A couple of weeks ago while I had some downtime at work, I was poking around the Internet and stumbled upon www.findyourspot.com. It’s a website that asks you a series of questions and then pairs you with your “ideal” places to live.

My results were pretty telling. There was only one hit with a population above 40,000—Charleston, West Virginia. (For comparative sake, the estimated population of D.C. for 2007 is 588,292.) The majority of my hits had populations under 15,000 and were located in Vermont, Massachusetts, and Oregon. The number five ranked location was Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, with a population of 663. In a place like that, the number of cows probably outnumber the people.

According to this quiz, I couldn’t be living and working in a more inappropriate place for my needs, which is interesting because I hated growing up in a small town. When I went away to school, I transferred from Washington College in podunk Chestertown, Maryland because the nearest Blockbuster was 40 minutes away and I had to pay a toll to get there. Chestertown boasted one bar, a Roses, and a Hardee’s. The downtown, which consisted of kitschy antique stores and new age shops, closed at 5:30 PM. The college was surrounded by corn fields and soybean farms. My dad actually had a hunting cabin near the school, which he used twice a year or so to hunt geese with his buddies.

Campus police were nonexistent and parking was in abundance. I remember never carrying keys with me. If I wanted to get into my dorm, all I had to do was open the basement window and climb through. I loved that school, but the lack of nightlife quickly got to me. My friends and I played board games and went to Giant at midnight because it was the only thing within 30 miles open. And once I decided to major in journalism rather than English, it was the nail in the school’s coffin.

I moved. Where? To Baltimore, population 640,961. Corn and soybeans were replaced with skyscrapers and row homes. The Orioles were right down the street, and so were oodles of eateries with personality: Paper Moon, Daily Grind, XandO—-I frequented them often.

So what the hell happened? D.C. and I never really clicked. Some would argue I’ve never given it a fair shot. My commute is draining so I don’t go out in the city often; I’m in and out for business only. But I would argue that it’s not just D.C. that hasn’t clicked, it’s the entire area. The roads are jammed (D.C. has the third-worst traffic in the country), the cost-of-living is outrageous, and the people are far from friendly. Also, when you grow up on 16 acres, it’s hard to make the switch to a townhouse where you share walls with your neighbors.

I can’t keep up my commute. Thanks to the Metro fare increases, it’s affecting me financially as well as physically and mentally. Moving into the city isn’t an option I like either, however. There is something very unsettling in walking past armed guards on your way to work every morning. Some would look at that as great; the city is well protected. I, on the other hand, would rather live somewhere that doesn’t need such protection. I’m paranoid enough as it is.

Think Charleston, West Virginia is hiring?

If there is one thing I love about working in, and living around D.C., is that during election time, this town is a-buzzing. Happy hour patrons ask bartenders to switch the TVs to primary coverage. No one looks at me like I’m nuts when I explain I’m tired because I watched the election coverage until midnight. This morning, instead of discussing the latest round of auditions on American Idol, the water cooler talk revolved around Obama, Clinton, and the 0.4% margin between them.

This is shaping up to be one of the most fascinating elections in decades, and I find myself getting personally vested. I remember being an 18-year-old college freshmen and watching the Bush/Gore election results in my dorm for hours. I hosted a little party consisting of 5 or so of my peers, who like me, desperately wanted to see Gore in the Oval Office.

We all know how that turned out.

This might sound ridiculous, but when Gore lost, I was utterly bewildered and crushed. Tears were shed. I felt an extreme sadness for my country, and could not wrap my mind around how we could elect such an idiot.

Eight excruciating years later, America has another chance at change. And my God, do we need it. Once again, I am staying up half the night watching a nail biter unfold. Once again, I find myself wanting to throw election parties. Once again, my hopes are high that the right person can actually take hold of this country and change it.

While walking to the metro today, I saw a group of Hilliary Clinton supporters handing out fliers. “Hilliary for President,” the fliers said. Even though I am a hardcore Dem, it just didn’t sit right with me. “Hilliary” and “president” just don’t belong together.

With only a hair between Obama and Clinton, my hopes are high. But is it too good to be true? Could Obama really beat-out the Clinton juggernaut? God I hope so. If he doesn’t, my bet is McCain wins. … And here we go again.

She took a shower to get away. The scalding water warmed her like a blanket. She was cold, but her face was hot and red from tear stains. The water washed it away. The water silenced her head. Her heart still hurt.

His tongue sliced through her like little razor blades. He hated being nagged; she hated needing to. He was a thinker and she was a doer. She saw a problem and pounced, attacking first questioning later; he saw a problem and retreated, mulling it over till there was no choice but action.

Neither wrong, just different. Neither right, just divergent. They need to merge.

Fire and ice make steam.

“Do you all remember when you got your last cell phone?” asked the 60ish woman dressed in purple tweed. “Did you know how to use it, or place a call?”

