A Liebster by any other name

Sweet Sarah Therese nominated me for a Liebster award a little while ago, and while I work on the bridal shower post, I figured this would be a good time to get caught up and respond to the award!

So the way it works, I have to answer 11 questions. Here goes...

1. Which do you feel closest to: Father, Son, or Holy Spirit? 

All of the above? I once heard that the Father speaks to us through the events in our lives, the Son through the words of other people, and the Spirit speaks directly in our own hearts. So how can I help but feel equal influence from all three? :)

2. What is your favorite childhood memory? 

Lillian and I used to make up these very complicated historical games that our friends find hilarious (think games like, "Early Christians hiding from Nero in the Catacombs" or "Escaping from Cuba on a raft" or "Revolutionary War: The Redcoats are Coming!"). We were huuuuge nerds. And ya know, they sure sound funny in retrospect, but I miss those crazy games. I'm realizing how lucky we were to have such great imaginations.

3. If you could meet anyone in the world (history or current), who would it be? 

A great woman novelist—Margaret Mitchell, Jane Austen, or Zora Neale Hurston—so I could pick her brain about her writing process and techniques.

4. What 3 questions would you ask him/her? 

I would ask her to tell me her life story and her writing process, I would ask what are her top intellectual preoccupations, and I would ask if she is happy.

5. Who is your favorite saint and why? 

Aw man, I hate picking favorites. For a long time my favorite male saint has been St. Peter, and I've always had a huge soft spot for St. Gianna Molla. But it doesn't feel right not to mention St. Teresa and St. Therese and John Henry Newman too.

6. What is your favorite afternoon snack? 

Cheese and crackers!

7. What is your favorite thing that you did last year? 

Started dating Frank and getting engaged to Frank. :)

8. What are you looking forward to most about this year? 

My wedding in May and my honeymoon in Rome... and meeting the pope while I'm there! Yes friends, Frank and I have officially been approved for the Sposi Novelli program. Party with the pope!

9. What was your favorite song in middle school? 

This question made me laugh. Oh, the memories. I was pretty obsessed with Avril Lavigne at that age (and I even got to see her in concert!) so probably "Things I'll Never Say."

10. Why did you start blogging? 

I started blogging because I wanted to be like my idol at the time, the Pioneer Woman. I kept blogging because my sister Lillian liked to read it, and now I keep blogging because Frank likes to read it. (Like Grace, I'm a little embarrassed of my blog. I always freak out a little bit when I find out someone I know in real life reads it—although it also makes me excited and happy!)

11. What is your favorite quote and why?

Funny story, I'm obsessed with quotes. I devotedly kept a "quote book" in high school and I still make a habit of committing good quotes to memory. So, go figure, when someone asks me for my favorite I'm completely tongue-tied!

My favorite quotes are ones that really pack a punch—quotes you can think about and mull over for a long time. If I had to pick just one, it would simply be "They will know we are Christians by our love." But close seconds are "Happiness in Heaven is reserved for those who know how to be happy on Earth" (St. Josemaria Escriva's wise observation) and "Try to live as you would like to die. We shall die as we have lived" (from the Handbook of Prayers). I'm also very fond of Hilaire Belloc's charming and very true quote, "From quiet homes and first beginnings out to the undiscovered ends, there's nothing worth the wear of winning but laughter and the love of friends." True that.



Well friends, I'm not going to continue tagging people for the Liebster award because I think just about every blogger I know has already been tagged. And I'm going to skip the list of 11 facts about myself because, let's be honest, I'm not that interesting. Besides, a lady's got to keep a little bit of mystery somehow. ;) But thank you for reading, and I hope this delightful list of answers didn't bore you too much!

Real Life + BIG NEWS

I'm kind of obsessed with Kate's "real life" link-up idea. As a blogger, I get tempted to post just the happy, "shiny" things while leaving out the rougher parts of life. Her link-up is a great little reminder that we all have those rough "real life" moments.

Take this morning for example. I had an appointment at a fantastic clinic for Frank and I to learn how to use Natural Family Planning (required for our marriage in the Catholic Church). 

The appointment was amazing. I learned so much. Did you know that NaProTechnology, approved by the Church, treats infertility more effectively than IVF does? And helps women who have polycystic ovarian syndrome get pregnant, with a success rate of over 80 percent? This technology is truly incredible—and healthy and natural—yet for some reason we never hear about it. What's up with that? I've been pondering ways to spread the word.

But as we left, I realized we'd stayed a half hour too long (go figure, with me asking so many questions). Then we hit traffic—like really bad traffic, a bottleneck that had us crawling at a snail's pace—and then an overzealous cop pulled Frank over because one of his brake lights was out. When I finally made it to work, an hour after I said I'd get in, I realized I forgot my building access key at home, and the door guard had to buzz me up to my floor. Argghhhhh.

So it was one of those mornings. And to top it all off, I had to have a meeting with my boss...

... a meeting I was really nervous about and kind of dreading...

... a meeting to break the news that...

 WE ARE MOVING TO CHICAGO!!!!!!!!! 

AHHHHH! 

Ok, deep breaths!

I've been dying to tell you guys this news! Now that I've officially told my boss, I can make it public.

Here's the story: A law firm in Chicago offered Frank a great position. We weighed the pros and cons and decided we want to live near family as we begin welcoming children after our marriage. An opportunity like this doesn't come around every day. So Frank accepted, and he's moving to Chicago at the end of the month. I'll join him out there before the wedding in May.

Not gonna lie, part of me is terrified. I don't have a job lined up in Chicago and I love my job here. After struggling to find a job last summer and finally settling in to this job, I quail at the thought of doing it all over again in a new city. 

