A Word from the Hokie Nation

Virginia Tech family members across the country have united to declare this Friday, April 20th, an "Orange and Maroon Effect" day to honor those killed in the tragic events on campus Monday, and to show support for Virginia Tech students, faculty, administrators, staff, alumni, and friends. "Orange and Maroon Effect" was born several years ago as an invitation to Tech fans to wear orange and maroon to Virginia Tech athletic events. We invite everyone from all over the country to be a part of the Virginia Tech family this Friday, to wear orange and maroon to support the families of those who were lost, and to support the school and community we all love so much.

Also, many young Engineering Professionals around the country are taking their Professional Certification exam this Friday. Many are young VT Graduates who have lost professors and friends in these awful events. As Certified Engineers will tell you, studying for this exam has consumed their lives for the last several months. To have this happen in the home stretch is simply not what they need. If you could please take some time on Friday to send some warm thoughts and good luck their way, I'm sure it will help and be appreciated.

The Dawg Pound ♥'s Hokie Nation!

There is a saying in the Hills of Virginia that "of course God is a Hokie fan. How else can you explain why the trees turn Orange and Maroon in the fall?"

Of course, there are other sayings about the only intelligent sign of life in Blacksburg being the mileage sign to Harrisonburg, how if you couldn't get into a "college" like UVA, you went to Hokie High, and how if you wanted a good date to the campus formal, you needed to tip early. But, then again, none of that is important right now.

What is important is that the illusions we had about our college campuses being safe were shattered in a few hours this morning. In what appeared to be an isolated incident at the time, some asshat with a gun shot his ex girlfriend in West Ambler Johnston Hall (West AJ). Then, two hours later, he was in the Engineering Building, taking at least 30 people with him as he went down in a "blaze of glory."

Again...asshat. We could talk about the selfishness of killing oneself, but seriously people, if you're gonna do it, please consider doing it in such a way that is personal and private and involves minimal clean-up. Of course, before you get that far, please also consider calling a suicide hot line like 1.800.273.8255 (TALK). These people can help. Let them.

In the days and weeks to come, I'm sure we'll learn more about this, the worst mass shooting in US History. We will come to know what motivated the gunman and what he was doing minute-by-minute. It will come to define a generation of college students in the way that Columbine defined our little brothers and sisters eight years ago and the way Kent State defined our parents. It will be talk-show fodder and a ratings booster (though really, ABC7 in DC, did you HAVE to use an orange and maroon crosshairs logo?) for the more insensitive of our mass-media outlets. Fox News, I can't wait to see what you come up with. Then again, maybe I can.

And slowly, life will go on in Blacksburg. The trees will turn orange and maroon again. We will drive down from Harrisonburg to see our first string be humiliated by their third-string. Exams will be taken, freshmen will travel in packs, mass quantities of bourbons and cokes will be consumed. UVA will still be full of themselves. Things will get back to normal...eventually.

But for a moment, a brief moment, don't forget to put your heart into the hills of Blacksburg. Then take your heart out. Put your heart back in and...well, you know the rest.

After all, commitment to healing and the brotherhood of all Virginians...isn't that what it's all about?

Frank Capra, Eat your Heart Out

Have you ever looked at your life during a particular moment and realized, "by God, this is a scene from a movie!"? No, I'm not talking about those cheesy events where you attempt to recreate the final scene from Sleepless in Seattle or An Affair to Remember by taking your girlfriend to the Empire State Building for Valentines Day or any Princess Leia fantasies that your kinky boyfriend cooked up on a Saturday night. I'm talking about the natural moments that you don't recognize until just after they're over, when you find yourself standing on a street corner saying, "Didn't I see that somewhere before?"

As you can probably guess, I shared one this weekend.

