim team, so by comparison I knew I wasn’t the best swimmer on the block but figured I could pass as an adult.

The second I jumped in the water I knew I was horribly horribly  wrong.  My goggles fogged up (maybe I should have gone for the $20 pair instead of the $10), my bathing suit bottoms slipped off my hips and I inhaled a mouth full of chlorine.  Being the ever so graceful lady that I am, I tied one side of my bathing suit bottoms in a knot to hold them up (literally) and spit in my goggles– a childhood trick that has no scientific basis whatsoever.

I spent the next 30 minutes breast stroking and free styling back and forth across the pool praying the Speedo-clad men and women carrying fancy kickboards would pick another lane because there was a good chance I might accidentally kick them as they sped by me and holy shit, they were making me feel bad.  Because again, I thought I was a decent swimmer, but in reality, my skill level might just be one notch above not drowning.

They called a lane change at the end of my half hour and I gleefully jumped out of the pool, glad for an excuse to quit.  Surveying my surroundings before I headed to the locker room, I smiled at the old ladies doing water aerobics and the younger kids splashing on the steps– in this transient city of ours, it was nice to see of community of people.  And, for my safety as well as others, a lifeguard just in case.

Me: What’d you do today?

Liza: I worked until like 2AM this morning and am starting to freak out because I need international medical insurance and can’t find my cell phone charger converter and have to fit three works of work into 5 days!  What are you up to?

Me: I just cased Ann Taylor Loft and Anthropologie for my summer wardrobe.  We’re both doing our part for society.  I’m stimulating the economy and you’re saving the rain forest.  I’d say that’s a draw.

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Also, I just got the following g chat from Barrington–

Barrington: Haha, you blog is blocked at my job now because it is in the web category “pornography.”

Me: Tumbrl is blogged at my job.

Barrington:  Yeah, but it isn’t blocked because it is a blog.  It is blocked because it is “pornography.”

My bad, mom.

You guys, it was blissful. I ran to the gym Sunday afternoon and by the time I got there, was literally giddy with a combo runner + weather high that made me unable to pause between sentences or stop grinning. “Hiiiii it’s so nice outside I’m so happy this is amazing how are you I’m great!” I said to J, who spots me on the bench press sometimes. And other times takes me out to dinner.

I’m not mentally prepared for 105 degrees with 145% humidity.  But I am certainly ready to sit on my front porch reading my book, to sleep with my window open and ban my tights to the back of my closet until next year.

*Have I mentioned? A doctor told me once after allergy testing that I’m allergic “to pretty much everything outside” in D.C., so that’s great.

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I told J stories about my grandma Jean, my mother’s mother, last night. She was one classy lady—the best way to describe her– and we adored each other.

She’s one of those people you can feel the miss for deep in your bones.  I sat down at my mother’s kitchen table a couple of years after she died, put my head down and burst into tears because I missed her so much that day.  ”Oh, honey,” my mom said.  ”I cried the whole way home from work yesterday.”  Sometimes, there must be something in the air.  Springtime maybe.

I have one of her sweaters buried deep in my closet. I refuse to wear it, because when I bury my face in the wool I can almost smell her.

But Roommate B’s girlfriend J (known from here on out as GFJ, because that makes sense),who is also in communications in an industry very similar to my own, and also a sometimes-when-I-feel-like-it blogger, and I have decided to recommit to tend to our little blogs.  And say nice things to each other about the words we successfully get on paper.  So we’ve got that going for us.

I’m afraid I’m going to greatly disappoint GFJ right off the bat though– when I steadfastly refuse to only put one space between sentences.  But I assume that’s something we can work through.

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This year has been a start.  My friend’s mother passed away, my uncle passed away, my great-aunt passed away.  One per month in 2013.  While very sad, it’s be a nice reminder that life is always a little sweeter than you think.  And to not sweat the small stuff.  And it’s all kind of small stuff.

In other news, my cousin had a baby girl.  I think she’s #65 if you add up the cousins and the spouses and the great-grand babies.  As my aunts say, we come from a tribe.

