Hopes: part deux

I love the thrill of being a "foreigner." The awkwardness of introducing yourself to your neighbor, the pride when you memorize street names and the directions they go in, and the intensive reading one does when a social life has yet to be developed. An excursion to the driving range with my mother on Wednesday afternoon did not help my cause for the development of a so-called social life. Sporting a black cardigan, a pair of rust colored granola J-Crew pants, and Sperry's (and thinking it was okay to dress as such at a driving range), we dragged our brand new golf clubs, upon which mom arrogantly left the "GOODWILL" stickers, over to the tee-off zones--a miniature cliff overlooking hundreds of square yards of lush rolling hills which must cost a large shipment of food to keep green. Amidst the nicely behaved businessmen in their proper golf gear and in between fits of pouty embarrassment, there was me: practicing a swing apparently so painful to watch that an actual employee of the golf course gave me a free pointer after secretly watching me swing a couple. And yes, I was sore the next day. More updates on my golf game to come.

Tucson, Arizona thrives and survives on the snowbird tourism season. Senior citizen "golfers" come from near and far (I saw my first Maine license plate) to nourish their arthritis-ridden bones and to quench their thirst for poolside glasses of wine and wide brimmed, colorful hats. Oh, no wait--that's just my retirement dream, sorry. The city is actually pretty diverse. Tons of thrift stores. On North 4th Avenue, an organic bong shop incense scene. There are cowboy tourist attractions, a very yummy Mexican place called Mi Nidito where former president Bill Clinton ate, and the Goodwill near the U of A filled with college students on a Friday afternoon exchanging opinions of the "80's" outfits they've decided to purchase for the weekend's biggest frat bash. Geographically, beautiful. Winding neighborhood roads drop you off at a high, high peak in the Foothills where you can see the entire flat valley floor like a football field and the mountains around it are the stadium bleachers, towering above. Can't wait to hike. Countdown to me and mom's horseback ride: 36 hours. God help us all.

Speaking of God, thank God I got a job! A quaint Italian place where the tips should be pretty good. Goal: by the time I'm done working there, to never work in a restaurant again. I'm serious this time. Me and Christa, along with our own joint "best friend but not too inside/exclusive" blog, have been actively praying about our next career moves--check this blog out if you need some career UMPH: cool career blog.

grace and peace,
kels