Then there's the social aspect. I haven't lived in Chicago since high school, and I was not the most mature person then. I don't think the people who knew me in high school are going to want to be BFFs, and I kind of don't blame them. Who am I going to be friends with? 

So I'm a little nervous and scared about the move, but I'm also pretty excited. I've always wanted to live near my parents and siblings, and raise my kids in the Midwest. I also know this is the best fit for Frank's career. As nervous as I am, I feel at peace about this decision. Confidence will come in time.

So there you go! My life is about to drastically change in yet another dramatic way. 

Does anyone have advice for making a big move across the country? Or any advice for job-searching in Chicago?

And most of all, will you still read my blog when it becomes "Book Smart in Chicago"? ;)

A Rough Patch

Dear blog readers,

I haven't posted in a long time and I'm sure you can imagine why. I spent a week in Bilbao with Lillian visiting our little sister Cathy who's studying there for the semester. The trip was truly incredible - one of the best weeks of my life. We had the most happy, refreshing time together and I'll be posting pictures of it soon.

I spent this past weekend in Chicago where my littlest sister Angela made her First Holy Communion on Saturday. This is a big event for Catholics and we celebrated with a big party for family and friends. I had missed my family very much and it was a treat to see them and my best friend Maggie, who came over for the festivities.

Since I got back, though, I have to admit that I've hit a rough patch. My current job is on a one-year contract that ends in June. I recently found out that I won't be hired to stay on full-time after that. On the one hand, this is a blessing in disguise. I already knew that I didn't want to continue working in political journalism for much longer and the end of my contract will give me a chance to seek work in other fields. But I can't help feeling down on myself and on my job performance, wondering if I did something wrong that caused them not to hire me, even though I know this decision was practical and not personal.

I'm also stressed about the thought of having to find a new job. The reality is that I'm not even sure what kind of job I want to have. I've wanted to be a journalist since my first week of college, and while I plan to continue writing no matter what job I get, I'm coming to terms with the fact that full-time journalism might not be the best fit for me. Which leads me to ask myself, with increasing panic, Then what is? I honestly have no clue. I know I want a job that allows me to contribute positively to the world and where I get to work with people. That's awfully vague, though, and one co-worker warned me that all I should look for at this point is "a job that pays the bills and that I don't hate." Well, that sounds a little dour but it's probably sound advice.

All of this is to explain why I haven't posted since getting back. I will put up the Spain pictures and First Communion pictures soon, but please bear with me if I'm not as chipper as usual in the days ahead. On top of all the job stress, I'm still combating jet lag and feeling a little bit like a zombie today.

But it wouldn't be a post from me if it didn't end on a cheery note, and indeed I have some very good news to share as well. Lillian accepted a job in Delaware and just moved out there this week. Her boyfriend will be working for the same company and he is set to move in June. Now they'll only live an hour and a half away from me! Frank and I are already plotting fun visits and double dates for the four of us. We can't wait.

Even better news, today is Frank's last day of law school finals! He's been stressed about them for two weeks and I'm so happy for him to be done. His life will be much easier and more restful now. To celebrate, we looked up a recipe for Panda Express orange chicken (a dish we both LOVE) and we're making it together tonight.

Thank you for your patience!

~ Tess

Life Lately

Nutella pop tart + hot chocolate with a heart 

at dinner with my friend Caitlin last week. 

Caitlin earned her Master's degree in Rome, works for the local Catholic diocese and is expecting her first baby in 6 weeks. You can imagine how much we had to talk about!

Frank and I enjoyed an impromptu dinner at the Cheesecake Factory last week. The leftovers kept us fed for the next 2 days.

 There was a long wait for our table so I started goofing around with instagram and got this shot of our feet. The size difference kind of cracks me up.

I walk past this adorable pink Vespa every day on my way to work. It's always parked right outside my building. I love it so much and secretly wish I had one of my own!

My family went a little crazy dying Easter eggs when they were here. They left me these:

I'm still finishing them off...

I Oppose the HHS Mandate

Normally I don't like to bring up political stuff on this blog. It's a lifestyle blog, after all, and it's supposed to be fun, pretty and light-hearted. But I'm very passionate about this issue and I couldn't resist the chance to share this initiative with you.

This video kind of makes me laugh - I was so nervous that I rushed through making it and didn't even take the time to check my hair first! It's a little messy. But I'm so glad I made the video and stood up for something I believe in.

If you are wondering why I hold the position I do, here is a little summary from my friend and mentor Auntie Seraphic.

If you're interested in making one yourself, there's a link here to the Youtube channel. Just make sure to include the line, "It's my conscience but it's our constitution." Please consider taking part in this initiative if your political opinions are so inclined!

The Saga of the Muddy Boots

I made a friend in the elevator at work this morning, and made myself look silly in the elevator at home. Both of these incidents came about because of a very troublesome pair of boots.

I have these very large, fairly waterproof black boots. I wore them when I was at the March for Life and the poor things got so caked in mud that, a month later, they still looked dreadful. I didn't know what to do about it except wait for a really good rainstorm (I don't have a hose and I didn't want to dirty the bathtub). So the boots sat in my room, all this time, looking at me forlornly.

Like this but cuter

This morning I awoke to the rainy day of my dreams. The sky was gray and noisy. Veritable lakes of puddles covered the sidewalk. I decided not to blow-dry my hair because I knew it didn't stand a chance on a day like this.

Frank picked me up for Mass and then we cooked breakfast at my house. He was driving to class this morning so he offered to give me a ride to the metro. Just as I was walking out the door in a pair of high heels, I remembered the boots.