This past Sunday I headed down to DC to pay my respects to President Ford (you guys know me and politics). Now, anyone who's been to the Capitol lately knows that since 9/11, there's no direct access to the building. You've got to go up a walkway on the right hand side (if you're facing The Mall), pass through security (seriously, why can't I ever get the hot Marine to feel me up?), and then slip into a side entrance. On extremely rare occasions you get to go around to the front door, and that's precisely what we did on Sunday.

I breezed through security (but someone still owes me a dinner!) and had made it to that part of the balcony where, when you look straight up, all you can see is the Dome. Kind of like this:

Now, let's face it, it's a pretty dome; it's an impressive dome; but, after almost an entire lifetime of visiting said dome and seeing it from The Mall, I'm sad to say that I've become used to it.
The woman behind me (roughly my mother's age which, if I hope to stay in the will, I will report as 35) however, had an entirely different point of view. She started gasping and shaking and looking up at the dome like a little girl.

"Oh, oh, OH," she exclaimed, prompting me to think that I had wandered into the diner scene in When Harry Met Sally.

I smiled at her, "It's beautiful isn't it. First time in DC?"

"Yes," she breathed. "We did it right, we did it right." She kept repeating herself while her friend -- clearly a DC suburbanite -- looked somewhat embarrassed.

"It's beautiful," I agreed, "But wait until you get inside."

While bummer-friend started relating the history of how this beautiful building was almost wiped out on 9/11, I wandered into the front steps. At first, I couldn't believe that you could reach a certain age (still 35 if my mother's reading this) without seeing Washington, DC. Then I realized that what I really was was jealous. I had grown up seeing The Dome, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Cherry Blossoms, and all the other DC sights that are supposed to invoke patriotism and pride, and now they were just buildings and trees to me. This woman, this 35 year old woman was seeing them for the first time at an age where they could really mean something and when she would never forget the feelings they invoked.

She made me think, and as I left the Capitol and headed down the steps towards The Mall, I paused for a moment to look up at the dome once more with new eyes. And while it wasn't quite the eyes of the "lady on the Capitol Dome," or the eyes of the woman seeing it for the first time, it wasn't through "eyes on the ground either."*


* Just in case anyone doesn't have a clue what I meant by that, here's the speech from Jimmy Stewart's Jefferson Smith...

Just get up off the ground, that's all I ask. Get up there with that lady that's up on top of this Capitol dome, that lady that stands for liberty. Take a look at this country through her eyes if you really want to see something. And you won't just see scenery; you'll see the whole parade of what Man's carved out for himself, after centuries of fighting. Fighting for something better than just jungle law, fighting so's he can stand on his own two feet, free and decent, like he was created, no matter what his race, color, or creed. That's what you'd see. There's no place out there for graft, or greed, or lies, or compromise with human liberties. And, uh, if that's what the grownups have done with this world that was given to them, then we'd better get those boys' camps started fast and see what the kids can do. And it's not too late, because this country is bigger than the Taylors, or you, or me, or anything else. Great principles don't get lost once they come to light. They're right here; you just have to see them again!

One more thing for the Resume...

Mom, Dad, I know you always said you'd be proud of me for whatever I do, but I know that the honor I'm about to tell you about is something that I doubt you'd ever dreamed of for your little girl.

No, I didn't win Miss America (though I hear the Miss USA crown could be up for grabs in a few days), and I didn't discover the cure for cancer. This, trust me, is much, much bigger.

I am Time Magazine's Person of the Year.

To be fair, I should admit that I'm sharing the honor with about 50 million of my closest friends (and, really, they are...my MySpace profile says so), but it's still an honor to be considered above false presidents, great women, and the various and sundry despots (Pinochet, Hussein, Hastert, Foley) who could have been considered front-runners for the honor that you have raised me to believe is a benchmark for the success or failure of a particular year. The people who have come before me have included the greatest aviator of all time, the Duchess of Windsor, both of you (mom twice), presidents, popes, queens, dictators, and Bono. No, not Bozo the Clown, Bono the hot Irish rocker. Yummy....

