WashingTina

I can't stop thinking about Malala . A little girl who wanted something as simple as an education. And yet, there is nothing simple about education. This I know.  I have education in my blood. My mother was a teacher and school board member. I was a teacher. I work for an education organization still. It's the family business, so to speak. Education has sustained me my entire life -- and yet, I never had to fight for it, worry about dying for it. It was always a given. Not so for Malala and girls like her in many corners of the world. This brave young woman -- still a child, already an activist -- has so frightened a bunch of grown men with her outspoken fervor for learning that she's now fighting for her life. Because with education comes so much more. Power, potential, freedom . . . and I guess that scares some people. Malala, even before the attack that left her fighting for her life in a British hospital, was a symbol for the rights of girls to go to ...

WH and I were at happy hour this evening when we happened upon one of the most annoying characters in the human species.  A character that I like to call the "Bourbon and Cigarettes* Girl."  This woman (not a girl, I suppose) is ever-present wherever people gather.  She is never alone, and she is always loud.  Always. She has that voice that sounds like she's been drinking a bottle of bourbon and smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.  Slightly gravelly, full of vibrato (and for that matter, bravado), deep, and throaty.  You know this woman.  She is the one at the Chinese restaurant, surrounded by friends (all of whom seem to have been striken mute or speak in inaudible tones barely above a whisper), regaling them (and all the tables around her) with full-volume stories of how, "oh.my.god. I was so drunk the other night and I was totally hooking up with this guy, but he didn't want to stay over, because I live in Arlington and he lives in Capitol Hill, ...

It's the Olympics again, and as it does every go 'round, it brings with it delusions of grandeur (see here ).  The Summer Olympics are even worse for me, considering that I played many of the sports, including gymnastics, swimming, field hockey, and soccer.  But I think where I really could've been a contender is in diving.  Ever since I first jumped off the board at age four, I really had something special in me. When I was maybe 13, I joined the diving team at my summer pool.  Two of my friends were on the team, plus diving meets had a way better snack bar than at the swimming meets.  It was a natural fit.  Except that you needed four or five dives in order to really be a contender, and mostly I could just do a front and back dive.  That didn't stop me from trying, though.  I'd get up, do the one-two-three step approach (I mean, hey, even if I wasn't every good, at least I could go through the very professional motions) and give it my all....

I was sitting at dinner tonight with friends of a certain age (and by "a certain age," I mean my age), discussing great concerts.  Somehow the topic of procuring concert tickets came up.  In today's age of getting online and clicking a button, the machinations that the rest of us went through to get tickets back in "the olden days" (aka the 90s) seem slightly ridiculous.  Or nostalgic.  Whichever, depending on your certain age. Sure, you might've taken the easy route by pressing speed dial with the Ticketmaster 800 number, but the die-hard amongst us took a more drastic step.  Take for instance a certain concert in 1998.  The Tibetan Freedom Concert , right here in D.C. Any self-respecting 22 year old needed to see this show.  Spanning two days and with a lineup including the Beastie Boys, Radiohead, Sean Lennon, Mutabaruka, Money Mark, A Tribe Called Quest, Dave Matthews Band, Sonic Youth, Nawang Khechog, Wyclef Jean, Herbie Hancock and the Headhun...

For years, WH has said I remind him of Elaine Benes from Seinfeld.  Played by the incomparable Julia Luis-Dreyfuss, I always took it as a compliment.  Of course, he also always teases me about my abnormally large head.  Devotees of Seinfeld will know where I'm going with this, but for the rest of you, just read on.  Ever since we moved last month, I've had largely uneventful walks to and from work each day.  Aside from one day when I saw a hipster bend over and his pants fall down revealing a little bit of buttcrack, there hasn't been anything really out of the ordinary.  Until today, of course.  I was walking the four blocks to my office, in a state somewhere between lost in thought and caffeine-deprived, when it happened.  A bird.Flew.Into.My.Head. It was one of those this-would-only-happen-to-me moments.  I'm pretty sure I jumped up in the air, flapped my arms and muttered something along the lines of, "Jesus Christ!" I can tell you th...

Today we lost a giant.  We, those of us who trade in words, make words our lives, worship at the altar of words, lost a giant.  Nora Ephron, she of When Harry Met Sally , among others, changed the way women talk in movies, the way people talk in movies. And for that we will never be the same. This got me thinking about words and reading and writing, and where I might be without those who came before me.  I found my voice because of the imprints of those who wrote ahead of me and those who taught me to love words.  I remember when I fell in love with reading, and by virtue of that, words and writing.  Third grade .  My favorite teacher, Miss Massey (along with my parents), pushed me to read more.  It was important.  Our classroom had a "bookworm," Sylvester, who grew each time one of us read a book.  Sylvester "lived" on the wall and grew by one "circle" for each book a kid in our class read.  By the end of the year, he stretched aroun...