"Oh! Wait!" I exclaimed, running back to grab them. "My boots! I have to get them all wet today so they'll finally be clean!"

"Do you want to put them on now?" he offered kindly. But I knew we were short on time and I didn't want him to be late for class.

"Nah, it's fine," I said. "I'll put them on in the elevator."

We pressed the button and stepped into an empty elevator. Working quickly, I took off one of my high heels and stuffed it into my bag. I shoved my foot into a boot, but just as I got it on all the way, the elevator "dinged."

Drat. Other people.

I looked down at my feet. One was clad in a knee-high rubber boot and the other in a very high heel.

This is going to be awkward.

Three other people got on. Now the elevator was so full that I didn't have room to bend over and put the other boot on. Doing my best to look dignified, I clutched the mud-caked boot and tried to hide it behind the bag containing my high heel. I prayed that no one would look down.

The elevator "dinged" again. Not more people, I thought.

A blond girl got on. Her hair was nicely done, her outfit was perfect.

Worst of all, her shoes matched.

She waved at Frank with a bright smile.

"Hi, Frank!" she said.

"Oh, hey," he said back.

She looked at him, she looked at me, and then she looked at my feet.

I died.

When the elevator finally reached the lobby after what seemed like a million years, I waited for her to walk away before stepping out of the elevator. I leaned against the wall and shamefacedly put on my other boot.

Then Frank said, "That girl is in one of my classes... and I can't remember her name!"

That made me laugh and I felt better.

We walked to his car, and I took care to jump in every single puddle on the way while he laughed at me. (I feel like a lot of our relationship consists of him laughing, affectionately, at my shenanigans.) Then I carefully inspected my shoes. No improvement. That mud was caked on.

"I'm going to have to get these things really wet," I told Frank as he dropped me off at the metro and lent me his umbrella too (because that guy is a hero, let me tell you).

When I got off at the metro station near work, I knew I had a job to do. I only had 6 blocks to walk until my building. The rain and the puddles wouldn't be around forever. My boots needed to get clean.

And so, my friends, I splashed. And by splashed I mean jumped, with both feet, and waded and sloshed my way through puddle after puddle. I felt like a 5-year-old (a very happy 5-year-old). I got those boots nice and wet, so wet that I could feel water seeping into my toes. It was awesome.

As I splashed, I began to acquire a little fan club. Because how often do you see an adult woman in professional clothes splashing in puddles? I mean really, how often? People were staring at me and a lot of them were smiling. A man who works in my building grinned as we both entered the lobby.

"I want some boots like that!" he said appreciatively.

We got on the elevator together and I admitted ruefully, "It is a little silly."

"Nah," he said, "It's just the right thing to do on a rainy day like this." We parted with smiles as new friends.

And when I got up to my floor, I discovered that my boots were still muddy.

So I gave up, went to the bathroom, and wiped them clean with paper towels. Because I can't splash in puddles forever.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I looked like a fool, acquired a fan club, and made a new friend within a one-hour window this morning. All because of a pair of muddy boots.

Hostessing

When my sister came to visit me two months ago, I threw a Meet-the-Twin party in her honor. Afterward, she told me how much fun she had. "You know what your party reminded me of?" she said. "A French salon."

I remember being fascinated by the concept of the salon when I studied French history in high school.

These fabulous parties would bring together people from all parts of society to mix and converse. Any salon worth its salt featured a star-studded guest list, scintillating conversation, and booze that flowed like milk and honey.

But the thing that really fascinated me about salons was that they were hosted by women.

Frank and I preparing drinks at my Christmas party

Women at the time didn't have any formal political power. But they were able to affect real advances in literature and philosophy. They did their part to change the world. And they did it by throwing fabulous parties.

I didn't consciously plan it at the time, but the idea of salons lodged in my brain. What an awesome, fun way to educate yourself and other people. Without even thinking about it, I hoped that I would someday throw salons of my own.

And now I have my own apartment. I have chairs and tables. I have money to buy appetizers and drinks, and candles. Lots and lots of candles. Because what's a salon without mood lighting?

Snacks on snacks at my party. Note the home-made candlesticks, fashioned from an old cupcake box.

One of my favorite bloggers writes about how mothers set the tone of their home. She is the "master of energy," she says, and her mood affects how everyone else feels.

In a much smaller way, I think that hosts have this same kind of responsibility when guests come over. After all, if I'm not pressing drinks into people's hands and making absurdly flattering introductions, who will?

So here is my hostessing philosophy in a nutshell:

I believe in inviting lots of interesting people from every different area of your life.

I believe in ample sustenance and libations to spare.

I believe in good conversations about things that matter (in other words, the topics of religion and politics are perfectly welcome).

And I believe in building friendships by introducing people who have never met before but who have a lot in common. I love it when people meet a new best friend or get a date at my parties (it's happened!).

I secretly kind of hope that by throwing parties, I might even be doing a tiny part to change the world. At the very least, I'm having a lot of fun. And I'm learning to do what Catholics do best - celebrating this brief, beautiful mortal life and how wonderful it truly is.

On that note, Merry Christmas!

Snapshot of Life Lately

Pretty ornaments for sale at the Kennedy Center gift shop

Christmas is coming! I love this time of year.

I had a Christmas party at my house on Saturday. The theme was "It's A Wonderful Life." At least thirty people came. I was so happy to fill the house with so many friends.

Special thanks on this occasion to Frank, who helped prepare mulled wine and hot chocolate with Bailey's and rum for the occasion. Oh, and egg nog. With brandy. It was quite delightful.

He also loves to cook. We've been brainstorming ideas for fabulous parties we can throw. I hope to throw a Pioneer Party in honor of Laura Ingalls Wilder's birthday in February. He suggested an English pub party. I love that idea even more.

