I wish someone would just shake me one morning and say - hey, kid, you're leaving today so pack up your stuff.

That would be preferable to knowing I'm leaving, dreading leaving, getting excited about leaving, freaking out about leaving, and getting incredibly impatient all at once. The last couple of weeks are the worst. I am grumpy.

Being a college student, I pack like it's my job. Friends are somewhere else, family is somewhere else, half my stuff is one place and half in another. No one is where I am, except for a few people, which I will soon leave, making them again, not where I am. Therefore, I know the stages of moving loss very well:

Stage 1: Leaving? What are you talking about? I've got plenty of time left to do everything I need to do. I will obviously develop resolve and energy in the coming week that I never had before but am nonetheless confident will now allow me to do everything. Not worried.

Stage 2: Turns out I really am leaving. Not good. I have 23452345 things left on my list! I didn't savor each day like I should have! I need to devlop a battle plan. I will create a comprehensive list of everything left to do, allot time for each thing, and keep to the schedule with a complicated system of alarms on my cell phone. This is so doable.

Stage 3: It's not gonna happen. There is no physical way I can accomplish all of this. What was I thinking? If I can't do it all, I'll do nothing. I'll sit in front of the TV and watch marathons on Bravo. I have completely and totally failed as a tourist and a human being. I will have to pretend that I took advantage of every opportunity while out here, and hide the fact that I ate a lot of ice cream and bummed around with friends. My life is a lie!

Stage 4: Get me on the plane right now. I mean this second. Waiting around is killing me. Everyone and everything is obnoxious. Let's get a move on, folks.

Stage 5: No! My friends! I'll never see them again! Oh cruel world! Don't make me go!

...and then home.

Well, at least it's predictable. Time to do it again. Once more, with feeling.

Petty. Silly. Irresponsible. Selfish. Greedy. Infuriating. Untrustworthy. Hurtful-ladder-climbing-inconsiderate-meanies.

The things you learn about your coworkers, with the help of time and a keen ear and socializing (alcohol also helps on that last one).

These are smart people. Really. Also charming and personable and gracious, when they want to be. But then again, that is the danger of politics, isn't it? Everyone has charm coursing through their veins, available at a moment's notice, easy and seductive and oh-so-believable.

I tend to believe it. I want to. But there are truths undeniable that generally to reveal themselves when you spend 9 hours a day trapped in a too-small office. I like some of my coworkers more than others, and I trust some more than others. Though it is difficult to realize that they are not all going to be my lifelong friends, there is something to be said for getting to know a group of people so well. I know which person I would call if I ever got thrown in jail and needed bail (product of an actual hilarious conversation with my favorite person in the office). I know which one I would ask for advice about my uncertain future and which ones are almost certainly talking about me when I leave the room.

I'd like to tell them that I know these things. The whole Dilbert comic strip evolved out of that desire. Desperate workers trapped in cubicles absolutely live for the day when they get to burst as they are walking out on their last day and tell everyone in the office what kind of people they really are. Ooooh that would be good. What a delicious thought.

Not many people do it, and I won't either. I already know that. What I will do is hold my tongue, and shoot a knowing glance at my few allies in the office, and we'll have an unspoken little moment of mourning for the death of the righteous outburst dream.

But what a good dream.

This morning my roommate and I dragged myself out of bed to attend the Walk for Women's Lives, an event put on by the Feminist Majority and designed to raise money to fund clinical trials for cancer research. Specifically, reproductive cancers. I seem to be doing chick stuff a lot lately.

Actually it's an incredible story. Talk about watching people sacrificing their own time and money to work for something they believe in. Essentially, this is the deal: mifepristone is a drug that has shown signs that it might be useful in fighting reproductive cancers, especially ovarian and uterine cancers. Mifepristone is not the most politically friendly drug. Mifepristone is half of the equation (the other drug's name escapes me) more commonly known as the "abortion pill." In fact, I attended a briefing about mifepristone about a month ago, and so I was already versed in the uses for the drug and the uproar surrounding it when I went to the walk this morning. This use, however, was not one I was aware of. Not many people are, and that's the point. The Feminist Majority has taken it upon themselves to not only gather the money, but the legal power, to make clinical cancer trials using mifepristone a reality. It is a daunting task. At the event were the presidents of NOW and the Feminist Majority, and they gave thanks to the team of lawyers that has spent thousands of hours working out the legal kinks surrounding the trials - for free. Nothing has a ring of sincerity like pro bono work. Several of the speakers had lost family members to reproductive cancer, one only two weeks ago. This is the first time the Feminist Majority has put on a walk like this in years, and it showed. The event could have been better publicized, and organized. But on the other hand, it was great to be part of something that was happening for the first time. It was less polished than other events of a similar nature, and though that revealed more mistakes, it also revealed the raw effort everyone put into it.

So, we took a little walk. It was supposed to be a 5k though I have a sneaking suspicion it was shorter due to some confusion regarding the route. It started at the Women's Memorial in Arlington Cemetery and wound around the tidal basin before returning to the cemetery. I got a t-shirt. Good deal, even though it was purple and generally shaped like a lumpy grocery bag. I went with friends. It was a nice day.

I don't like that I work here but I don't. There are too many interns going through this place. I understand that that's the point. We are in plentiful supply, and thank goodness, because I have no idea how any office would get things done without our free labor. But I do not like how fine the line is between "plentiful" and "forgettable." Beyond being good at my job, or brilliant, or whatever, what I really want is to be memorable. I think that is what everyone wants.

However. I do not want to be memorable for certain things. I do not want to be memorable because I cozied up to everyone important that ever came in the office. I do not want to be memorable because I was pushy. I definitely don't want to be memorable because I wore scandalous outfits. I don't want to be memorable because I schmoozed with the best of them.