I guess, if we're being honest here, the distinction of being named POTY bothers me a bit. The fact of the matter is that the honor wasn't given to all of us for doing anything more than sharing. Whether it's our blogs, our MySpace profiles, or a crazy video we put together for YouTube, all we did this year was observe the world around us and share our observations. Sure, together we may have taken down Senatorial Candidates and exposed Congressmen for the pervs they were, but we also dished about our dates, outlined our quests for girlfriends by the end of the year, came up with funny anagrams that ensured that you'll need the Rosetta Stone to talk to your eventual grandchildren, spoofed those PSAs that were supposed to teach us valuable lessons, and gave new soundtracks to childhood classics. Sure, we were creative, but I think you'll agree that we all could have done without someone hand-farting the Star Spangled Banner and Lindsay Lohan telling us all to "Be Adequite."

Something tells me that this wasn't quite what Al Gore had in mind.

So, while I'm accepting this honor under a bit of duress, I am, nevertheless, accepting the honor bestowed upon me and the rest of the "Web 2.0 generation." This is purely in the hopes that this will be the beginning of something beautiful and that the validation that we, the bloggers, the YouTubers, the Facebookers, the MySpacers, and yes even the drunkards from Late Night Shots have received from the main stream media will cause us to abandon our plans to produce yet another Brokeback Mountain parody and possibly use our influence for something good, like bringing another POW home.

A girl can dream, right? In the meantime, let me tell you about my latest date.

They're kidding, right

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm having a serious problem this year with the spirit of Christmas. Probably because, well, it's way too early and also because the average temperature this week has been hovering around 72 degrees. I respect Al Gore, I voted for Al Gore, but come on, if this is global warming, totally sign me up!

I'm used to it in the retail world. Usually, the body isn't even cold on Halloween when the retail elves swoop into a store in the dead of night and attempt to turn it into a winter wonderland. There's something oddly comforting familiar, right, just odd. About seeing a bleeding head on clearance next to a cherubic animatronic snowman. But, the last 28 years have taught me that yes, Virginia-girl, there is a Santa Claus, and the faster he arrives in stores, the better the holiday economic season will be.

Sometimes though, it moves too fast. Like yesterday. Yesterday morning, I went to Starbucks to get my first pumpkin latte of the season and found out that not only had they already replaced the selection with the peppermints, egg nogs and gingerbreads that scream "Christmas," but the decor had switched to a winter wonderland.

The disappointment I felt was like a reindeer kicking me in the face. However, I get it. I accept it. I'm saving the points. I'm moving on.

Or at least I thought I was until I returned from DC last night (where my friend and I shared dinner OUTSIDE because it was so freaking warm) to find this in my neighbor's front yard:


Yes, those are Candy Canes; yes, that's ribbon on the lamp-post; and yes, if you look closely you should be able to make out St. Nick himself on the front door.

Now, lest you think I'm about to steal Tiny Tim's crutch and run maniacally screaming down the street, I assure you that you're more than mistaken. I will get into the Christmas spirit. Just let me build up some enthusiasm for it. Let it get colder. Let the sights and smells sneak up on me. Let me wake up one morning to a freaking winter wonderland. Let Advent begin. Let that fat man make his way into Herald Square.

Christmas is special because it comes once a year. Let's keep it that way.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls?

In case you missed it this week, one of the biggest stories to hit the wires was the debut of the "Bratz Bra" - a PADDED bra for the six year old set.

Now, I don't consider myself to be all that conservative, but padded bras for six year olds? Something doesn't seem quite right about that. It's bad enough that Osama and Saddam are more familiar names to the post-9/11 generation (for the record, the little girls being targeted for these bras were in diapers when the planes hit the towers) than Ken and Barbie will ever be, but now our little girls are facing a bigger threat than Al Queda will ever post -- a blow to their body image brought on by the celebrity party-girls and a pressure to grow up way too fast.