I successfully managed to get the whole house cleaned up by Sunday night, which was no mean feat, let me tell you.

Last night I went grocery shopping at the new Trader Joe's that just opened by my house. That store is an absolute blessing in my life right now. I buy everything there now, and it's all so good!

When I wasn't in the mood to cook much last week, I practically lived on the frozen chicken tikka masala from Trader Joe's. Best frozen meal ever. It's a real lifesaver.

One of my guests on Saturday brought a box of TJ's delicious dark-chocolate-covered peppermint Joe-Joe's, and oh my gosh, they're out of this world.

And yesterday I bought TJ's hummus for the first time. It was a revelation. I texted at least three people, "TJ's has the best hummus of my LIFE. How have I lived without it for so long?" I like to narrate my food choices, preferably via text message.

After groceries, I had a quiet evening ahead of me so I decided to finish reading Oscar Wilde's De Profundis. It had been billed as the most beautiful reflection ever written on sorrow. So I sat down in my favorite armchair with a glass of white wine and a print-out of the text.

It certainly lived up to its reputation, and I had so many thoughts on it, some of which I will be sharing at some point.

At one point in the reflection Wilde referenced the Nichomachean Ethics, Aristotle's great work on happiness, virtue and friendship. That got me nostalgic for the good old days in PLS.

I remembered that one time when an older PLS major told me that I wouldn't ever find time to read the Ethics anymore now that I'm done with college.

And if you know me, you know that I never like being told what to do. That was my inspiration.

So I went and rooted out my copy of the Basic Works.

And, my friends, I read the Nichomachean Ethics.

That's what I do for fun on quiet nights at home. So now you know!

There's an Awful Lot of Knowledge...

...that you never learn in college." Did you ever hear that old jingle?

I ran across this quote recently and loved it:

‎"I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing." 
— Neil Gaiman

I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately. There are so many things that have a huge impact on our lives that we don't study in school, let alone really understand. There's a great and funny (and long, sorry folks) article by David Brooks about this.

Once in high school I told my mom that I think anyone who's smart and observant is a "natural psychologist." I might have meant "philosopher," if I had really thought about it. The point is that the most important things we will ever know are learned through experience, through human interaction, through trial-and-error and through paying attention. School doesn't really teach us all that much compared to what we learn on our own time.

Here are a few things that I wish I knew, or that I wish I had known earlier, and that school didn't teach me:

What to say to somebody who is grieving

How to fall asleep on time and wake up on time

How to raise plants that don't die after two weeks

What to do when someone says something rude/mean at a party

How to keep your temper in the face of the above predicament

What you're really supposed to do with your life (your vocation)

How to reject a guy so that you don't hurt his feelings or embarrass him

How to cook and feed yourself healthily on a serious budget

How to pray

The best way to clean a bathtub (I've tried several and none have been entirely satisfactory)

How to make other people feel good about themselves

How to tell if you're in love with someone

How to have really good hair all of the time

The dream lives on.

Those are just a few ideas. What do you think is really important to know that you didn't learn about in school?

Why Do I Blog?

Lately I read this post on a blog I follow. The author was talking about how embarrassed she used to be that she kept a blog.

Blogging is a pretty weird hobby, now that I think about it. I write down the random ramblings that pass through my brain in the hopes that someone, somewhere out there, will need to read them. In the hope that what I think and say and believe can affect someone else. Also to amuse my sister, who is my #1 blog reader. And also for myself to remember - it's so much fun to look back at some of the things I wrote in London or at Notre Dame and to ponder how much I've changed and grown.

But I will admit, I'm pretty embarrassed about my blog sometimes. I really worry about people reading it who don't know me in real life. "They will probably think I'm crazy," is my general fear, "or at least excessively weird." It's hard to represent yourself properly on the internet.

Lately I've been thinking about putting a link to this blog in the "About Me" section of Facebook. But honestly, I'm way too chicken. There just seems to be so many ways that could go wrong.

Anyway, there isn't really any big noble reason that I keep a blog. Unlike Auntie Seraphic, who dispenses wise advice that makes her a superhero to young single Catholic girls, I'm not really helping anybody or giving much wisdom.

But sometimes, something I write cracks someone up.

Sometimes, something I write makes someone tear up.

And sometimes, every now and then, once in a blue moon, I get an email or comment or Facebook message that says, "Thanks for what you wrote." Or even better, "I like what you wrote."

Then I grin from ear to ear for approximately 8 hours.

I think that's a pretty good reason to blog, don't you? 

PLS Pride

This video is a little old but I'd like to share it with you.

If you read this blog, you know how proud I am of my major. I describe it as my family. It's one of the first things I mention in my self-introduction. In person, I talk about it all the time.

Why am I so obsessed with my major? You know, that's a good question.

I didn't plan to be a PLS major when I came to college. I didn't even know what PLS was. In fact, I planned to study English and Spanish literature, and I declared as an English major in the first semester of my freshman year.

But on the March for Life in January that year, I had a short little conversation that lit a spark in my mind. I was in DC, coincidentally enough, staying at the very same church where I now go for Adoration.

I was talking to a guy I had just met, a new friend of my sister's. He was a year older than us and very sweet.

"What are you planning to major in?" he asked us.

"Business," said Lillian. I still don't really understand why she decided to study business. She didn't stick with it, obviously.

"English," I said.

"I don't know about Business, but English..." he said, half to himself. Then he turned to me and asked, "Have you thought about doing PLS?"

It was my first time experiencing the fierce PLS loyalty and the constant efforts of its members to recruit. Heady stuff for an indecisive freshman. He told me a little bit about it, and I left intrigued but unconvinced.