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I was “snowed in” with Tsunami the dog, who choose to sleep completely under the bed, I assume to protest his owner Bree’s absence. I may walk him and feed him and pet him, but I just don’t quite add up.  Or he agrees with most people I’ve ever shared a bed with that I steal the covers.

Not a single snowflake stuck to the ground in Northeast D.C. yesterday, but work was still called off, so I conference called and responded to emails in my pajamas and didn’t shower until 5PM.  I made an egg scramble with bacon and cheddar cheese and broccoli  for breakfast and silently thanked Bree’s mother for buying her a Keurig coffee machine* for Christmas and finished season three of Downton Abby.

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We have a new roommate, Roommate S!  He hails from the great state of Pennsylvania and is a lobbyist and is currently sleeping on an air mattress   And that’s about all I know about him.  But he seems nice and like he’ll fit into the frat house very well.

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And that’s about all I have for you this morning.  We’re all doing just fine.  The sun is shining.  I made it to work on time. My hair is just as frizzy as I suspected and my clothes match.  It’s going to be a good day.

*The local coffee shop is closed while new owners take over, the day would have been a disaster without that Keurig.

4 weeks in and this year has started with a bang.  No time to adjust.  Or to get one’s bearings.  In such a way that I’ve been hoarding soup– chicken noodle, lentil soup with sausage, carrot and ginger, a single serving of wild rice soup with ham and a full tupperware of chicken stock– in my freezer.  I’ve taken up running, like actual running, with feels both good and the current fool proof way to quiet my brain.  I’ve also been calling my parents a lot.

There have been a series of mini-earthquakes, although the earthquakes are not my own.  I won’t say much about them on these pages, other than if you have a spare candle to light, do so for Roommate A’s family.  Or get on your benders or click your beads, as my family would say. The one thing I will say is that situation has taught me that we, as a household, have developed an amazing circle of friends.  Something that you always know, but really recognize in the face of these mini-earthquakes.  It’s nice to be reminded that people are good.

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My new boss started a couple weeks ago.  She is decisive and smart and to the point, which I appreciate.  She stood next to my desk her first week, as I explained one thing or another, and reached for an open box of Triscuit crackers I had sitting on my desk. “I’m starving, can I have a few?” she asked, while simultaneously opening the box and reaching in.  I decided to like her immediately.  She’s going to make my brain hurt and stretch me outside of my professional comfort zone.  It’s going to be stressful and great.

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On one of those gorgeous 50 degree days we had a couple weeks back, I decided to bike myself to Georgetown for a little window shopping.  By the time I reached Wisconsin Avenue, my jeans had worn completely through on the thigh.  So I took that opportunity to purchase a new pair, since I was in the perfect location– same brand, style and almost the same color.  Just one size down.  Look at me go.

I was out with a friend this morning, on a coffee and botanical garden date.  It’s been cold in D.C. the past week (by D.C. standards at least) and the warm, humid air of the botanical garden, with a good book and a Starbucks latte, is good for the soul. I walked to the gym afterwards, wearing my new jeans, that you should know I’ve washed twice.  As I peeled them off in the gym locker room, I noticed my legs were dyed blue from hip all the way down to my white crew socks.  Fun for me, I only had shorts in my locker. The ladies watching my scrub my legs with a white, soon to be light blue, gym towel must have thought I was crazy.  Sometimes, I feel the same way.

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I’m online dating.  Which, as I’ve said, is an exercise in rejection.  As it turns out, match.com really drives that point home.  I tend to email eligible bachelors from bed on Saturday mornings, as I’ve decided, for the next few months at least, that getting out of bed at a specified time or to an alarm clock on Saturday mornings is absolutely unacceptable. Sometimes I email people I think I actually could be interested in.  But mostly it’s for sport.  Or curiosity.

As it turns out– on match.com, if the person in question you’re messaging isn’t interested, you get the following email: Some people just don’t now a good thing… [Username] isn’t interested right now. He appreciates your taking the time to write, but just doesn’t think it’s a good match. Don’t be discouraged. Magic happens when you least expect it. With millions of singles on Match.com, you could be just a click away from finding someone who’s right for you. This seems incredibly unnecessary to me.  Thanks, dude.