I remember how embarrassed I was when my mother announced that it was time for me, at nine, to get my first training bra. At first I thought it was cool that my mom thought I was enough of a woman to take on this rite of passage. Then, Monday rolled around, and I realized that I was the only girl in my class who actually had one on. Since it was the 80s, before the age when first graders were sued for sexual harassment, I endured a lot of snapping until the other girls caught up and we shared the load. My saving grace, however, was that I was damn smart and tuned in to current events. As Gilbert Blythe said to Anne Shirley, "Being smart is more important than being pretty," and I took that to heart. Thanks to my academic success, I was able to build a healthy self-confidence that has carried me farther than looks ever could. My idols were Nancy Reagan, Mary Lou Retton, Sally Ride, and Princess Diana -- smart, beautiful women who possessed significant talents and spoke to the message that little girls could grow up to be anything they wanted -- even princess.

So where did we go so wrong? Why are the granddaughters of the ERA generation not only NOT burning their bras in a quest for equality and solidarity, they're embracing the curse of the boulder (pebble?) holder at a younger age than ever before? Even worse, they're already flirting with the dangers of anorexia (because, you know that the biggest insult that any girl can receive is that she's "fat") and are told that mid-driff shirts and thongs are "nice girl" attire. They're not, but that's the message that these kids are getting. The role-models that I grew up with have been replaced by Paris, Nicole, Mischa, and Lindsay -- walking skeletons whose biggest talents are talking their way into clubs and stealing each others boyfriends. Even our First Lady is a puppet who hides behind her crazy husband and whose greatest success in the last 20 years is to have raised two of the most notorious of the party girl set. Gee, she must be so proud.

Our great feminist sisters are gone, and the strong women who try to rise in their stead are often labeled lesbians by men who are afraid that they're actually making sense. However, there's still hope for the next generation. If we each take the time to tell our little girls -- be they our daughters, sisters, cousins, students, friends or neighbors -- that they are important, that they are athletic, that they are pretty, and that they are valued for who they are, we can still produce a generation of girls who can remain children for just a little longer and whose grandmothers can be truly proud of.

RIP Ann Richards: An idol for smart girls every where who reminded us that "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels," and who seemed to have had both the the self-confidence and father I had been blessed with: "I have always had the feeling I could do anything and my dad told me I could. I was in college before I found out he might be wrong."

Earning the sticker

Some people vote out of civic pride, others vote because it preserves the Democratic process that this country was founded upon. I vote for those reasons in the general elections, but there's there's really only one reason that I vote in the non-Presidential Primary. That's right, kids, it's the sticker that looks like this:

It's Primary Election Day in Maryland, so, as usual, I decided to be a little late for work today just to make sure that my vote was taken care of. I've had friends who have waited until later in the day to vote, waited in line for over an hour, and then have been told that they couldn't because the "polls were closed." Of course they were Democrats and it was the 2004 Presidential Election, but that shouldn't have made a difference right?

Anyway, according to the Maryland Board of Elections and Ginny James' 1995 Government class, it's supposed to be an easy process: Walk up, smile pretty, get a card, toss it in the machine, select your candidates, save your votes, and watch the computer select whoever paid the election officials the most money on your behalf.

All of that would have been a relief. Sadly, this morning didn't go quite that smoothly.

I arrive five minutes before the polls were supposed to have been opened to find my elections officials still trying to piece together the machines. Apparently someone didn't take Networking 101 because the woman behind the table (who I actually never saw again after this point) is trying to jam the networking connection into the USB port. Oh great, I think, let's try to break the machines before we even get this thing off the ground.

Twenty minutes after the polls were opened, the machines are finally up and running. I get to the front of the line and learn that, despite completing all the necessary paperwork with the MVA when I moved a year ago, I'm not registered in the precinct. In fact, according to the election official, I'm not even registered in the STATE. My twin sister -- who moved from Georgia and was only living with me for less than a year before she moved to New York -- is. So, the fact that I've lived in the state for six years and have been registered in the state for six years doesn't really count for anything.