Soon after that came the Majors Fair. Every department at the university set up a pamphlet-laden booth and sent professors to recruit new freshmen.

I went to Majors Night with my high school friend Claire. We were both pretty sure what we would choose - English for me, medicine for her - but were willing to flirt with other options. You know, let the other disciplines try to woo us intellectually, that sort of thing.

One thing really stood out to me that night. Friendly professors stood behind every booth, prepared to answer questions about their fields of study. But one table didn't have any professors at it. Students stood at the PLS booth - not behind it but in front of it, around it, eagerly talking and answering questions and distributing pamphlets. It was clear that the PLS students owned their major in a way that other students did not. I mean, students from other majors weren't even there.

I responded to the PLS students' efforts by assuming they all must be insane.

"Woah, Claire, look at all those crazy PLS kids!" I said in excitement. "Oh my gosh let's go talk to them! They look like nuts. We can pretend we're interested in PLS!"

"I don't really want to pretend," said Claire, who is in med school and is a lot more sensible than I am.

"No come on, it'll be hilarious," I urged. "Look, that guy even has a piercing!"

She was extremely reluctant but I dragged her along. I don't remember if I ever talked to the PLS kids that night, however, because as soon as I got to the booth they dropped something in my hands.

It was a list of all the books PLS majors have to read. I looked down at it and scanned the names. That was the moment when my life began to change.

Teresa of Avila. Augustine. Don Quixote. Socrates. Pride and Prejudice. It was every single book I had ever wanted to read in high school, but didn't know if I would ever find time for. And you know what a book nut I am.

"Wow..." I breathed. "Claire... look at this book list."

"Um, that's a lot of books. No thanks."

I walked back to Badin in a trance while trying to figure out a logical equation in my head.

I really want to read all those books, I thought. If I do PLS, I'll get to read all those books.

But there was a catch. I don't want to do PLS.

I could tell that something wasn't adding up. I've never been very good at logic, though, so I decided to postpone thinking about it in true Scarlett O'Hara fashion.

But PLS kept sneaking into my life.

I was in two English classes at the time, neither of which impressed me much. In particular, I didn't like how randomly our reading assignments were chosen. It was essentially just whatever the professor felt like teaching. Yes, we got Shakespeare's Sonnets, but we also got some obscure modern novels that I didn't much care for.

I kept daydreaming about that PLS book list.

I heard about a PLS info session in CoMo, right next to my dorm. I went and listened to a few alumni speak.

"I majored in Theology and PLS," said one girl in particular. "I studied theology because I wanted to know what it means to be Catholic. And I studied PLS because I wanted to know what it means to be human."

What it means to be human. I never forgot that.

The perfect storm raged on all semester. Day by day, it became clearer that English wasn't for me. One by one, each of my doubts about joining PLS were stilled.

Every little thing that happened that spring pointed me toward being a PLS major.

Without getting too carried away, I think it was a little bit like what it must be like to figure out that someone is the person you're supposed to marry.

Finally, the deadline to apply for PLS rolled around. I applied and was accepted.

Now, four years later, I understand the cult-like aspect of PLS that arises from having so many classes with the same small group of people. I understand the absurd loyalty and the desire to tell everyone you meet about it.

I don't think PLS is perfect. In fact, I could go through and give you a long list of its flaws.

I'd like to say I never looked back, but I did. Even now, I sometimes wonder if maybe I should have studied English, or Anthropology, or even Psychology or Political Science.

I still think PLSers are crazy, myself included.

But for all that, I'm so proud that I chose it. I'm glad that my flighty 18-year-old self had the sense to see that this was something I should stick with. That this was the best possible fit for me.

When all is said and done, I'm glad I did PLS.

The Only Problem

I have a lot of really weird hobbies for a 22-year-old.

For example, I have season tickets to the opera. They were pretty expensive, especially for someone like me who is in an entry-level job fresh out of college. But I love the opera, and even more than that, it was important to me to be the kind of adult who has season tickets to the opera. So even though it meant not buying any new clothes for two months, and cooking almost all of my own meals too, the tickets were a worthwhile spending priority for me.

Here I am at the Kennedy Center. See? Season tickets! To the opera!

For another, I like memorizing poetry and reading it aloud in my special "poetry reading voice," for which my friends make fun of me. What can I say? Poetry just does something to my soul. Rhythm is built into our human natures. It's older than any spoken language. The rhythm of poetry awakens something in me. The words bring truth and the rhyme offers beauty. I really love it.

For a third, I am really into swing dancing. You might read that and say, "Plenty of young people are into swing dancing." To which I respond, "Have you been to a swing dance night?" Plenty of girls are there - nice, normal-looking girls. The guys, on the other hand, are either deeply weird or creepily old. I say this as someone who has been to her fair share of swing dance nights. I think that normal guys are capable of swing dancing, but they just don't prioritize it as an activity, at least not if they're single.

Then there's the books I choose to read. Normal young people like to read, oh I don't know, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? The Help? I actually read The Help and I thought it was forgettable. Definitely over-rated. Instead, I find myself furtively reading things like Evelyn Waugh's Sword of Honour trilogy and P. G. Wodehouse on the metro. Normal people my age don't read stuff like that, and they definitely don't stay in on weekend nights to read it either. Like I said, weird.

I could go on and on. There's a reason this blog is called "book smart," ya know? I don't watch TV. Seriously, at all. I like moseying around art galleries at a snail's pace, reading every single plaque and explanatory sign, so that I'm exhausted before we're halfway through. I really really like knitting. It doesn't get much more grandma than that.

You can't see it in this picture, but I totally had knitting needles in my purse. At a football game.