The story of " Forest Boy " caught my attention this week, as it did with the international media. Just to catch you up, if you haven't already heard, Forest Boy claimed to have been living in the woods in Europe with his dad for five years.  The dad died, and Forest boy wandered into Berlin with his tent, rucksack, and a fantastic story. Of course, it later came out that he was actually a young Dutchman, who simply wanted to start over.  I was kind of bummed to hear it, because I love a good mystery and I find feral children fascinating. This got me thinking about some urban feral children that live right here in D.C.  WH and I recently completed a brief stint living in Cleveland Park while we searched for a new home (we found one!).  This is where we came upon the phenomenon known as the Feral Children of Cleveland Park.  Since we've moved south to our new neighborhood (Logan Circle), I haven't seen any Feral Children.  In fact, I never saw any in Ada...

I don't know about you, but I'm a little concerned about zombies.  I know I've been a skeptic in the past ( see here ), but recent events have lead me to believe that we are on the cusp of an all-out brain buffet. My sister has whipped me into a frenzy by continually posting zombie updates on her Facebook, and now I am starting to lose sleep.  I may or may not need help. Let's examine the facts for a moment.  A couple of months ago, I read about some sort of parasite that's turning bees into zombies .  Back in March, there was a story on this horrible mystery illness in Uganda that has completely incapacitated large numbers of children. Earlier this week, there was the guy in Miami who attacked a homeless guy by eating his face off (in case you've been living under a rock, there's more here ) -- so severe was the attack that he's even been dubbed the Miami Zombie, leading his girlfriend to assert that he was under a voodoo spell (and don't even ge...

You know that feeling where you don't remember something until you're reminded of it?  I'm not talking about getting the milk at the grocery store or remembering to pick up your prescription at the pharmacy.  I'm talking about those memories that are up on the top corner in the back of the closet of your mind, that, until you're reaching for something else, don't get dusted off and opened up.  I had one of those today.  I was curling up with the day's TMZ for a little light read, when I saw this little nugget about Robin Williams.  It seems Mr. Williams showed up at some small comedy club in L.A. last night and did his schtick.  This is par for the course for good ole Robin -- which I know because, years ago, I was in a small comedy club myself when he did just that. It was 1999 and I was living in New York (more on that here ), working for a promotional company.  We used to give away tickets to this comedy club and tell our clients, "Yeah, Robin Wi...

It was Valentine's Day this week, an excuse to go out for a nice meal and overindulge.  WH and I attempted to do just that, but ended up having a less-than-stellar meal at a certain celebrity chef's D.C. eatery that shall remain nameless. The service was exceedingly slow, the food too salty, and overall it was just generally a mediocre meal. We could have let that put a damper on our evening, but instead we let it lead us down memory lane.  We reminisced about various memorable meals. For instance, we talked about amazing dim sum we had in London, eating at the top of the Dancing Building in Prague, three feet of sausage in Germany, dinner at Central the night we were married , our first anniversary at Les Halles ( Anthony Bourdain 's restaurant) in New York, and on and on.  There were so many wonderful meals, it was no big deal that this year's Valentine's dinner was a bust.  Of course, not every meal was amazing.  We also remembered dining with a friend wh...

Our friends the Gay Lawyer (more on him here and here ) and his partner the Gay Historian recently adopted -- after having to wait for way too many years -- what is, without any doubt or argument, the cutest baby boy on the planet.  I know this because as his surrogate aunt, I feel what I can only imagine is what those in the business call "maternal" when I see him.  And I don't even really like babies all that much (need I remind you of this ?).  Though this is no ordinary baby . . . but I digress.  Last weekend, after spending some time with my Darling Nephew, it occurred to me that when people talk about babies and what they want to do to them, the talk is often actually quite gruesome.  My exposure to babies is fairly limited, so it may just be that the cutest baby in the world induces this kind of behavior in otherwise sane adults, but somehow I suspect that all babies induce hysteria in someone. Image by deanj via Flickr When I was talking with so...

I'll go ahead and say it, I don't like space.  As in, outerspace, the Moon, Mars, etc.  It makes me feel panicky.  There's just so much of it.  Not to mention that whole "no gravity" thing.  What is that about? I read somewhere once that $52/year from each American goes to support NASA.  I want my $52 back.  Seriously.  If it were up to me, we'd all just stay put right here on Earth.  (And don't bother to go all off on me about how backward-thinking that is and how if Christopher Columbus had thought that way, we'd all still be believing the world was flat and the moon was made of green cheese. I don't care.) So you can imagine my surprise and dismay when earlier this week, Republican Presidential Candidate Newt Gingrich declared that, were he President, he would colonize the Moon .  And that's when he permanently lost my vote (not that he actually ever had it to begin with, but that's neither here nor there).  Not ...

