Posts

Showing posts from 2010

Resolutions and Reflections

The year is drawing to a close, so it's natural that one might become reflective about the days past and those to come.  I don't usually make resolutions because nothing comes of them.  Sure, each year I hope to exercise more (futile), eat better (a little on, a little off), and myriad other things that amount to nothing special.  And each year I do some of the things and don't do others.  The real resolutions that matter are those that are less of a lifestyle change and are more of a goal--get a new job, buy my own home, travel to Europe.  What you may not know is that this blog was my New Year's Resolution for 2010.  Sick of spending years thinking that I'd write "someday," I made a conscious choice to spend time this year writing what I want to write about and not simply writing for work.  When you're a flack, you spend a lot of time writing to advance other people's missions.  WashingTina is my mission. And I think I've done a pretty good

The Good, the Bad, and the Merry

Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year.  This year, I believe I heard the first notes of Christmas music around October 15.  Shortly after that, red, green, and gold started adorning windows and counters and just about anything that wasn't able to run away on its own.  I really love Christmas, but I have to say, this oversaturation is getting more and more out of control each year.  The one Christmas phenonmenon that really drives me bananas is "Christmas music." I don't mean O Come All Ye Faithful, Silent Night, or even Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  I'm talking about such earsplitting dittys as Christmas Shoes (the story of a poor child who wants nothing more than to buy his dying mother a pair of new shoes for Christmas -- a real spirit-lifter), Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses (which tells about the near misses of a silver-tongued woman and "the guy I'd been chasing all year"), and my personal favorite, the vomit-inducing  "

After the Wedding

Image
I'm trying something new here at WashingTina . . . I've joined a gang.  Not what you think (puh-leeze, if you've been reading this blog for even a little while, you're not thinking gang anyway.  I'm about as likely to join a gang as Justin Beiber).  I've been recruited by my friend Susie Kline over at Motherhoot  (and she is a hoot, so check her out) to join her Blog Gang.  The idea is that a group of bloggers all blog on one topic once a month or so, and then link up together.  Today's topic is marriage.  When I got the email about the topic, all I could think of was that scene in The Princess Bride (one of my favorite movies): As I've mentioned before, WH and I have been married for two years . I can remember our wedding like it was yesterday -- all of our friends and family together for one day to celebrate together with us.  I remember my dress and the flowers and the music and the face of everyone who was there.  I remember the months of plann

Unicorn vs. Hamster

Let it be said that WH and I love Christmas.  A lot.  Here's what neither of us can stand: the adverstising.  One advertising phenomenon in particular makes us both spew.  It's something you may not have noticed, but that once I point it out, you'll never be able to ignore it again.  During the holidays, the commercials feature what I've heard called the "Unicorn Man."  He's that guy who is attractive, eligible, and smart, with a chin dimple who gives gifts like Lexuses (or is the plural of Lexus, Lexi?) and diamond tennis bracelets to his unsuspecting, yet adoring wife/girlfriend/mistress (In one instance he even comes home from Africa for a cup of coffee with his little sister, but that's really not relevant here).  He is the man who the commercial people have dreamed up, but who does not exist . . . just like a unicorn.  Evidence below: WH really hates this commercial.  Every time we see it, it sends him into fits -- and he has good reason. 

Meet the Parents

It's the stuff that movies are made of: a couple's two sets of parents meet each other for the first time.  Ben Stiller's practically built a career on awkward family relationships.  But WH and I could give the Fockers a run for their money.  WH and I had been together for several years when we finally got the 'rents together for dinner.  We met at a neutral location, La Tomate (one of our favorites), for dinner.  Everything went just fine until we got to dessert.  Sure, it was a little more formal than usual, as these things are when people don't know each other well.  But our after-dinner treats really brought out the best in us all.  WH and Dear Old Dad are fans of port, which is perfect with dessert.  There's a particular port called Cockburn's .  You can get your mind out of the gutter (at least momentarily), it's pronounced coe-burn.  But who cares really?  It looks like cock-burn and that's how we say it 'round these parts, because why

Christmas Traditions

Image
It's the holidays . . . time for traditions.  I'll admit that I am a freak when it comes to traditions.  There's little I love more than a good tradition, especially at Christmas.  There was a while there when I must say we (me) were a little nuts in my family about Christmas traditions.  The list was long and specific.  Every year when my sister and I were growing up, my grandparents on my mother's side would stay at our house on Christmas Eve so that Christmas morning we could wake up and open presents together.  It just wasn't Christmas if we weren't all together, getting up too early, in our pajamas opening gifts.  Also on Christmas Eve, we would go across the street to my friend the Lady Doctor 's mother's house for a party.  My best girl friends were there and we'd exchange gifts before retiring to wait for the sound of Santa's sleigh.  People grow up, parents move, and grandparents get sick -- things change, and so, too, must traditions.