Now, these are all great hobbies. I personally love 'em. They'll come in handy if I'm ever 80 years old and need to teach all the other little old ladies in my nursing home how to cast on stitches, or the difference between La Traviata and La Boheme, or why Bartolome Esteban Murillo is the greatest religious artist of all time.

But there's just one tiny little problem with all of my preferred hobbies.

Most guys don't do them. Like, at all. Or at least, not the guys who seem cute and normal and cool.

Cool guys, I imagine, go to bars. They watch sports games. They probably go clubbing on the weekends and to happy hours during the week.

I go to bars... for Catholic trivia night. The coolest guy there was the parish priest.

I watch sports games... from the safety of my couch, where my roommate (who miraculously understands baseball) can explain these things to me.

I go clubbing... wait, that's a total lie. I tried clubbing in college and absolutely hated it. You couldn't pay me to go back.

And happy hours... intimidate the heck out of me. They're scary enough when I'm surrounded by my friends. But going to a place where I hardly know anyone? Trying to meet guys? In a crowded bar full of people? Oh my gosh. It's a fate worse than death.

So you see, I love the things I do, but they are not the kinds of things at which one meets boys. At least, not the kind of boys one wants to date, especially if one prefers good looks and a sense of humor and doesn't care how much he knows about opera.

Thus I say with total confidence that if I ever manage to meet a guy I like and who likes me, it will be a true miracle, and I will take my hat off to my matchmaking angels. You all are my witnesses.

Persistent? Who, Me?

On Sunday, I had plans to see a student production of Suor Angelica at CUA.

I was meeting my new friend Ann-Therese there. She's a Ph.D. student in philosophy, has the most fascinating life stories of studying in Rome and of her sister who's a nun, and she's wickedly funny to boot. I was so excited to officially hang out for the first time - before, we'd only ever seen each other at our Saturday volunteer service project tuttoring inner-city girls. And the opera? Ooh, I love opera.

But when I got to the theater, there were dozens of people waiting in line for a handful of tickets. Ann-Therese was far enough ahead of me that she managed to snag one. By the time I made it to the booth, however, they made an announcement: "Sorry, folks. We're all sold out."

With a collective sigh and disgruntled mutterings, all the people waiting for tickets left... except for me. Ann-Therese was already inside and texted me that she could see an empty seat. I considered pretending that I already had a ticket but had been in the bathroom (a tactic I've employed before) but my conscience got the better of me. There were still a few will-call tickets on hold. I lurked optimistically in the vestibule.

One by one, people showed up to claim their will-call tickets. I could hear the opening strains of music as the show began. The number of remaining spots dwindled and shrank. Other patrons checked in for last-minute tickets and were turned away. No one else waited. It was just me, hanging out in the lobby, with my ham sandwich (conveniently stowed in my purse and now pulled out for a pre-theater snack).

The opera started at 2 pm. I asked the guy behind the counter, "When will you stop holding the will-call tickets?" "At 2:20," he said. I checked the time. 2:11. Well, as long as there was even a hope of getting in, I wasn't going anywhere.

So I waited. And waited. Finally, at 2:18, the ticket guy gave in. "Here," he said, "I have two will-call tickets left that haven't been claimed. You can have one."

Hardly daring to believe my luck, I handed him ten dollars before he could change his mind.  I slipped into the darkened theater and dashed to the only open seat left - in the very first row. Luckily for me, the opera hadn't started yet, just an introductory prelude. The show was beautiful and the story very sad.  I loved every minute.

Afterwards, Ann-Therese and I headed over to the campus Starbucks for some delicious holiday beverages. It's not Christmas til you see those cheery red cups. We sat for hours in the student center, having what she called a "mind-meld," as we discovered how much we have in common. (So much, in case you were wondering.) Don't you love meeting kindred spirits?

The talk turned to my pre-opera ordeal. "You're so persistent," she said, impressed that I had waited for a ticket until I got one. That brought me up short.

"You think so?" I said, surprised, because in general perseverance is my hardest virtue. I wish I were persistent, but in general, I give up on things pretty easily.

But I thought about it, and I wondered what made this time different. I waited as long as I did because of hope, plain and simple. As long as there were tickets, there was hope. And as long as there was hope, I wasn't going to give up. I think that maybe I usually give up on things so easily because I lose sight of my end goal - I lose hope that it's attainable. So the real project here, I guess, is learning to find reasons to hope and to make hope last.

Right?

Does anyone else feel like this sometimes?

Being A Lady

Man, I'm on a nostalgic kick lately. This post is also going back to that fateful day when I first visited Notre Dame, and that car ride home.

Dad was playing music from his ipod, and I remember one song in particular that came on: Bat out of Hell by an artist with the dubious name of Meatloaf.

Doesn't that just sound like the kind of song that's well suited to contemplation?

There was a lull in the conversation and I found myself paying attention to the lyrics. Meatloaf was singing something to a lady friend.

"Oh baby, you're the only thing in this whole world
That's pure and good and right.
And wherever you are and wherever you go
There's always gonna be some light."

Wow, I thought. That's beautiful. And right then and there, I decided I wanted to be that kind of woman; someone who stands for something, and whose life points the way to a higher reality.

Isn't that funny? Bat out of Hell, giving me a new purpose in life. Who woulda thought?

This story goes back to a theme that sort of obsessed me for the latter part of high school:  being a lady.

When I was 16, I read Gone with the Wind. Most girls who read that book, it seems, have a real thing for Scarlett. My mom told me that she was fascinated by her.

