A lot of us move to D.C. never expecting to call it home. It’s the city people come to for metropolitan opportunities and cosmopolitan experiences. Or just to escape. For all of those reasons, I was one of those people. Then Belize happened, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Six years ago, I left the rolling hills in the Shenandoah Valley to attend law school in the D.C. area. After four years imbibing some of America’s brightest legal minds and spending sticky summer nights in Georgetown and Clarendon, D.C. still didn’t feel like home. It felt like where I went to school. Then I took a job at one of the hundreds of law firms in town, and embraced my role as an associate. Somewhere between drafting briefs and arguing motions, there was dining in Penn’s Quarter, cheering on the Nats over hotdogs, trolling for books at Olson’s, buying a lifetime’s worth of cheese at Eastern Market, listening to concerts at D.A.R. Hall and the 9:30 club and visiting Thomas Jefferson’s solitary memorial for advice. I joined other runners to trot out local favorite races amidst warm crowds and clanking cowbells at the George Washington Ten Miler, Cherry Blossom Ten Miler and the Marine Corps Marathon. The good residents of Washington even generously came out to support my book tour when my first book, Growing Up Moffett, was released last spring. Still, D.C. was, well, here. Home was somewhere else. Even if I wasn’t sure where that was after six years.

This changed a few months ago when insanity took hold. Also known as spontaneous adventure vacation planning from the comfort of one’s own office. (The internet in daylight hours is a dangerous place.) Suffocating under the lingering grayness of winter, I jumped on the chance to snorkel and sea kayak my way around Lighthouse Reef, the largest reef in the Western Hemisphere, fifty-five miles off raw and beautiful Belize. Two months later, I was waist deep in translucent turquoise water embracing a world without a blackberry. It was bliss. But that was before the sunburn. And the broken toe. And the sea sickness. And the sunstroke. And the rats that ate through my bag for a forgotten Snicker’s bar. Shockingly, I suddenly missed home.

But what was home? This question arose with sharp clarity after the second night of being soaked by a Caribbean thunderstorm while trying to sleep in my “luxury tent.” My thoughts drifted to a soft place filled with favorite authors, ice cold drinks, Gene Weingarten’s sarcasm, good friends’ laughter, and personalized politicians. In my hallucinations, this imaginary heaven was situated a handful of blocks from Eastern Market’s Blue Bucks, Sonoma’s cheese plate, Schneider’s wine selection, and the Supreme Court’s steps. It was D.C.

I sat up.

The cliché phrase “home is where the heart is” popped into my head. Part of me wanted to laugh. The application of such a country stenciled mantra to D.C.’s suited perfectionism would normally have been ridiculous. This time though, it somehow fit. I fit. All these years of enjoying the city, I was not just a residential tourist. It was establishing a home. A home erected on historically rich foundations, structured by diverse experiences, and filled with innumerable friends of all walks and sizes. A home much like my city. And at that particular moment, most importantly, a home that did not involve leaking canvas in any shape or form.

I lay back down and closed my eyes, warm with the thought of home and drifted off to the words of Thornton Wilder. “When you’re safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you’re having an adventure you wish you were safe at home.” So it was and so it will be. At least now, I know where home is.

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Feedback—Janet Jackson
Rhianna—Please Don’t Stop the Music (even thought you want to)
Danity Kane—Damaged (support the Diddy)
Lupe Fiasco—Superstar (because you are)
Metro Station—Shake It (because you want to)
Miley Cyrus—See You Again (Two words—Vanity Fair)
Leona Lewis—Bleed (as my 14 year old sister says, “isn’t she dead yet?”)
Plumb—Good Behavior (your personal anthem)
The Killers—Uncle Johnny (the one Killer’s song the radio PTB’s will never play)
Heidi Newfield—Johnny & June (the best wrong love song of the summer)
Cake—Short Skirt, Long Jacket (hello wannabe self)
John Mayer—Say (only inspirational song on the list)
Taylor Swift—Our Song (flashback)
Jimmy Buffett—Margaritaville (Summer staple)
UNC Clef Hangers—She Has No Time (Do NOT ask. Just download. Listen ALL the way through. Once you pick up your jaw, you’ll thank me.)

If you have additional suggestions, please include below in comments.  FYI.  The brooding rock list is forthcoming.  (You think I actually write to the above pop nonsense?)

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While this may be a normal event in most twenty-something’s lives, it is not in mine. In fact, family and friends have actively counseled one another against my involvement. Perhaps it is because I hate weddings. Perhaps it is because if forced to attend one, I tend to be parked at the bar before and after the wedding. (Although it’s the “during” part that seems to cause the most issues.) Or perhaps it’s because the last time I played bridesmaid, I was running a pool on the side as to how long the happy couple would last. The bride never forgave me when I won two years later.

Suffice to say, someone put their better judgment aside when they asked me to be in their wedding. Seeing as said someone was my little sister, I was compelled by family pride, blood loyalties, and mother dearest to say “yes.” Oh, and the bride to be is my editor.

Number one rule in writing. Do not upset the editor.

At least not when she is presently in the process of revising the second book’s proposal.