Happy Thanksgiving!

What are you most thankful for this year?  Through ups and downs, one person always keeps me laughing . . . my Wonderful Husband.  In honor of what I'm most thankful for, here are some of his "greatest hits" over the past year.  Enjoy! WH discusses what it might be like to be an air marshal: Marshal Plan Why you should never look down while riding the Metro across a bridge: Looking Up WH stands up for hardworking people: Take Pity On the Working Man He loves his toys: Toying With Us WH details how you can get deleted from his address book: Listen to Your Inner Voice Preparing for the worst: Zombie Apocalypse The real scoop on vampires and werewolves: The Witching Hour WH does our retirement planning: Get Rich Quick Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours from WH and me!

Seven Minutes in Heaven . . . With the TSA

With news this week of the impending TSA body scans and pat downs at airports across the country, I was reminded of a particularly joyful experience WH and I had in Key West a couple of years ago.  We had gone down to celebrate a friend's birthday and were returning to D.C. the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.  Not a great day to travel, but from Key West it wasn't so bad . . . the airport only has one gate.  We were standing in line waiting to be screened and board the plane (which basically all happens within 50 feet of each other) and chit-chatting.  WH pointed out a photo on the wall of an FBI's Most Wanted terrorist -- he looked like your garden variety terrorist: disheveled hair, long beard, soul-less eyes, slightly constipated.  WH said, "You know if that guy shaved his beard, combed his hair, and put on a Budweiser baseball cap, these idiots would never know the difference."  This was, unfortunately, within earshot of one of the TSA agents.  I bet you can

Little Mary Sunshine

I am not a morning person.  The sooner you know this about me, the better friends we'll be.  There is nothing I hate more than having my sleep interrupted.  I've been known to rain hellfire down on anyone who calls me while I'm sleeping.  It's all I can do to be civil to most people before noon.  I used to have a roommate in college who would start the day with, "Mornin', Sunshine!" It set my teeth on edge. Not only do I not like to talk to anyone early in the morning if I don't have to, but I certainly don't like to be made fun of and called "Sunshine" because of my not-so-delightful early morning demeanor. She never did get that hint.  If it was acceptable, I would never leave the bed before midday (I'd stay up till the wee hours, though, so as not to waste time).  But it's not, really, so I'm forced to rise at the ungodly hour of 7:00 each day to get ready for work.  Mostly it's not so bad, as WH usually has either al

Plastic Bag Pariah

Image
I committed a cardinal sin this morning. I forgot my reusable shopping bag when I went to the farmers' market.  I left the house in a rush to get the the market before all the good stuff was gone, and in my haste, I left my bag at home.  They always have plastic bags to put the produce in, but it wasn't until today that I realized nobody ever really uses them.  As I strolled around the market picking out root veggies and the last of the summer tomatoes (and a few green ones for frying), I began to notice that everyone else had their Whole Foods and Trader Joe's bags slung over their shoulders.  There was even a token bag from The Strand .  What can I say, I live in a hipster neighborhood. And there I was, conspicuously without one.  What had started out as a jolly shopping trip turned into a covert operation as I skulked around the stalls trying not to be noticed.  But the real trouble began when I got in line to pay. I stood there behind all the bag people, trying to p

Baby Boomless

I'm in my mid-thirties, I'm married, and I don't have children.  This apparently makes me some kind of circus freak.  Don't get me wrong, I like kids. I was a teacher for several years just out of college.  My friends kids are some of my most favorite little people in the world.  But apparently if you make it to my age and have managed to find a Wonderful Husband, you are expected to have children before the ink is dry on your marriage certificate. I thought that once we got engaged, I'd be free and clear of annoying questions for at least the year we were planning the wedding.  Oh how wrong I was.  In fact, I can remember a conversation I had during my work bridal shower with a senior male coworker who asked, "So, I guess we'll be hearing the patter of little feet soon enough."  I almost looked around to make sure he was talking to me.  I hadn't even gotten married yet and already I was chasing little feet?  When did this kind of comment become