But not me. I couldn't get enough of Melanie. What an odd person to be obsessed with! Plain, quiet, shy, humble little Melanie. But that was exactly why I adored her. She was "as simple as earth, as good as bread, as transparent as spring water." And above all, she was a Lady.

I will never forget the description of Melanie as a hostess:

"The little house was always full of company. Melanie had been a favorite even as a child and the town flocked to welcome her home again. Everyone brought presents for the house, bric-a-brac, pictures, a silver spoon or two, linen pillow cases, napkins, rag rugs, small articles which they had saved from Sherman and treasured but which they now swore were of no earthly use to them. Old men who had campaigned in Mexico with her father came to see her, bringing visitors to meet 'old Colonel Hamilton's sweet daughter.' Her mother's old friends clustered about her, for Melanie had a respectful deference to her elders that was very soothing to dowagers in these wild days when young people seemed to have forgotten all their manners. Her contemporaries, the young wives, mothers and widows, loved her because she had suffered what they had suffered, had not become embittered and always lent them a sympathetic ear. The young people came, as young people always come, simply because they had a good time at her home and met there the friends they wanted to meet. Around Melanie's tactful and self-effacing person, there rapidly grew up a clique of young and old who represented what was left of the best of Atlanta's ante-bellum society, all poor in purse, all proud in family, die-hards of the stoutest variety. It was as if Atlanta society, scattered and wrecked by war, depleted by death, bewildered by change, had found in her an unyielding nucleus about which it could re-form. Melanie was young but she had in her all the qualities this embattled remnant prized, poverty and pride in poverty, uncomplaining courage, gaiety, hospitality, kindness and, above all, loyalty to all the old traditions. Melanie refused to change, refused even to admit that there was any reason to change in a changing world. Under her roof the old days seemed to come back again and people took heart... When they looked into her young face and saw there the inflexible loyalty to the old days, they could forget, for a moment, the traitors within their own class who were causing fury, fear and heartbreak... It never occurred to Melanie that she was becoming the leader of a new society. She only thought the people were nice to come to see her and to want her in their little sewing circles, cotillion clubs and musical societies."

Even now, reading that, my heart beats a little faster. Melanie was such a beautiful human being. When she dies at the end of the book, Rhett says that she was "a great lady," and one of the few real ladies he had ever known. I decided, at impetuous 16, that I wanted to have the words "A Great Lady" on my grave. More than that, I wanted to really be one.

Now, I know that the concept of being a lady really bothers some people, including my beloved Auntie Seraphic. Even one of my dearest friends scolded me when I brought up the topic. "In the words of my ever knowledgeable little sister," she told me over gchat, "when somebody told her to be a lady, 'well... it doesn't sound like very much fun.'"

I think that the term "lady" has been very ill-treated for it to be getting such bad press.

I don't know what people told you a lady is supposed to be, but here's what I think it means: putting others at their ease. Seeing the good in everyone and taking care not to mention the bad. Having a sense of humor that is kind and never hurts others. Making the best out of unfortunate situations. Making sure everyone else has a piece of pie before you take one yourself. Being on time. Being gracious and welcoming, no matter how tired or cold or grumpy you are. Being patient. Keeping your temper. Treating every person you meet, from the homeless man on the street to the president of the United States, with the respect and reverence owed to them as a human creature. Doing all of these things because you want to, and not because any one else has told you to.

In other words, just about everything I have a ridiculously hard time doing for even a minute.

Does that sound like fun? No, of course not. Being a lady isn't supposed to be fun, I think. You don't do it because it's fun but because it's the right thing to do.

And oh boy, is it harder to do than I ever thought at 16. After I read Gone With The Wind, I decided that I wanted to be a great lady... by my 17th birthday (which I chose because Melanie was 17 at the start of Gone with the Wind) (I was really obsessed). That gave me almost 10 months. Plenty of time, right?

Ha. Six years later, I feel as far from that ideal as I was at 16. Being a Lady is harder than I ever imagined, and I think it will take me several decades, if not the rest of my life, to even start to achieve it.

That doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying.

A House Tour

This blog has been pretty devoid of pictures for a while now so I think I'll start adding some more. To start off, I'm going to give you a nice little tour of my new home (if anyone besides Lillian is still reading this, which I highly doubt. Hi Lillian!). First of all, here's my dresser next to my bed.

 Aren't the flowers pretty? I like to keep my home regularly stocked with fresh blooms. The mirror is from Urban and goes really well with my French-chic theme. I look very untidy in this picture, and that's because I had been cleaning the kitchen right before taking this. I didn't have the courage to put this pic on Facebook, but I figure if I can't put it on my blog, where can I put it?

This picture is no longer entirely accurate, because since taking it, I've hung the mirror and the crucifix up on the walls instead. So my dresser looks a whole lot less churchy now, which is good. How sweet is the view out my window? 17th floor whadduppp. I go out on the balcony at random times to enjoy the weather and no one else is ever outside. Seriously, no one. Isn't that weird?

You'll notice that this only shows one small part of my bedroom and not the whole thing. There's a reason for that, and it's called half the clothes I own are in piles on my bedroom floor. They're there because I undertook a massive wardrobe reorganization project recently and haven't finished it yet. One of these days.

Hello, dining room. This picture is pretty much my pride and joy. I love my blue and white dinnerware set, and I really love setting tables. Did I ever tell you about the time I won a table-setting competition in high school? Did I? Those were good times.

 My fabulous living room - nice and big, which is perfect for hosting parties. The armchairs are not only ridiculously cozy, but they also lean back. It's pretty awesome. The one on the right in this picture is my favorite. I sit there in the mornings to pray, at night to read, and pretty much every other chance I get. We still need to figure out something to do with the wall behind the couch...

