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Showing posts from 2011

Wise Crackers

I know it's probably hard to believe, but even someone like me who specializes in words, both for fun and professionally, sometimes gets a little tongue tied.  It's the verbal equivalent of waving your bra as you walk down the street or flashing your undies at passersby as you wait for the bus.  Last week, I was at it again in a rather public way.  Let me set the scene, if I may . . . My family always hosts a big Christmas Eve party for family and friends, and this year was no different.  My mother has a group of friends that she's had for years, the Church Ladies (not called this because they are actually patrons of a particular religious establishment, but that's what they're called), who always come to our party.  There's food and drink and great company . . . you know how parties are. So anyway, during the party last week, everyone was mingling and nibbling and generally making merry.  I looked over at the coffee table and noticed that a new plate had

Crime Doesn't Pay

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I was watching TV just now and saw a teaser run across the bottom of the screen "Tonight at 11: Hamburglar Arrested." Could it be? Could the most notorious hamburger thief of all time have finally met his inevitable end? I started to think about the Hamburglar and what might've lead him to his life of crime. I came up with a couple of possible sources: His name. Hamburglar. Much the same way as a mother who names her kid Trinity, Starla, or Diamante must know from the start that her daughter is going to grow up to be a stripper, the Hamburglar's mother must've known that he'd turn to a life of crime. It's right there in his name: BURGLAR. No brainer. Poor verbal skills. Perhaps the Hamburglar, despite his inauspicious moniker, had a strong beginning in the world. But he didn't start talking as fast as the other kids, and when he finally did, all he could manage was a weak, "Robble, robble." His parents lost faith, stopped paying

Reflections on a Decade

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I don't generally feel the need to commemorate September 11.  But it's inevitable that it brings up memories.  We can all remember where we were and what we were doing on that fateful day.  I was teaching seventh grade that year and a week away from major surgery on my neck.  I remember sitting in the classroom -- we were doing practice testing that day -- as another teacher came in to tell me that a plane had hit one of the Trade Center Towers.  A horrific accident, it must've been.  Until the news came of the second plane, and, later, the Pentagon and the crash in Shanksville, Pa.  I remember watching my kids taking their tests and thinking how their world was about to change, how they hung in blissful ignorance for just a little longer than the rest of us.  Then the calls started to come to the classroom from the main office, "Can you send Nathan to the office, his mother is here to pick him up?"  "Layla's dad is here to get her." "Please h

Recess

I'm back.  Did you miss me?  Did you even notice I was gone? Wait, wait, don't answer that.  I took a brief summer haitus -- I figured if Congress can do it, I can too.  I've been participating in straw polls, kissing babies, giving speeches, invoking the Constitution, and eating corndogs at a variety of state fairs.  Oh wait, that wasn't me . . . that was Michele Bachman.  Sorry.  I often get the two of us confused.  My summer wasn't quite as exciting as Michele's.  First off, I managed to make it another year without experiencing the joy that is the corndog.  I wasn't asked to give any speeches, and the only time I even came close to invoking the Constitution was one time when WH asked me to pick up my pajamas and I said, "It's a free country. I don't have to."  It didn't really go over so well, so I think I'm going to have to brush up on my knowledge of the Amendments so that I can find the one that allows me to leave my jammie

Local Celebrity Swag-ger

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I often joke with one of my coworkers that I am a "Local Personality." I've been writing this blog for a year and a half and on Twitter just about as long.  I blog and tweet about inanity, but often tweet to and about businesses and restaurants that I like.  My favorite food truck, @DCEmpanadas often gives me a little something extra when I get my lunch, sometimes I'll get free drinks at a bar, and I one time I even won a $50 Friendly's gift card.  These are the perks of local celebrity, I suppose [please note the sarcasm].  And besides, who doesn't like free stuff? Speaking of free stuff, last night I was invited to opening night at Arena Stage's production of Oklahoma! by their publicist.  I was so flattered to be asked (as media -- imagine, me, a lowly flack by day invited as  media* !), and happily accepted.  Normally WH would come along with me, but I know musicals are not his thing so my mom came with me instead.  The evening started off a little