To add to the list of things you might not believe about me, I used to play rugby.  My sophomore year in college, with nothing else to do (besides classes, I suppose), I decided what the hell, I'd join the rugby team.  At 5'6" and 110 pounds, I was a natural for the hard hitting, tooth spitting sport.  Not.  But I didn't care.  I figured if I acted tough enough, I'd be alright. I faithfully attended practice each afternoon in preparation for our first game.  Never mind that I didn't really understand the rules.  Never mind that I couldn't catch the ball.  Never mind that I was probably the smallest person on the team by about 30 pounds and had to roll up the sleeves on my rugby shirt because it was too big.  I was determined to be the next big thing in rugby. The day of our first game was a grey, cloudy Saturday afternoon.  I was ready. I even got myself a black mouthguard for the occasion -- it was extra badass.  My friends, in...

The Brain Trust was always a cause for entertainment (more here ).  Whether she was dressing inappropriately, crying at her desk, or making grand pronouncements about how smart the women in her family were (no kidding!), she never failed to get attention.  Take for instance the time she got caught for skipping out on Metro without paying.  Really. Apparently days (or weeks, who knows?) prior, Brain Trust had lost her SmarTriip card, but did that stop her from riding?  Not a chance.  She would sidle up behind someone and walk quickly through the fare gate without paying.  It's a dirty little trick, but it happens.  One day, after sneaking through the gate, she was nabbed by a transit cop.  And according to her, this is how the conversation went: Cop:  Can I see your SmarTrip card? Brain Trust:  I lost it. Cop:  It's illegal to go through the turnstile without paying.  I'm going to need to see some identification. BT:...

Have you ever met someone so stupid you can't believe they made it adulthood without getting hit by a car, falling down a flight of stairs, or drowning in the bathtub?  This is the story of just such a person.  She was a short-lived coworker of mine not too long ago. We should have known what we were getting into when she showed up to her interview with the nightclub stamp from the night before still on the back of her hand.  Her outfit was also covered in cat hair.  A young woman in her mid-twenties, the Brain Trust, as she came to be called, seemed personable enough, but it was pretty early on that I realized she was fall-down stupid.  She sat in a cubicle just outside my office, so it was easy for me to hear her phone calls and the various sniveling fits she had during her short tenure in my office.  Another coworker, who was lucky enough to be seated in the cubicle next to hers, and I got hours of entertainment from her antics. Our office is fa...

A friend recently sent me a video of this weirdly crazy child from the trainwreck TV show Toddlers and Tiaras .  For the unintiated, this show is about (what else) toddlers who are making their way through the beauty pageant circuit.  I've never actually seen the show, but based on snippets from news stories and viral videos, the nearest I can tell is that these little kids are dressed up like washed up 35-year-old divorcees on a two-for-one whiskey sour night at the local watering hole or Dolly Parton (I can't really tell which), and set on stage to perform karoake to "Stand By Your Man" or some such.  Evidence below: They're just little kids, right?  They can't help it, right?  But their mothers (and in few cases, fathers) can, right?  First of all, these parents have named their children things like Eden, Kylie, Kayleigh, Ayzia, and Kinnadie, and "encourage" them to compete in pageants such as "America's Trezured Dollz" (it's...

Two years. Hard to believe.  There's not a lot to say, but I feel I'd be a little remiss if I didn't at least memorialize another year of blogging with a little something.   It's been a fun, if at times bumpy ( stinky , squishy , sweaty , slightly obscene ), ride.  But I'm in it for the long haul (or until that book deal comes through), and I hope you'll stick with me as I do it. Happy Blog-iversary to me!

I have recently seen several stories about reverse bucket lists . . . lists of things that people  don't want to try before they die.  And in these days of trying everything, living life to the fullest, tasting the rainbow, and what have you, I love the idea of being honest about stuff you'd rather not do. And so, dear readers, without further ado, here is a list of things I would not like to try before I meet my maker: Hot Yoga -- a dear friend of mine introduced me to yoga a couple of years ago, and I could not be happier about that.  It's freeing, challenging, and relaxing all at the same time.  But what I cannot bear the thought of is doing yoga in 105° heat. You can keep your hot yoga.   Climbing Everest -- I mean really.  I climb four flights of stairs just to get home every day and that's about enough for me.  People die doing that shit.  You can also keep your Everest.   Visit all 50 States -- with apologies to the ones in the mi...