I'm only half-joking when I ask for her ballot.

"Sorry, miss, we can't do that. Frankly, you don't exist."
"Of course I exist. I'm standing right in front of you."
"Well, I can see that, but you're not in the system."

Basically, according to VoteBoy, the State "ate" my registration. I'm seriously tempted to tell him he could Eat Me, but I figure getting ugly with the elections officials isn't about to get me anywhere but a day-trip downtown. Therefore, I opt to play the Sister Suffragette card and tell VoteBoy that my grandmothers taught me from a very young age that women like my great great grandmothers fought hard for my right to vote and that it's a slap in their face that I don't. Therefore, I assure him, there's no way that I would "forget" to change my voting registration or let it lapse because, at the very least, I'm a white Protestant landowner, and even though I didn't have the right "parts" to vote until 1920, I met the other requirements established in 1776.

Desperate to get rid of me and my history-spouting ways, VoteBoy calls the Board of Elections. He calls me a "gal"; I choose to ignore that. NiceVotingLady tells me that VoteBoy is wrong, I'm registered in the State -- just at the old address (even though I filled out the paperwork at the DMV a year ago!). VoteBoy STILL can't find me in the state.

This time, I give in to the urge to push some people out of the way and "do it right the first time." I grab the stylus out of his hand and punch in my last name. Then, because I read the instructions on the screen, I punch "Find in State." Instantly, my name appears.

"Oh, did I not do that?" Um no, buddy, you didn't.

I give him back the stylus and start walking him through the process to get me registered. Really, folks, even a Macaca (a monkey for those of you not following the Senate race in Virginia) could do this as everything you need is right on the screen. Somehow, though, I'm the only one who seems to have passed any sort of reading comprehension test.

We open the screen that covers the provisional ballot. On the screen it says, "use the codes from the chart in Chapter 6 of the Elections Manual."

VoteBoy starts flipping through the elections manual and whining, "I don't see it, I don't see it."

I grab it out of his hand, flip to Chapter 6, read the codes, and go, "I'm a '1'."

"Are you sure?" Hold up, VoteBoy is now asking me if I understand the process? Something doesn't seem right about that. I assure him I'm right, so, he puts in the 1 and punches the button to print out the confirmation page. I sign it and ask for the paper ballot.

"We don't have paper ballots. Use this," VoteBoy says as he tries to hand me a card.
"No, I need a paper ballot."
"No, it's ok, you need this," he says and again tries to hand me the electronic card.

In unrelated news, this is about the time that a second election official appears and goes, "So, William Donald Schaefer just got four votes for Comptroller -- Ted here voted for him, and the machine registered it four times. That's not a problem is it?"

To placate VoteBoy, I wander to the machine (which I know will not work), and slide the card in anyway. Voting Card has already been used, the machine tells me. I head back to the table.
"Seriously guys, I need a paper ballot." I grab the elections manual (again) and start reading out loud, "Paper ballot...Number 2 pencil...pen...pink for Republicans, white for Democrats..."

VoteBoy wanders to the (unwatched!) table where all the supplies are being housed. He opens the envelopes marked, "Provisional Ballots" and goes, "Oh, here they are!"

I get the ballot, and start marking it. Then and only then, does VoteBoy decide to start reading the election manual and again thinks it's a good idea to quiz me on the process. "The ballots are different. Are you sure you have the right one?"

Seriously folks, would I really have gone through all the trouble and not picked up the right ballot? Think about that one will you...

I complete the ballot and say, "Now we're supposed to put this in a sealed envelope," suspecting that there's more to the process because I've only used a pencil so far and the manual mentioned a pen. VoteBoy, who has been looking over my shoulder the whole time, insists that "they" didn't give him any, so he grabs the envelope that the ballots came out of and puts mine inside.

"No, it's supposed to be a sealed envelope," I say.