Fucking Spongebob

Today at happy hour WH and I got into a familiar conversation.  You see, he's no fan of Spongebob.  In fact, he has full-on malice towards him.  Here's how it went down: WH:  Fucking Spongebob. WT: Huh? WH: You know, they said Tom and Jerry were too violent for children. WT: Who are they ? WH: They are they .   You know, they said the guy who made Alice in Wonderland was on acid.  They said talking animals set children up for unrealistic expectations.  They said it's not proper those animals don't have pants on.  They said all of that.  WT: It kind of sounds like the teaparty.  Are they the teaparty? WH:  They are they . WT: Ok. WH:  So with all of that corrected, they came up with the idea of Spongebob.  He's proper.  He wears pants -- which are square -- and it's unlike Alice in Wonderland, made by a sober person.  It's a fucking sponge who wears square pants and lives under the sea in a pineapple and drives a fucking hamburge

Pen and Paper

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When I was a kid, I loved to write and receive letters.  I would find any excuse to write someone a letter, just in the hopes that I'd get one in return.  In third grade, my Brownie troop was matched up with another troop across the country in California and we got penpals.  This was in the early 80s, so there was no email or Skype . . . just good old fashioned paper and pen.  I couldn't have been more excited!  My penpal, Stephanie, lived in Long Beach -- a strange land that meant surfers and beaches and suntans.  What did I know, I'd never been to California.  Photo by Happy Batatinha via Flickr  For years we corresponded, through the ups and downs.  She was a couple years older than I, living with her mother and brother.  Years hence, my mother had a meeting in Anaheim, not to far from where Stephanie lived, and I got to tag along.  And we met for the first time in 10 years of having exchanged letters.  But our friendship didn't end there.  It only got s

Boldly Go Where No Ham Has Gone Before

Every family's got one -- that one aunt who names her shoes; the eccentric uncle who talks about himself in the third person; or the granny who drinks a little too much and flashes back to her childhood in Kansas.  And we've got one in my family too.  A second cousin from the deep south is that "one" in our family.  So, what makes my Southern Cousin such a character?  Let's put it this way . . . shortly after I got engaged, SC informed me that he was not only a florist, but also a wedding planner.  He offered to "come up a week before the wedding" and plan everything for me.  In a week. During one of his previous visits, he had shared all about his nursing career.  He's had as many careers as there are letters in his name (maybe more), and some at the same time. He lives in a small town with his Momma, who he talks about incessantly, and takes care of (in between his shifts at the many jobs).   What got me thinking about this was the recent

Rain of Shame

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We all know that things happen to me that don't happen to other people (evidence here , here , and here ).  It may or may not have to do with the fact that I'm always walking or riding the bus somewhere.  The following story involves both.  One time, years ago, I was walking to the bus stop from my apartment.  It was a well-populated bus stop just north of Dupont Circle.  As was often the case, I was running late and the bus was just about to pull away as I rushed up. I reached into my purse to pull out my SmarTrip card as the bus driver stopped and opened the doors.  As I dug in to get my card, in a way that would only happen to me, my hand caught on something, and I whipped out a nearly-full (but already opened) box of tampons.  In slow motion, as is always the case with these things, they flew into the air, raining down feminine protection on my head.  It was at that exact moment that all 63 people on the bus turned their heads to the window to see what was going on.  Peop

To Catch a Mockingbird

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The other day while I was at work, WH called to inform me of a rogue crow who had gotten himself into a little trouble over at his parents' building.  It seems that the little guy (I'm assuming it was male, but feel free to reassign the gender in your reading of this tale) had gotten himself wedged in between a window and where the laundry room was.  He was being dutifully watched by two of his crow pals, who were squawking up a storm.  This went on for a day or so, watched carefully by WH's mother.  Finally, they could take it no more so WH went to building management to see if someone might help free the bird.  They would not.  This prompted a call to Animal Control , who couldn't indicate when they might arrive, so WH took matters into his own hands. He took a broom and went down to save the little fella. The little bird was freed, all the while under the watchful eye of his two crow buddies.  By this point, Animal Control had arrived and informed WH that the buddi

A Case of Mistaken Identity

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I was out for drinks earlier this week and my sister relayed a story to me that is too good not to share.  As I've mentioned, I had (and am still getting over, if we're to be honest) Royal Wedding Fever last week.  It seems that I was not alone, because as my sister was cutting a client's hair (she's a hairdresser-duh) last Saturday the topic came up.  And this is where the story gets good. The client, a young woman of about 24, was talking about the fashions (and the hats, oh the hats!).  Tongues were already wagging about Princess Beatrice's ridiculous chapeau.   Here's how it happened: Princess Beatrice via Jezebel Client: So I saw Fergie's daughters at the wedding. Sister: Oh yeah?  I heard about their hats.  After a little more conversation about the hats, the conversation turned back to Fergie.  Client:  Isn't Fergie too young to have kids that age? Sister:  I don't think so.  She must be close to 50 by now. Client:  Really?  W