So I said “yes, I’d love to” and used up my quota on enthusiastic “congratulations” and “wows” for the next eight years.

And now, here I am, preparing to be a bridesmaid. Whatever the means. As I have no prior history on how to be a good one, suggestions and comments are appreciated. Otherwise, I’m fielding offers for a side pool.

And if you bet anything less than “life long bliss,” I will hunt you down mercilessly.

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How To Get to Heaven or Hell Without Going Through Dallas-Fort Worth

What else can you expect from a book whose opening page reads “What some people have said about the Kinkster” and the first listing is from President George W. Bush? (He is “a Texas legend.”) It is worth noting the next comment is from New York Times Book Review, which calls Kinky “the world’s funniest, bawdies, and most politically incorrect country singer turned mystery writer . . . . the humor gleams as brightly as Kinky’s brontosaurus foreskin cowboy boots.” And yes, within the book Kinky instructs all wannabe Texans to promptly procure a pair of aforementioned boots. Immediately.

This book is a priceless guide to anyone who knows a “real Texan.” After all, without Kinky, how would one know that a real Texan would never say the “I think that song nees more French horn,” “the tires on that truck are too big,” or “duct tape will not fix that”? And when it’s not making you laugh out loud in public, it is imparting oddly serious stories with a shockingly sarcastic bent about history, life, love, and loss in the lone Republic state while introducing readers to the raw, western Cowpokes of Ace Reid.

I pass this gem along in the tradition in which it was give, as a gift, and with the instructions provided upon receipt. READ IT.

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Head: We are doing this, because we signed up for it.

Knees: You’ve signed up for many things and not done them.

Head: This is not one of them. See, we’re running.

Knees: Yes, but this hurts. Here, let me show you how much this hurts.

Head: Ouch, hey, you’re on my side.

Knees: Correction, were on your side. Now it’s every joint for themselves.

Head: Noticed. Look, we have not been running much this spring…

Knees: Hurrah.

Head: The jeans don’t fit…

Knees: Buy new ones.

Head: I need a stress reliever from my job…

Knees: You have a job? I just thought you sat motionless at a desk twelve hours a day.

Head: That’s called being a lawyer.

Knees: You need a new job.

Head: F.o.c.u.s.

Knees: Masochist, is that you speaking?  Remember Philly?

[The remainder of conversation has been deleted due to excessively inappropriate language, and as such, exceeds this blog’s standards for decency and class and vulgarity. In light of the fact Tucker Max has visited this page, you can deduce for yourself the nature of conversation that must have ensued.]

Somewhere in there, I crossed the finish line on the north end of Union Street in Old Town Alexandria. There was a hot shower, slow brunch, and long nap afterwards. Or so I’ve been told by the fairy race goddess that chauffeured me around. I was too tired to remember.

Now I’m sitting here, consoling my knees with beers (they demanded one a piece) and rewarding my mind with Raymond Chandler. I suspect tomorrow that the Knees will remind me of their displeasure, but for now, I have happy tired legs. The inaugural spring punishment run is over.

See ya’ll at next year’s race.

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After all, I am from D.C.  And yes, it is true, lawyers and sharks do mix.

All jokes aside, losing one’s lunch in a “resort” outhouse 55 miles from the nearest continent was not the highlight of my Belize adventure vacation. Snorkeling in crystal clear Caribbean waters, watching sunrises and sunsets on a nearly deserted island, and making a host of new Canadian friends occupy that highlight reel. Admittedly, said highlight reel was on pause while I addressed my sunstroke-meets-sea-sickness-meets-migraine issues. Only after the wooden floor stopped swimming, did I allow myself to appreciate the level of premeditation necessary to get myself into this position.

After surviving two trials and D.C.’s winter wonder land of neurotic snow and perfectionist sleet, I decided that a vacation was in order. Preferably somewhere sunny. And warm. And with sand. Never one to do things the easy way, I drop kicked relaxing resorts in favor of checking out REI Adventure Vacations, which showed pictures of a cheery chap with a healthy glow lazily gliding over turquoise waters in his sea kayak off some vision of paradise in hither untouched Belize.

Three months later, I sat where the cheery chap had been, only I was paddling for my life against vicious waves, over previously and violently encountered coral, baking under a nuclear sun that had turned my SPF 50 into baby oil, and wondering if my parents would miss me when I was gone.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but at the time, it felt like it. It was the third day of our stay on Half Moon Caye, a breathtaking island largely untouched as a nature preserve. We were sea kayaking across the channel to Long Caye for an afternoon of snorkeling. As soon as my kayak landed, I pulled a Columbus. (Read: I dropped on all fours and kissed the sand.) That wasn’t how I ended up in the outhouse though. No, that came from eating Phillip the genius cook’s carefully prepared lunch and then going for a snorkel in the “aquarium.” Which was fine, and cool, and awe inspiring, until we drifted over the atoll’s drop off and exchanged perfectly good, visible coral and fishes from 20 feet above for a 1000 foot drop into blue, impenetrable darkness. As we floated with the hurricane size swells, I caught myself reaching down into the water to hold onto something. There was nothing.