He starts licking (the envelope, not me, Thank God); I start going through the stuff on the table. I find a second provisional ballot form (the one that needs the pen) and show them to him, "These have a peel-off seal...."

I fill out the form, put my ballot inside, and bring it to the head election judge who has dubbed me "good people" for not ripping anyone's head off and is very interested to know if I'd like to be a judge for our community Christmas parade. I tell him I'd think about it, but my primary concern is being an election judge for the General Election on November 7.

Over an hour after I arrived, I left the school. Since all the electioneers had been in and out of there while I was trying to "get my vote on," they were VERY interested in the final outcome. I filled them in and was walking away when one of them realized the final injury...

...I didn't get my sticker.

Oliver K. Woodman

If you're paying attention to that little flicker map to your right, you've probably noticed a bunch of photos featuring a little wooden man posing all over DC and NYC.

Contrary to what the Security Guard at the Museum of American History thinks (and I'm being completely serious here), he is Not my new boyfriend. His name is Oliver K. Woodman, and he's a favor for my mother.

You see, Mom's an elementary school librarian, and last year's most popular book was The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman by Darcy Patterson. As a "fun summer project," she decided that she'd take Oliver K. on a little journey to New Mexico, Colorado, Oklahoma (is it just me that hears Gordon McCrae in their head every time they spell that word?), Tennessee, and New York. The doll got to go out west, I had to settle for the Big Apple.

So, there we wereI was(because I was the idiot with the big purse), lugging this doll all over New York City, attracting curious stares from natives and tourists alike. No matter how many times we tried to explain, it, frankly didn't make a whole lot of sense.

I'm telling you, it would have been easier with a garden gnome. Because, you know, that's normal.

Somehow, that weekend I got attached to the little guy, and I thought that since I was heading to DC "sometime in August" to see the Muppets at the Smithsonian, I thought that Oliver K. (now named "Fat Stanley" because people got that reference) should come along. I wasn't really counting on the Bush Administration freaking everyone out with this whole "sophisticated liquid" thing (puh-lease), but since he's not a bottle of Nestea, I figured he'd get through security relatively easily. He did, and I'm assuming that he really wasn't a threat because the security guard told "my date" and me to enjoy our day. Yeah, real cute.

Why can't government be more like this??

In the late 60s, there was a bill in Congress to develop the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (you know, the people who bring you Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers, and show you hours upon hours of the best of the Tony Awards and beg for money every six months). The proposed endowment was $20 million, but because of the war, President Nixon wansted to cut that in half. Obviously, showing children hours upon hours of embedded reporters is so much better for their psyche than Grover and Cookie Monster.

This clip is the exchange between a young Fred Rogers and Senator Pastore. I have no idea what party affiliation Senator Pastore is, but it doesn't matter. Mr. Rogers talked, and Senator Pastore listened, and over the course of the exchange you could see and hear the fact that the Senator's mind was being changed.

This clip is a little long (seven minutes or so), but it's a good reminder of the fact that once upon a time, our politicians didn't look out for big business and their richest consitituents, they looked out for the people who would benefit the most by their actions. It was also possible for decisions to be made without a lot of political bantering and partisan power-plays. It's another reason that I'd miss the 60s if I had actually lived through them in the first place.

I'd embed, but YouTube won't let me. Click here.

Starbucks

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the movie Groundhog Day – that film where Bill Murray’s character, Phil Connors, is forced to live the same day over and over again. Though I know that it’s a movie, it’s pretty much the story of my life right now. Monday through Friday, I get up at the same time, I do the same things, and I watch helplessly as the days blend together. It’s getting so bad that the guy at Einstein Bros. starts putting my bagel and shmear together as soon as he sees my car in the parking lot (not an everyday occurrence, but I do order the same thing every time I’m there). Phil’s problem was, clearly, more drastic than this, but he took advantage of the monotony to right wrongs, save lives, and make changes within himself. The town and day may remain the same, but Phil himself changes in ways that no one could ever imagine.