You Give Me Fever

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I have Royal Wedding Fever (RWF).  Far as I can tell, it's not fatal.  It has several symptoms, and based on recent events, I believe it is contagious. Unless you've had your head in a bag for the past few weeks, the Royal Wedding (and the inciting cause of RWF) refers to the nuptials of Great Britain's Prince William and Kate Middleton.  The media frenzy surrounding the wedding reached fever pitch a couple of weeks ago, by my estimation.  It's about this time that my symptoms started to manifest themselves.  Prior to this point, I had shown some early signs, but it was unclear whether I'd develop full-blown RWF. This all started in November when Wills (as those of us who are close to him call him) announced his engagement to Catherine (Kate, to her friends).  It was at this point that I started having delusions of booking a trip to London to "witness" the nuptials.  I began monitoring flights across the pond, but was quickly reigned in by a sensible hus

As Simple As Black and White?

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Yesterday I got an issue of Ebony magazine in the mail.  At first I thought it might be a mistake, but no, right there in black and white was my name and address printed on the label.  This struck me as odd.  Aside from the fact that I didn't order Ebony , I'm also not black.  This got me reflecting on the many times in my life when, perhaps, it wasn't so clear what my origins might be.  Let me explain.  Growing up, my neighborhood was incredibly diverse.  Across the street was a family with a Haitian father and Chilean mother (the parents of my oldest friend, the Lady Doctor ). Next door to us was a Jewish family and next door to them, a Palestinian family. And there my family was, in the middle of all of it.  I can't think of a better way to grow up . . . and I think the uniqueness of our neighborhood and the collective memories we all share has contributed to the fact that I'm still close friends with many of the kids I grew up with. I've known my best g

Independence Day

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April 15 is tax day for most of us here in the U.S., but for my WH, it means a lot more.  Twelve years ago today, he arrived here from Iran.  He told me this story: When I found out I was getting a green card, I didn't know what would happen. I had to wait to find out when my appointment at the U.S. Embassy would be.   They tell you they’ll send you a letter to tell you your package has arrived, and when your interview would be, but I didn't trust it.   I used to call the U.S. Embassy in Ankara every day to find out if my package had arrived.  And I’m so glad I did, because I never received a letter.  The last time I called, they told me that my package had arrived and that my appointment was set. Then I went to Turkey.  I had lived there 10 years earlier for a year, hoping for a Humanitarian Parole visa and I didn't get it, but my memories in Turkey were still good memories.  Ten years later I went back to get my green card and stayed in the same hotel.  Walking the same

Not-So-Fine Dining

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I love the news. And I hate the news. I like to know what's going on in the world, from politics to world news to celebrity garbage, I want to know it all -- even though it alternately makes me laugh and despair for society.  So imagine my surprise when I was sent this story by my friend the Policy Lawyer earlier today.  Something ridiculous that I had not seen!  And on one of my favorite topics, too, public transportation !  Complete with video! I especially like the part where the Spaghetti Eater gets up to fight, but doesn't stop eating her spaghetti (I'd like to know where she got it, that it was so good she just couldn't wait till the fight was over for her victory meal.  And while we're at it, I also wonder where they were going that there was a full three minutes and 52 seconds between stops).  The article goes on to discuss etiquette on the subway . . . which is something I know all too well. My favorite part of the article is the description of the vid

I Really Stepped In It

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Last week my mom sent me an email with the subject line "Poop."  This isn't particularly odd, considering the sense of humor in our family .  I opened the email to see this video: Sure, it was funny, but the point was, as my mother pointed out later when she posted the video to her Facebook page, that it was a "WashingTina moment."   I had forgotten about it until yesterday when I saw this article in The Washington Post .  And that got me thinking about poop and something that happened to me in elementary school. I was in the third grade and it was a spring afternoon.  The weather had gotten nice, and I was wearing a pair of white sandals that went with my outfit.  We were having story time (or whatever it was called) in the afternoon, sitting in a circle, listening to our teacher read us a story.  And I had to go.  I asked the teacher, got the pass, and slipped out the door.  The girl's bathroom was maybe three or four doors down the hall.  As I pus