But where is that line? I am vehemently anti-kiss up. Yet I do not want to seem disinterested. This late in the game, I wonder where I fell on the forgettability continuum. If they can't get my name right while I'm here, prospects are not good for when I leave. I've been so busy doing my job, I wonder if I've managed to make them see how interested I actually am in the issues we all work on. It's strange. Everyone is so busy making policy that no one stops to discuss it. They may be certain how they feel on every issue on the planet, but I am not.

I wanted to talk about it. But then the data entry happened. Oh then the tours. Oh and then the constituent surveys, and the phone ringing, and the briefings and the and the and the...

So we don't talk about it. I got with the program, because I wanted to be an excellent employee. And I am. But it occurs to me now that maybe I should have pushed harder. I know everyone is tired and sick of politics and busy. I understand.

But I want to talk about it. I hope they know that.

So, this is not my story, but it's a good one so I'm hijacking it.

To continue the tale of our dear friend Cynthia McKinney...

A few days ago, weeks after the "incident" that landed McKinney in the spotlight, a friend of mine was walking towards work with not a care in the world. He strode up to the door he always goes in, which is the door I always go in, which is the door Cynthia McKinney went in that fateful day. Out of nowhere, a bunch of cops pull him aside. Naturally, he squeals like a small girl as they begin questioning him.

Apparently, he was walked through the door moments before Cynthia McKinney had her moment of glory. How do they know this? They proceed to bust out security photos, which they have blown up, analyzed, and somehow used to discover that my friend was around during the incident. How did they match up a grainy security photo to employee photos of him? How did they know when he was going to walk through the door for work? How did they recognize him?

An hour later, representatives from the U.S. Attorney's office show up at his office, again wielding photos and asking if he remembers anything from that day. My friend is being stalked by the law, who have apparently discovered the identity of absolutely everyone in the vicinity of that door during the McKinney incident. He remembers nothing, he didn't even know he was there around the time it happened, and he has told at least a dozen people this. But here they come, with pictures and questions about what color ties he usually wears to work. Let's all take a moment to appreciate how immune to security and surveillance we've all become. Whoa. Just whoa.

My adoring public (aka parents) have pointed out that I have neglected to mention my class in this journal. My deepest apologies.

Basically, my class is fantastic. It has all the elements of a good class: the profressor is funny, gives minimal homework, and engages the class in discussion (successfully) for the entire class period. The daydreaming factor is low because the subject matter is interesting and the professor does a good job of calling on everyone often enough that we pretty much have to pay attention.

Criminal law is the topic of my class. I have always thought that it is totally insane that nowhere in school do we learn about the law in practice, as it affects our daily lives. Kids can probably rattle off a few of the rights we are supposed to enjoy - freedom of speech, etc. - but ask them if they have to open the door when a cop comes knocking and they have no idea. I think that is just ridiculous. Only a handful of students in my class, most of whom are upperclasssmen in college, could even answer whether or not the police have the right to search your car if you are pulled over for speeding. No one knows. The law is in the hands of the police, it is on Law and Order, and the newspapers are crawling with it, especially when scandals erupt. But it is not in my life and not in the lives of my friends and no one knows how to get it there. So. That's my treatise on why we should have comprehensive civics education in high school.

For now, I'm working on getting myself educated, hence why I took this class. I now know why a cop CAN search your car (it's on wheels and so not a personal residence with an expectation of privacy), why you CAN shoot someone who tries to break into your home but not someone who calls you names in a bar, and why the OJ Simpson verdict makes perfect sense (basically, the LA cops are embarassing beyond belief). Ask me about the OJ Simpson thing sometime, it's really interesting.

Academically, I suppose you could say that this class is a good exercise in thinking clearly and rationally. I don't know that I have any particular aptitude for law. Actually, I tend to be bad at it because I get caught up thinking of every possible avenue of argument and confuse myself rather than cutting right to the heart of the issue quickly. However, law still appeals to me because I love the logic of it. I love that a good argument feels solid, like something you can believe in and feel sure about, because it is based on reason. Maybe I just like arguing because I like being right. That's probably the true mark of a lawyer.

At any rate, it's a fabulous class. The Washington Center seems to have stumbled upon a good programming move. More next time on why I'm positive they didn't do it on purpose.

:)

If you are considering doing your duty as a patriotic American and exercising your right to make your voice heard, here are some simple guidelines to make yourself as annoying as humanly possible when writing your Congressperson:

1. Don't pick one issue. Shoot for at least 14. This makes it impossible for the legislative staff to send you a form letter.

2. While you're at it, write paragraph-long sentences and use no punctuation so picking out your 14 issues is torture.

3. Hand write your name and address messy enough that it takes 40 minutes to decipher but not so illegibly that they can quickly dismiss it as unreadable and shred it.

4. Live in the middle of nowhere so that your address resembles an obscure mathematical language (W123F2 109th county road F19) that makes Mapquest shortcircuit.

5. Request information on several different bills, including the full text of each, so they have to contact several different agencies to assemble the right materials.

6. Demand a signed photo and 67 copies of the Constitution.

7. Fabricate a really convincing lie about knowing the Congresswoman personally so it takes a week of careful fact-checking to discover the truth so the letter can be addressed appropriately.

8. Reference an obscure law that profoundly affects your life so the staff has to learn its every nuance in order to properly respond.

9. Be just nice enough after all your demands to make them feel bad if they start to curse your difficult-to-spell name


Trust me, follow these simple rules, and everyone in the office will have your name committed to memory. You will haunt their dreams. You will be legend.