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Also, Barrington’s birthday was this weekend.  So happy birthday, Barrington!  I texted him my well wishes and he responded– you almost forgot.  Yes, I did almost forget.  But I didn’t. While we’re at it, it was my father’s birthday last week as well.  In his honor, we went out for cocktails– American honey on ice for me and Johnny Walker for him– and sushi on H Street.  He’s still got it.

Out on the Cupid pub crawl, the one that I swore I wouldn’t attend and then took back a day later, I once again had to remind a frat boy friends of the rules.

“Sam!” I said by way of greeting, pointing to his shoes and clearly disappointed.

“I’m not in your house!” he responded.  ”I KNEW you were going to stay something.”

I emailed a 29 year old guy last week on OKC who’s profile I clearly didn’t read all the way through the first time around, as I later realized that he had two young girls and an ex-wife.  I didn’t respond when he emailed me back, but still received the following message yesterday morning:

This is Tim’s wife. He is not divorced. We were actually trying to work on things. I met him online and he left his exwife for me. We have two girls and now he’s trying to do the same thing to me. Trust me for your own good stay away. 

Whoa, nelly.

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In person dating, at it’s finest:

I attended a house party in Bloomingdale Saturday night with many many D.C. hipster kids.  There was roughly 100 deviled eggs (I ate about half) and a three man band that included a drummer, guitarist and a dude with a banjo that only sometimes wore socks and shoes.

We sang and danced to a wide variety of cover songs– everything from “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” to R.Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)” and did a whole shit ton of foot stomping, because that is the preferred way to dance a couple cocktails in.

Once the band finished and the Pandora station turned up, the dancing continued.  The banjo playing dude (with his shoes back on) started to dance himself over to me, and in what can only be described as a hipster mating dance, lassoed me to him with his blue flannel shirt.  Essentially, the most hipster way to hit on someone.  Ever.

Dating mixers, at it’s finest:

A bunch of the boys– frat boys and frat boy friends alike– have decided to attend the Living Social Cupid bar crawl this weekend and invited me along.  As I’ve learned in the past, going out carousing with the boys is like an (pardon my language) automatic cockblock.  No one wants to hit on the lady surrounded by many many dudes.  I’ll stay home, thank you.

He set an alarm for 8AM on New Year’s Day, so we could start off 2012 right, or bright and early, or seize the year, or something equally ridiculous.  Which I’m certain I was furious about for the entirety of the time it took me to commute from breakfast to get back into my own bed that morning.  Because as far as I’m concerned, I will be seizing absolutely nothing until January 2nd.

A fair assessment of my how year continued, as this gentlemen and I spent very much of 2012 either pissing one another off or enjoying each others company over pizza.  Until we started pissing each other off more often than not.  One thing is for certain though, he always insisted on getting me out of bed far too early.  Because again, he’s old like that.

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I feared I was at risk of literally welcoming in 2013 alone on my couch, with a bottle of red wine and the 5 seasons of “West Wing” I have yet to watch.  Because when I said, “Yes!  ‘West Wing’ is on Netflix.  I won’t be leaving the house for the next month!” I was kidding.  Until I wasn’t.  And everyone else I knew was either still out of town for Christmas or doing something romantic.

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The frat boys invited me to Baltimore, or I invited myself, depending on how you look at it.  I worked until 1PM (completely unfair), spent 45 whole minutes at the gym (15 exercising, 20 in the hot tub with a trashy magazine) and was home, showered, napped and dressed by 5PM for our short venture north.

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We drank wine, ate mussels, ordered fancy cocktails, took shots of Fireball Whiskey at a house party, watched fireworks at midnight and danced at a local bar.  We ate late night snacks and piled 6 people into a cab.  Roommate B’s girlfriend took her high heels off and walked barefoot down the street.  We all offered piggyback rides.  Because that certainly isn’t wise.

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I started 2013 with no alarm, bacon and eggs, setting off the smoke alarms and a good cup of coffee.  After a shower, I was hauled to the bar for the start of the South Carolina football game.  Which is, I’m afraid, a very accurate assessment of how I’ll  spend my year.  Although mostly against my will and often countered by reading a book on the living room floor.  Did you know football is on every single day of the week?

