Sarah E. Moffett

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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Few schools would have taken a chance on a student like me. Not many schools want a student recently expelled from another Christian college, regardless of the reason. Eastern Mennonite University, for better or worse, gave me a chance to start over, granting my request for admission as a junior in the fall of 2000.

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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CSS Publishing Acquires FaithWalk Publishing*

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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If this is the only thing you read about politics during election season, then (1) you’re brilliant and (2) extremely insulated from society.  This is now up on the work wall.  Enjoy Gene Weingarten’s SNL-styled skit with fictional Minnesota Congressman Bernard Finkelstein below. 

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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Cowboys are getting tiny. 

After my Houston Rodeo Adventure, the above picture of little man Logan Stanaland was forwarded to me.  He was one of many up and coming insurance liabilities and/or cowboys participating in the Nacogdoches Pro Rodeo and Steer Show. 

 To see Logan get run over by the mutton, and other rodeo related mayhem, click here.  (Pictures 16 to 25.)

*Logan Stanaland embracing “mutton busin” at the Nacogdoches Pro Rodeo and Steer Show. Picture taken by Christy Wooten of The Daily Sentinel.

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“Sorry, I’m not going to be able to work it. I have cancer,” was the response one workaholic contributor to Running Through Rain had to start telling colleagues. They were calling at 5 a.m. with questions while he was on long term disability dealing with his illness.

I promptly shared this with my D.C. stressed colleagues and peers. They responded with unnerving consistency—laughter. Oddly more terrifying was that said laughter was immediately followed by a far away look and hopeful muttering of “maybe it would work?”

This led me to conclude that there is a slight problem.

Or in the famed words of Les Miserables’ Chain Gang~

Look down, look down,
Don’t look ‘em in the eye.
Look down, look down,
You’re here until you die.

What concerns me is that perhaps we want to be “here” until we die. Lovely thought, I know.

Anyway, for the sake of sanity, I am posting a list of well written blogs, references, and other items to help save you from your Monday madness. Enjoy.

Resources

Workaholic? Moi?

Workaholic: Who me?

Am I a Workaholic?

ABC News You Might Be a Workaholic If…

CNN Are You Obssesed With Your Job?

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Welcome to the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo. John Deer Tractors, $300,000 steers, cowboy hats, angry bulls, signs such as the one above, and the worlds largest belt buckles, e-v-e-r, were just a few of the sights I took in this past weekend.

Yes, you read right, I spent last weekend hanging out with the cows.

And I’m here to report several of them are worth more than I am. How disturbing.

With roots extending back to the early 1930’s and a history of performers ranging from Gene Autry and Elvis Presley to George Strait and Miley Cyrus, the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, held for twenty days each March for the past 76 years, claims to be the world’s largest livestock exhibition and rodeo event. With nearly 1.2 million in attendance this year, it may live up to the hype. (Albeit, I’m guessing 1.1 million alone showed up for Miley Cyrus’s performance.  See picture to left.)

So I spent Friday’s spring afternoon wandering around Reliant Park to take in the carnival rides, sweet corn, Novice Youth Western Horsemanship rounds, BBQ, a lot of painfully pregnant cows, more food, baby piglets and lambs, still eating, and the entire population of exhausted, Texan 4H members whom had been earning scholarship money and having fun for the past eighteen days. More than one was passed out on a haystack with a hat pulled over his or her eyes. I couldn’t blame them. I got tired just from all that eating.

As much fun as the livestock show was (cough, cough), sitting in second row directly behind the chutes was the undoubtedable highlight of my Texan Rodeo indoctrination. As my tour guide put it, “it’s every East Texan’s girl’s dream to sit behind a row of cowboys.” And did we ever. I have never seen that many pairs of Wranglers leaning on a railing this side of Walmart’s doors .  They look much better from the second row seats.

Aside from the scenery, there were the amazing displays of athletic prowess and complete stupidity as exhibited in bare back bronc riding, saddle riding, and bull riding. 8.0 seconds never looked so long. Particularly after one cowboy went over a set of ornery bull’s horns and got up to find the back left leg of his jeans split wide open from the close encounter. Or as the announcer put it, “these are the kind of bulls every Dad dreams his daughter’s boyfriend will ride.” I was inclined to agree with the announcer when Rubber Ducky, a horribly misnamed bull, managed to nearly jump out of his cage and take a few cowboys with him.  After no one died, the day of livestock viewing, rodeo appreciating, and food gorging rounded out with a wagon race that would’ve made John Wayne proud, a calf scramble that had 28 students chasing down 14 calves in a Looney Tunes worthy effort, and a Pat Green concert to 56,000 cheering fans. The next day was the close of the rodeo, and you could feel it in the tired, frantic air.  Everything was caked in dust but still rawly energetic.  I loved it.

As for me, a few hours later, I slumped into the car seat exhausted, deaf and smelly. And happy. I had mud on my boots. It felt good.

And it has made returning on Monday morning to corporately clean America feel…fake.  Maybe I’ll catch up with them in Cheyenne.

Resources

Houston Rodeo

Houston Rodeo Pictures

Me

Houston Chronicle

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Hear ye, hear ye, the bar tender(ess) with the mostest has resurfaced. Two months ago, I pulled up a chair at Penn Quarter’s beloved Rasika and promptly experienced one of the most disappointing cocktail hours of my life. Instead of receiving one of Gina Chersevani’s, their well known bartender, copyrighted masterpieces, a pear and vanilla infused Woodford reserve, I got a C-list imitation that consisted of extra melting ice cubes, soda water, and the dregs of bourbon happiness. I promptly took it back up to the bar. The conversation went like this.

“Excuse me,” I ask politely.

“Yes,” begin glaring by very small woman behind bar.

“I don’t mean to be a pest, but this doesn’t taste right.” Extend drink for viewing.

“It should.” Very small woman makes direct statement.

“Ummm, no, it really doesn’t. May I have the pear and vanilla infused bourbon drink.” Unhappy me makes statement back.

“We’ve changed the menu.”

“Oh, I didn’t see that. Well, I see you still have a jar of the drink, so may I have that instead?” See me eye jar of bourbon happiness that is nearly empty.

“That’s what I gave you, it’s just got something different in it.”

“Yes, that’s the problem…”

It went downhill from there. I asked for Gina. I was told “she is no longer with us.” My drinks promptly got worse. I’ve only been back once since then. It wasn’t any better. Later I learned from the Washington Post that there had been “a major shake up of Washington’s Mixology scene,” as put by Fritz in this Behind the Bar article and customers are not pleased.

Then EatBar, which is adjacent to Tallula, happened. I walked in with friends on a whim and found Gina parked behind the bar working her magic.

Hallelujah.

So for those of you looking for our long lost master creator, she’s taken her talents across the Potomac and to the capable hands of the Neighborhood Restaurant Group, which also owns local favorites Tallula, Evening Star, Vermillion, Rustico, and Buzz. And the Post is claiming the Group is taking over Dakota Cowgirl, at 1337 14th St. NW, and rumor has it Gina may join the new venture. Perhaps then my cab fares can cease to be $50 a pop to visit the master at EatBar.

May all stories have such happy endings.

*After writing this post, I found that Metrocurean had written “Found: Gina Chersevani Across the Potomac.”

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This is where I will be this weekend.  Blogging report to follow. 

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