One of These Things is Not Like the Others

Every day has a dose of crazy.  Whether it's an urgent email about the $100 that Bill Gates wants to give me for forwarding it along, someone's potty training status update on Facebook, or an altercation in the alley outside my office window, I can't escape one day without a little madness.  I personally prefer to get my daily dose of crazy out of the way early in the morning, like taking your vitamin with breakfast, if at all possible.  Fortunately, today was one of those days.  There was a rare Morning Crazy on the bus today.  Picture it . . . packed bus, swelling to the brim with hipsters, yuppies, and working wounded.  And then, just like that old song from Sesame Street "One of These Things is Not Like the Others," crazy reared his head. Close to the front of the bus was a man who was possibly homeless, drunk, and/or mentally ill.  My jury is still out on all of the above.  At first it wasn't quite so apparent -- he was just muttering incoherently to h

Reflections on Turning 30 . . . Something

Image
This weekend I celebrated a birthday.  I'm not sure why, but this particular birthday caused me a bit of an existential dilemma.  In short, I was feeling old.  Now, I realize you're only as old as you feel, age is just a number, and you shouldn't lie about your age, you should defy it, so say the great philosophers (and at least one cosmetics company).  But for some reason -- perhaps it's my increasingly creaky neck -- I'm acutely aware of aging. All day I was feeling gloomy.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was sour.  Eventually you reach a point, I think, where you've got more years behind you than you've got ahead of you, and I was lamenting this all day to WH.  He, of course, told me to shut it, as that would mean that I would be dead by 70.  I'm not sure why I was reflecting on my mortality, but I was. Wonderful Husband, in his usual wonderfulness, organized a gathering of my nearest and dearest to celebrate the passing of another yea

I Voted!

Image
Election Day is coming. Ever since I was a little kid, I have loved Election Day. (Full disclosure, my birthday is in early November, so Election Day also means birthday parties!) When my mom and dad would go to the polls, housed at my elementary school, they would go do their voting thing and my sister and I would get to fill out a fake ballot (all the candidates were named after flowers) ourselves. I always voted for Mr. Chrysanthemum. Photo Courtesy of aperte via Flickr As a kid, it was something fun to do, but in retrospect, it was a great way to teach us about voting and the process. Not that I needed that lesson.  My family has always been civically responsible.  In fact, by the time I was in high school, my mother was a local elected official, and I spent Election Day working the polls on her behalf.  I can honestly say, I have a great appreciation for the political process (vitriol and mudslinging aside).  I remember standing, from early morning till nearly poll-closing,

Get Rich Quick

WH has been on a roll lately.  Tonight he came up with a plan for us to get rich.  It's elaborate and ridiculous, but it just might work (except that I'm about to blow our cover right here).  WH: I figured out the best way we can get fast cash. WT:  Really?  How? WH:  Jared from Subway is training for the marathon.  So you drive the van slowly.  I'll grab him from the side of the street while he's running and chloroform him.* WT:  Okay. WH:  And then what we do is pull up his shirt and take a picture of all of his stomach staples and scars from the surgery from his tuck.  WT:  Why? WH:  We contact Subway and tell them that unless they give us $5 million, the pictures will be sent to Quiznos headquarters.  I'm sure they'll know what to do with it.  It has to be a reasonable amount.  Five million is enough for us and it's not enough that Subway will fight over it.  They'll pay.  You know they will.  And if either of us disappears or if we don

The Witching Hour

Wonderful Husband must be getting in the mood for Halloween, because the conversation we just had could only come from an overload of horror movies.  And we already know he's had deep thoughts about zombies . But tonight, tonight is something special.  It went something like this: WH: I've been thinking about vampires.  If they're on a liquid diet, drinking blood, don't you think they would have diarrhea a lot? WT: Uh . . . WH:  And why, in any vampire movie, does Dracula or anybody always have a nice dining table?  Because, it seems to me, that the only thing they need is a little juice bar.  Not even a refrigerator. WT: Oh. WH: I guess they could have nice wine glasses, but no plates. WT: Maybe. WH:  At least werewolves eat like humans, and then once a month when the moon is full, they eat rare meat.  As a human the next day, though, the guy probably has an upset stomach because too much meat is not agreeing with him. WT: Yeah. WH:  Here's the th