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We drove home and I crawled into bed around 8PM in my pajamas, started a new episode of “West Wing” and prepared myself to seize the year.  On January 2nd.

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There is something about New Year’s that always makes me feel thankful.  Thankful for the good people around me, fresh starts and slight hangovers easily cured with bacon and a good cup of coffee.

I rang in 2013 with people I adore, roommates that– after almost 3 years of shacking up with– feel more like brothers than housemates.  Properly intoxicated, full of good food and wearing a very pretty dress stitched with hot air balloons.  And if Tuesday night was indicative of how I’ll spend my year– well, that’s certainly something I can get behind.

So in 2013, I’d like to exercise more and eat less bread sticks and obviously quit smoking because I’m not a total idiot (just a partial once since I started smoking again in the first place).  But I think about 80% of humans have similar goals to be more healthy and less fat in the New Year.  Which is why my gym is a terrible place the entire month of January (We get it!  You are crabby because you haven’t eaten carbs in 35.7 hours, but please be less of a dick to the people around you).

2012 kind of sucked, mostly because being an adult sucks.  Contributing to your 401K sucks (but so responsible!).  Break ups suck.  Job hunting sucks.  Because as I’ve said this 100 times– job hunting is a strict exercise in rejection.  I went on a shit ton of interviews this year and sent out about 10 million resumes.  And was anxious as fuck about it all the time and unhappy and bored at my old job.

But you know what?  I got a new job!  A new job that even when is stressful as all hell, I really enjoy.  That was my huge goal for 2012.  And I accomplished it.  And that feels awesome.  I’m getting a new boss in 2013, so my work-related goal for 2013 is politely inform her that I am her new protégée.  And that she needs to mold me into the best damn communications manager this city has ever seen.  Mold me!

In 2013, I’d also like to have a pretty awesome adventure.  You know, once I get some vacation days.  I had to go to Minnesota at shit ton in 2012 (for pretty great reasons), which took up a lot of time.  And as I was job hunting,  I was really hesitant to plan a big vacation with plane tickets and hotel reservations because knowing my luck, the second I committed to a non-refundable 10 days in Aruba, I’d receive a job offer that wanted me to start the day before I was set to depart.  Because that’s how awesome my luck is.  So I stayed home a lot, with a glass of wine and a book and my fingers crossed.

So 2013– I’d like to (literally) dust off my snowboard in the corner of my bedroom, finally visit Annapolis (which I think has been my goal every year since I moved to DC) and travel someplace awesome.  And come home with a thrilling story that hopefully doesn’t involve me crashing on my bicycle on a dirt road.

I would also like to read more books, write more stories, be kinder, cook more meatloaf, take up a hobby or extra-curricular activity (any ideas?), be great at my job, sleep soundly at night, dance my butt off, laugh until I feel like I’m going to throw up and continue to surround myself with human beings that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Happy New Year, everyone.  Hope this next year is better than the last.

My brothers, mother and I filled our bellies with red wine and pasta and bread before I was to be whisked off to the airport by 6PM with just enough time to make it through security and onto my flight.

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And then we were delayed an hour and 5 minutes.  And then the flight attendants were missing in action.  And then we were boarding a full hour and a half after our departure time and scheduled to land in DC after midnight.  Which was infuriating.

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Many people have skills– the ability to do algebra and follow recipes and not want to throw up in hot yoga.  I cannot do any of those things.  What I can do is fall asleep on any moving vehicle in a matter of seconds.

As a result, I haven’t been awake for takeoff in years.  And also why if you stick me on a metro train home from Rockville after dark, I’ll most likely wake up at Largo Town Center.

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There were at least TWO HUNDRED people waiting for a cab last night at DCA.  Bless Uber or else I never would have made it home.  I crawled into bed around 2AM and, of course, wired from standing in the cold among the stressed Christmas travelers.  I tossed and turned for an hour but was delighted to be in my own bed.

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I firmly believe that the powers that be made leggings and an oversize sweater trendy because it is the closest you can be to wearing pajamas in public (or in the office).

It’s good to be home.  Although I certainly wish I wasn’t at work.