Ever been afraid of heights in the water? You would be if you looked down into an impenetrable abyss and your mind kept projecting Jaws barreling out of the blue to eat you.

But it wasn’t Jaws that got me. It was those bloody waves. And the sunstroke. Followed by the mother of migraines. By the time we got back to boat, I was sitting as still as humanly possible and praying for land. Or an apocalypse.  Whichever. Twenty minutes later, I was pulling myself out of the boat and power walking down the path towards the previously discovered “resort,” a lovely model building erected by a land baron attempting to lure buyers to purchase lots on the private island. Blessings on that man and his hammock in which I fell prostrate on to recover after the outhouse encounter.

Aside from this lovely experience, the vacation rocked. (Yes, I’m being serious.) The words “peaceful” and “happy” have been applied by colleagues and friends to my current appearance. I just haven’t bothered to explain it is because I have come to appreciate D.C. after my little jaunt. After all, if one must choose between contentment in an outhouse while experiencing sunstroke-seasickness-migraine-hell 55 miles from medical help or being next to DeafCon One, it’s an easy decision.

Almost.

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But I’ll be back in a week.  Maybe.

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Upon arrival at EMU, it didn’t take me long to grasp that I was in a different kind of place. I had been raised in a Baptist family that boasted a military lineage that had fought in every American war since the Revolutionary War, while EMU was filled with pacifist ideas, beliefs, and people. I had known pacifism was part of the school’s history, of course, but I had failed to appreciate it was a very real part of the school’s ongoing education. A line between me and the majority of the student population was drawn in my first religion class, “Faith and Praxis.”

One fall morning, the teacher asked us to line ourselves up on a continuum, ranging from 1 to 10, with 1 being completely opposed to war and 10 being pro-war. I was an 8. Only one person stood closer to 10 than me. Everyone else was parked on 4 or less.

I was already a bit isolated, having transferred into a small-school setting, but that class heightened my sense of being an outsider. After that, I spent a lot of time hanging out with the international students who didn’t care about my militaristic tendencies nearly as much as whether I could dance. (Fortunately, they accepted me despite the fact I could not.)

Con’t. for rest of Crossroads Magazine article here.

*Recently, I was asked to share my professional experiences with my alma mater in Crossroads, their alumni magazine.  Once we began discussing the theme of the article, it became apparent there were more potent topics available than my compelling status as a law firm associate.  The above excerpt is taken from the article, Four Religions in Four Years.  Well, that was one idea for the title, but instead the Powers That Be went with Thanks for Giving Me a Second Chance.  Both titles are the truth.  Enjoy.  It’s the first published peek into book two, A Tale of Three Cities.  

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In a move to broaden its growing presence in the ecumenical Christian book market, CSS Publishing has acquired FaithWalk Publishing.

Based in Grand Haven, Michigan, FaithWalk Publishing has a diverse list of Christian Living, Church Leadership and Fiction titles. Founded in 2002 its forty title list includes popular fiction titles by authors Diane and David Munson, books on discipleship by Glenn McDonald and the forthcoming “For Skeptics” series set to release in late 2008. Founder and publisher Dirk Wierenga is joining CSS as acquisitions editor.

CSS Publishing, based in Lima, Ohio, is the leading publisher of lectionary, seasonal and non-seasonal resources in the areas of church leadership, preaching, worship and children’s ministry, as well as other areas of Christian publishing. It is also publisher of Sermon Suite, the most comprehensive on-line source of sermon materials.

According to CSS president Wesley T. Runk, “the acquisition of FaithWalk provides us access to additional Christian markets. We are looking forward to a time of dynamic growth in all aspects of our business.”

Growing Up Moffett is published by Faithwalk Publishing. It will now be marketed and carried by CSS, but still under the Faithwalk imprint.  (FYI.  The book remains available in bookstores and online at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, etc.)  After reading the press release, only one thought came to mind—to think the publishers are still excited about the possibility of book two and all the fundamentalist fun it will contain. Such an odd world we live in these days…

*Taken from the CSS press release.

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WE ARE TALKING TODAY with Minnesota congressman Bernard Finkelstein, one of the highly courted, still uncommitted “superdelegates” to the Democratic National Convention.

Me: In a race this close, you superdelegates must be getting pursued pretty fiercely by both candidates.

Bernard: Actually, you just missed Barack by a few minutes.

Me: Really?

Bernard: He dropped by to clean our gutters.

Me: So, are you leaning toward him?

Bernard: Let’s just say I’m impressed. There are things I hadn’t known about the man until he told me. For example, I hadn’t known that he’s a Finkelstein, too. On his mother’s side, once removed.

Me: Have you heard from the Clinton camp?

Bernard: Yep. She’s been here, too. I like her. She’s very good at Twister, much more limber than you’d think. And I’m on her shortlist for secretary of the treasury. The point is, I haven’t made my mind up and am not likely to until I get to know Barack and Esther a lot better.

Me: Esther?

Bernard: That’s Hillary’s ancestral Hebrew name. All her close friends call her that.

Me: By the way, am I making you up?

(Con’t. on here on WashingtonPost.com)

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