Realizing that I’ve found myself in the same rut, I’ve decided to make a conscious effort to do things just a little bit differently each day. Whether it’s going to a different gym in the network (incidentally, the Bare Hills Merritt is a Mecca for anyone wanting to learn about all things “Brangelina.”), taking a back-road home, or getting my news from MSNBC.com instead of CNN, these little changes are designed to break me out of the rut that I’m in and get me thinking again.

This morning, it was the coffee.

As you may know, ordering Starbucks coffee is something of an art form. Tom Hanks’ character in You’ve Got Mail said:
The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino.

Now I can make six decisions at once, and I’m comfortable with them. For me, it was always “Grande Skim, Sugar-free Hazelnut (sometimes Vanilla, but always sugar-free) Latte.” It’s comfortable, it rolls off the tongue, and it’s made life pretty easy. Because of the whole vanilla/hazelnut thing, I don’t have the luxury of walking into Starbucks and having my coffee ready for me as soon as I hit the door, but it’s pretty darn close. This morning, however, I decided to break the habit. This morning, I decided to order a different type of syrup in my grade skim latte. I was confident, I was ready. Sadly though, I was COMPLETELY CLUELESS ABOUT THE WHOLE ORDERING PROCESS. I had become so comfortable with the process that trying to shake it up, even a little, threw the entire thing off. When the cashier asked me what I wanted, I stared blankly at him. I didn’t know what size I wanted or the type of milk – and these decisions weren’t changing, only the syrup was. The ironic thing is that I’m convinced that if I had been fully awake and caffeinated (remember, folks, this was 5:45 AM), this wouldn’t have been an issue. However, considering that the only thing standing between caffination and me was my inability to order, I assure you that it was plenty frustrating. I could have returned to my “usual” order, and the barista (who, incidentally, was already holding a Grande cup and standing with her hand poised between Sugar-Free Hazelnut and Sugar-Free Vanilla) was clearly expecting me to do just that. Just in time, I recovered and stuck to my resolution.

And now, I sit here sipping my Grande Skim Almond Latte. It’s not the best cup of coffee in the world (My second choice was Raspberry, so I’ll try that next time), and it was a little harder to order than I would have liked. However, it’s made just the slightest, indescribable, difference in my day. As cheesy as it sounds, I’m proud of this little victory. This morning, at 5:45 AM, I broke out of autopilot and took the road less traveled by (for me anyway). And that has made all the difference.

The Americans' Creed

"I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people; whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed, a democracy in a republic, a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

"I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies."

-- Written 1917 by William Tyler Page, accepted by the United States House of Representatives on April 3, 1918.

I first saw these words yesterday while I was wandering around the Maryland State House, and for the past 24 hours, I've been wondering why Americans have never learned to recite these words as faithfully as they recite the Pledge of Allegiance. These words are, in my opinion, far less controversial than the pledge, and to my knowledge, they are the same words that Page inteded. The Pledge has been changed twice - with objections from Francis Bellamy and again by Bellamy's daughter - and now it's facing a third challenge. The original pledge failed in that it wasn't specific enough. In it's first incarnation, the pledge only said "my flag and the republic for which it stands." That was fine with Bellamy as he intended it to be a multi-use pledge for any citizen of any nation. When the US government decided that they needed to change it to "the flag of the United States of America," Bellamy objected. When, in 1952, President Eisenhower changed the pledge to include the words "under God," it was Bellamy's daughter's turn to object.

My problems with the pledge is that it aligns itself to a symbol of the country, not the ideals and principals that make the United States the great land it is today. A symbol is great, don't get me wrong, but you actually need that symbol in the room in order to pledge allegiance to it. The creed is different. It reminds us of why our forefathers and mothers risked life and limb to get here, it doesn't require a flag in the room, and it tells us what we should do to show our allegiance. It may be longer than the Pledge, but at least the content is clear.