My lovely map, the joy of my heart, which I purchased from Craigslist and drove all the way to Alexandria to pick up. Isn't it awesome? It makes the whole room look that much classier.

And, minus the kitchen and bathroom, that's my apartment!

Feeling Free

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the importance of peace and quiet. Just like when I was an undergraduate, I always seem to forget how important these things are. Tuesday night I had a big party at my house for a group of Notre Dame students who were in town over fall break (what a lovely group of students - I'm sad I didn't get to spend even more time with them). That event, fun as it was, left me pretty drained by the end of it. Then on Wednesday, I went to report on a protest downtown. I followed the marchers through DC. I somehow managed to interview half a dozen of them as they swirled and shoved around me, police officers corralling us into line so that cars could pass us, rain dripping on my notebook and smearing my roughly scribbled notes. Then I went back to the office and wrote up an article about it. I was supposed to go participate in a PP clinic protest that night, and then a discussion and prayer night at the Dominican House of Studies, but something inside me snapped and wouldn't let me go. For the first time in my life (or the first time I can remember), I decided to skip an event (two events!) in favor of some me time.

And folks, it was awesome. I went home and heated up some dinner. Then I cleaned my whole kitchen, put a load in the dishwasher and hand-washed a mountain of tupperware that had been sorely in need of it. I went for a run (did I mention I'm training for an 8k? Wish me luck!) and took a shower. Then I sat in my living room and read Walker Percy, cozy and comfy in my fluffy pink bathrobe. Sarah came home and sat in the living room with me, checking email and Facebook on the couch, the two of us sitting in contented, companionable silence. (I really think chummy silence is under-rated, don't you?).

Before I went to bed I poured myself a tall glass of water and went out on the porch to admire the night.  It was a little wet and very pretty out. I couldn't see stars but I could see the bright city lights and feel a wild, boisterous wind blowing fresh and cold against my face. Mmmm. I don't know when I last felt so free. This year in DC has been a gift beyond my expectations. My life is so different from anything I ever wanted, and yet better than I dreamed. So full of happiness. So blessed. I marveled at it, on the balcony last night before I went to sleep. Who knew 22 would be this good?

Will you remember?

Ten years from now, will you remember this morning?

Will you remember how you woke up and realized we were out of orange juice, and, knowing it's Sarah's favorite in the mornings, you went down to the first-floor deli to buy a new carton? And once down there, surprised yourself by buying milk and cheese and hummus too?

Will you remember that you wore a white shirt with navy pinstripes and ruffles on the front? And the gray pencil skirt that is exactly like the black pencil skirt, each of which you wear to work at least once a week? Will you remember that you think of this as your "uniform," like in high school, which is pretty hilarious considering you never liked your uniform in high school?

Will you remember that it was gray, and rainy, and cold today, and despite remembering your umbrella and trenchcoat you wore highly impractical black cloth flats? Damp, but cute. Will you remember how you stuck a vase from the kitchen into your Urban Outfitters lunch bag as you left the house, and upon exiting the Farragut West Station, bought a bouquet of white carnations from the little flower stand you've been wanting to buy something from for two months? And the whole way to work, you smiled with fond pride over the little bouquet, and pondered how it's impossible to feel  unhappy when carrying flowers (much like cupcakes). They're such pretty little carnations. You spent the first 15 minutes of work this morning cutting their stems and arranging them in the vase, and now they're sitting next to the printer on your desk, hiding those ugly cords that have been bothering your aesthetic sensibilities for four months. Will you remember how you smile every time you look at your merry little carnations? Take that, rainy day. I make my own sunshine.

It's just one day like any other. Living the 20-something life in your own Tess way. Twenty years from now, fifty years from now, will you remember this morning? Will you remember this life? I hope you do, because it's beautiful.

Someone To Swing Dance With

Recently, a nice guy friend said something to me along the lines of, "You're more mature and ready for marriage than most girls," which I think is patently untrue as the current state of my untidy bedroom would prove. Besides it's not what I want right now. My life is pretty near to perfect as it is. I like being young, healthy, and comparatively well-off, living in a beautiful city, with my own apartment, many friends, and a happy, busy, wholesome social life. I'd like to do this for a few more years. Right now, I'm not looking for a boyfriend, much less a husband. But every now and then, when the lonely blues strike, there is something I wish for.

I'd like someone to dance with. I recently found out that the Kennedy Center offers free swing dancing lessons every week, and I thought, Well that sounds just about dreamy. I love swing dancing and I especially love free. But the problem is, who could I go with? Sure, I could get a group of guys and girls together, but we would inevitably have more of one gender and it would be awkward, plus that makes it such a general experience. What I would like is to go to the classes regularly, maybe every one if I could, with the same person, and get really good at dancing with him. But there isn't a person like that in my life right now. Just an endless parade of passing faces, people who are completely replaceable, transitory, ephemeral, and gone.

Friday Night Music

Friday nights are the busiest time of the week for me, funnily enough, because I have the job of uploading my magazine onto our website. My favorite thing to do during this time is listen to music. Sometimes I turn to my Pandora station - Frank Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon is the usual choice - and sometimes I youtube random songs that have been in my head lately. And sometimes, I'm lucky and a friend or two stays up late with me and sends music suggestions.

Tonight I hit the jackpot - Bart sent me music up til midnight, and when he went to bed, Lee conveniently happened to be online to pick up the slack. Bart is into old country music, the kind of thing my dad raised me on, and sends light Irish melodies with names like "Pretty Fair Maiden." Lee likes more modern stuff, Coldplay and U2 and Keane, mellow tunes perfect for night turning into early morning.

Music gets me going through the late night, and when I say music, I really mean friends.