A Semi-Private Room

I started physical therapy this week for a neck injury sustained ten years ago.  This got me thinking about how I ended up there and all of the delights along the way.  My sister and I were Christmas shopping in late 2000, when some kid on a cellphone ran a stop sign (more on that here ), causing the crash that injured me.  Flash forward ten months and I'm getting surgery on my neck.  For months I had been complaining to my doctor that I couldn't feel my left hand.  My fingers "played piano" of their own accord.  And I was repeatedly assured it was "just muscle spasms." I was only 25.  Finally I was able to convince him that it wasn't just a muscle spasm, so he sent me for an MRI.  If you've never had one, let me tell you, it's a special kind of hell.  I was "secured" to a sliding table, my head locked down in this weird cage thing.  Then they slide you into the MRI, which is what I imagine being locked in a dryer might be like.  It&#

Stink Bug Mafia

Image
We are under seige.  Attack. Invasion.  Choose your ominous word.  It doesn't really matter what you call it.  What matters is that it's happening.  Stink bugs have taken over the Washington area with a vengeance. I know what you're thinking: it's just a little bug.  And you're right.  One is just a bug.  But what we've got is a mafia.    Image by jcantroot via Flickr  The Washington Post ran a story a couple of weeks ago that was informative and humorous (at least to me).  The story referenced the smell (sweaty feet--though I disagree, more below), ways for homeowners to remove them (suck 'em up in the vacuum), the Brown Marmorated Stink Bug Working Group (really), and Congressional action: Rep. Roscoe Bartlett, a Republican who represents Maryland's rural 6th District, sent a letter Friday, signed by 15 members of Congress, asking U.S. Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack and Environmental Protection Agency Administrator Lisa P. Jackson to t

A Force of Nature

My friend Karen is something of a hero to me.  She was radiant.  She was laugh-till-you-cry funny.  She was full of life.  She was a mother.  She was an actor.  She was a warrior.  She was a sister. She was a daughter. She was a friend.  And she had breast cancer.  But never once did breast cancer have her.  Even when the cancer was at its worst, her indomitable spirit and zest always shone through.  When I first me Karen, we were both playing the same part on alternating nights in this ridiculous dinner theater play.  I wasn't sure we would get along.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  We connected instantly, and when we finally had the opportunity to play different roles opposite each other (she as the evil diva and I as the drunken mess), it was magic.  "I always felt so bad having to be so mean to you, but it really was fun to be so deliciously evil," she would say with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin (she had the best impish smile you've ever seen!).  Not on

Metro-types

We commuters are a diverse bunch.  Most of us are completely benign and totally boring.  But, there are those select few who stand out.  Anyone who rides Metro or the bus knows what I'm talking about.  I've already discussed the famous Seat Hog , the Loud Cellphone Talker , the Sick Passenger , the Transit Groomers , and the Aisle Surfer , to name a few.  A quick survey of my fellow travelers (via Twitter*) and a pretty good list of Metro-types came about.  Please allow me to expand on these below. The Snoozer : fairly self-explanatory, this is the passenger who sleeps as if they're at home cuddled up on their memory foam mattress rather than jammed into a slow-moving commuter train.  I always marvel at these people and their peaceful slumber.  Sleep on the train? I'd be afraid of what might happen to me . . . my luck and I'd end up in Rockville wearing nothing but my sneakers.  A special subset of this group are those that have their mouths wide open and snore. 

Do You *Believe* in Life After Cher?

Today I got some sad news.  Now, it might not be sad to anyone else, but it's sad to me.  Turns out Cher is ending her Las Vegas show on Feb. 5.  And I have not been to see it yet.  You see, I love Cher.  A lot.  Sure, I realize there are much cooler stars to be in love with.  I could swoon over that Bieber kid, but he doesn't have quite the way with wigs that Cher does.  Yeah, I could worship Lady Gaga, but Cher's got bodysuits older than her.  And say what you will about her, but Cher is a survivor.  I've been known to watch the full two-hour long Biography on her and get misty throughout.  One of the first records (yeah, a record) I had was "I Got You Babe," from my dad's collection of discarded 45s.  She is a force to be reckoned with and is constantly reinventing herself. I could wax poetic about her for paragraph upon paragraph, but that's not really the purpose of this story.  Back in 2003, before I really knew WH (we had met, but he wasn