Let's Be Reasonable

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This week's spring weather prompted us to open the windows in our condo.  Yesterday, WH was in the kitchen opening the windows when he asked me if I had read the warning on our screen.  I hadn't -- in fact, I hadn't even noticed that there was a warning. This is what it said:   WARNING: SCREEN WILL NOT STOP OBJECTS/PERSONS FROM FALLING THRU WINDOW. SCREENS ARE DESIGNED FOR REASONABLE INSECT CONTROL. DO NOT REMOVE THIS LABEL.   He wasn't so concerned with the poor bastard falling from the window (who, incidentally, looks like he's had a run in with Batman -- POW!).  It was the "reasonable insect" that got him.  He was really incensed about it. WH: What is an unreasonable insect? Is it judged by size? Or is judged by aggression? Either way, it seems like whatever they expect it to be, it can go through the metal screen.  WT:  I guess so. WH:  And what is a reasonable insect?  Is it reasonable because you can reason with it?  &

To Tweet, Or Not To Tweet

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I have a lot of friends who don't use Twitter, let alone understand what it is or how to use it.  I even have a few Facebook holdouts that have yet to buddy up.  And that's okay . . . it's simly not for them -- and maybe it's not for you.  For those not in the know, Twitter has been used for all kinds of cool stuff, including online discussions, networking, self promotion (hello, Charlie Sheen ), and even organizing protests (human rights blogger and online activist Wael Abbas  used it to communicate about conditions in Egypt during the recent protests).  It can also be used for charity.  Wondering how?  Read on.  Next week marks the D.C. Twestival . . . a Twitter festival (get it?!?).  My friend Ms. Rasberry is on the planning committee, and asked if I'd do a little publicity for it.  Here's how it works, in her words: It’s an event that is designed to utilize social media in order to raise awareness and funds for charitable organizations. This year’s DC

It's A Small World

I've said before how D.C. is a bit of a small town.  It's a fact that I'm reminded of on a regular basis.  I run into people I know all the time -- at least once a week.  It's not often, though, that it's someone I haven't seen in nearly 20 years.  Certainly the advent of Facebook has made chance encounters after years of seperation a thing of the past, but there are always those people who aren't on Facebook or you can't seem to find online.  A couple of weeks ago, I was leaving the ladies room at my office (my organization shares its space with another larger organization) and saw a strangely familiar face.  But it couldn't be could it?  It quickly left my mind until later the next day when I was looking up an email address for one of the folks with whom we share our office.  A name on the list was the name of the person I thought I had seen.  Still, there's no way, was there?  A quick look online at LinkedIn, and I was certain it had to be

Search and Recovery

It's been awhile since I've blogged.  This is a great disappointment to me.  Part of this stems from good old fashioned Catholic Guilt, and another part stems from the fact that I always got "that speech" when I didn't do my homework.  You know the one -- "We're so disappointed in you.  We know you can do better. Why would you wait until the last minute?"  And so on.  I can hear it every day that I don't blog and I flash back to elementary school.  When I was in third grade, after having to miss recess who-knows-how-many times for not getting my work done, I was diagnosed with a learning disability.  When told I would have to go to special classes, I vowed to my parents that I was quitting school.  Fortunately my parents decided not to indulge an eight-year-old drop-out, and I went to the classes in the afternoons a few times a week to work on my motor skills.  This consisted of stringing beads -- in fact, we often would "race" to see

Code Orange

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Photo by adactio via Flickr In honor of Valentine's Day, I'd like to share a cautionary tale of love and woe.  Last week, I caught up with some former coworkers for dinner and drinks.  While we were there, we ran into another former coworker who had a "friend" in tow.  This "friend" had just opened up a business in the area and was looking to do some promotion.  I've long wanted to do some freelance consulting, so I gave him my card.  Little did I know what was to come . . . The following day, at my desk, I got a phone call from The Friend.  He wanted to set up an appointment to discuss what I could help with.  And then he dropped the other bomb. He really wanted to get the contact information for one of my friends who was at dinner that night "for business purposes."  Since she hadn't specifically given it to him, I said I'd have to ask her first, or he could find it on the organization's website.  I pinged my friend and she

Remembering A Hero

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.                                                                    --Dr. Seuss Sometimes it's hard to believe how fast time passes.  I don't really feel any older.  High school feels like yesterday . . . when in reality, I graduated almost 18 years ago.  I was reminded of the passage of time today when I saw a friend's Facebook post remembering one of our teachers.  Mr. Campbell died 17 years ago today, and yet it feels like it just happened.  Mr. Campbell was one of a kind.  He taught sociology in a way that was so far ahead of its time.  He always treated us like adults, even when we didn't act like them.  He was honest and thoughtful and tolerant beyond belief.  No other teacher tried to understand us, tried to know us, tried to really reach us, the way that he did.  I had the pleasure of taking his class my senior year.  It was a class that was so coveted, students would fight to get placed in it.