This time she got an answer out of the 30-odd women spread out among 15 or so rows of blue-plastic, armless chairs. “No,” said the crowd.

“Yes,” said me.

My lone response went ignored.

“Right, of course you didn’t,” the woman continued. “You had to read the owners manual.”

Right there I knew I was in trouble. I’ve never read an owners manual in my life; not for a coffeemaker, a cell phone, a video game—nothing. I’ve always just figured it out. Working an appliance is not like dismantling a bomb; it ain’t that difficult.

And neither is weight loss.

“Everyone turn to your Weight Watchers owners manual, and open up to page 60,” the woman said. “These are your guides to good health. Memorize them; they will really help you out.”

The guide was simple, and in my opinion, obvious. Drink lots of water, take vitamins, and eat five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. But these women were oooing and aaahhing as if they’ve never heard of “water” before.

“Remember, we are all a flock of geese,” she said. “At these meetings we fly in a v formation to support each other.” Geese? I am definitely not a goose.

“Now who lost some weight this week?” she asked. Five or six hands shot up immediately.

“I’ve lost 1.6 pounds!” one woman exclaimed.

“I lost 3.2 pounds!” another said.

One by one, the meeting leader handed out stars to “reinforce” the “positive behavior” of those who lost weight, dubbing one 50-ish woman “lead goose” for losing the most weight of the week. Apparently we were not only owners-manual reading geese, but we were also in kindergarten.

Over the course of 45 minutes, middle-aged women shared stories of eating a bag of Hershey Kisses in one sitting, gorging themselves on Pringles, and scarfing down pints of Ben & Jerry’s. One very overweight lady practically drooled on herself during a discussion of onion rings, as the meeting leader started talking about “red light foods.”

I’m sure you’ve figured it out, but just in case, a red light food is apparently something bad for you that triggers a food binge. And these ladies had a ton of them to discuss.

“How can we enjoy our red light foods without overeating?” the meeting leader asked. She was met with silence. Had the possibility of not overeating ever occurred to these people?

“Um, buy a 100-calorie pack?” one woman replied.

This was getting ridiculous, and I was getting annoyed. Just don’t eat 15 cookies people, it’s not that difficult! I couldn’t contain my inner voice any longer: “How about not eating out of the bag, and having just one?”

“Yes! Exactly!” the leader said. “Wow, this is your first day and you already know the answer! That’s so great!” Her praise was followed by a roaring round of applause.

Goose Faith was not amused.

It became very apparent that I was in the wrong place. It was like a freaking AA meeting. These women spoke of food like it was heroin. I was the thinnest person in the room by 50 pounds and the youngest by 20 years. My reason for wanting to lose weight is pure vanity. The women at the meeting have real, very serious, issues with food. Most were bingers with no concept of self control. They spoke of “obsessively thinking about food,” and “eating until stuffed.”

I just wanted to discuss smart choices at restaurants.

I do not need a chart of a smiling stomach at different levels of fullness to understand the difference between starving and stuffed. I do not need gold stars to get motivated to exercise; I got to kickboxing three times a week.

If there was one thing I did get out of the meeting, it was that my body could be a hell of a lot worse. It might not be perfect, but it isn’t in the same stratosphere as those ladies I spent an hour with.

I don’t think I’ll be going back. There is an online option you can do that tracks what you eat, which more conducive to my needs. This goose likes flying solo anyway.

I met Colleen on the Loyola College stage in 2001, and I wasn’t impressed. It wasn’t her, specifically, that didn’t impress me, it was the whole shebang. She had one big scene in which she shoved so many chocolates into her mouth I thought for sure she’d choke. It was funny, but overall the show was an uninteresting, melodramatic mess.

We were formally introduced three months later during a spring semester Acting 1 class. I remember sitting in a circle on these plastic school chairs, thinking she had a monstrous amount of curly blonde hair and wore way too much pale-blue eye shadow. She had a gold, three-stoned ring on her wedding hand made with some sort of purplish stone and I knew she had a boyfriend. I also knew, from observation, she had an interesting taste in clothes, frequently pairing a rainbow-colored sweater with a neon-green and pink t-shirt.

Little did I know that this free spirit would become my roommate for two years and subsequently one of my best friends. Seven years from our first introduction, she has morphed from a cheese-wiz eating, cigarette smoking, study-a-holic to a Coach-buying, shorthaired, lawyer. Where the hell did the last four years go?

I realized today that in two months, I’ll be 26. Twenty-fucking-six. That number seems so old to me, so ominous. It’s like I’ve been in a coma from college graduation until now. Birthdays, ski trips, alumni events, they all run together to a point where I can’t tell one from the other. It’s like I took a nap and Colleen was a student living off Ramen and I wake up and she’s eating sushi and playing tennis.

My God. How long have I been asleep?