WashingTina

Baby Love

2012-02-11T01:45:00.001Z

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 some friends who have also fallen under the spell of my favorite infant, the comments ranged from [tame] "I want to put his whole foot in my mouth," to [creepy] "I could just squeeze him to death," to [grotesque] "I want to eat him alive." Much as I love the kid, I'm not sure I could resort to baby cannibalism.

This got me thinking . . . what is it about babies that make regularly sane people go batshit crazy? Their little tiny hands and toes are cute, who can argue with that? There's that soft little baby skin, people spend their entire adulthoods trying to re-achieve that. And that punch-drunk way that their heads are too big for their bodies, what's not to like about that? But when do we make the leap from toes, skin, and heads to the desire to squeeze, pinch, and devour a tiny human? I don't get it. Then again, those little bitty toes do look kind of like corn nibblets.

To Infinity and Beyond . . .

2012-01-27T16:01:00.000Z

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 only would he colonize the Moon, but once it had 13,000 residents, he would give the Moon statehood. Statehood! As a resident of D.C., this particularly cheesed me off (see what I did there, Moon, cheese, get it?), considering that D.C. residents don't have statehood or even representation in Congress. (FYI, this is not meant to be a political commentary, but a mini-dissertation on my space-hatred.)

The whole thing blows my mind on several levels. First of all, does the U.S. even own the Moon? Do we have the right to declare ownership (and thus colonize it)? I'm not an expert in space law, or anything (or any law for that matter), but it certainly seems like we can't just call dibs on it because it might be fun to try. Secondly, the mere thought that 13,000 people (or more) would want to go to the Moon . . . not just for a visit like that kid from NSYNC, but to live, really floors me. Can you imagine having to walk around with that space suit and helmet on everyday? Talk about bad hair. And imagine what it would do to the fashion industry, "This year from Kenneth Cole, the latest in space-travel chic." No thanks.

Now, if Newt wants to colonize the Moon, so be it, but not with my $52 a year. My only caveat is that, should the Moon become a state, D.C. get to be one first.

The Nose Knows

2012-01-24T07:04:00.002Z

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, including my fairly skeptical roommate, had come out to cheer me on. I was slated to start that day (don't even ask me what position I was supposed to be playing), and I was pumped.

We warmed up, ran a few laps, did some grunting, and started the game. It was fast. The next thing I knew there was a ball coming towards me. The next thing I knew after that, I was heaving my head up from the muddy grass. I was gagging on something, so I spit . . . a mouthful of blood. I was seeing stars and could barely sit up. It was my nose. Broken by another player's elbow.

Any other sport, and a man down would be cause for stoppage of play. But not in rugby. A player may lose a limb, and the other players will simply step around the body and the severed appendage and keep playing. Rugby is no joke. So I lay there, slumped in the near fetal position, waving my arm in the air. I don't remember much of how I got off the field or what happened during the game. I sort of remember sitting on the sidelines with ice in a rubber glove shoved up against my nose. There was a lot of blood on my shirt (which, I must admit, did make me look pretty badass).

Photo by Dominic's pics via Flickr

Eventually my roommate took me to the hospital to get an Xray and make sure I wasn't too badly injured. Fortunately it was just a hairline crack across the bridge of my nose. The next morning I woke up with two black eyes and Karl Malden's nose. It had swelled up to the size of a Polish kielbasa. Just in time for sorority rush. At least I looked tough. And I had something to talk about during those boring sorority parties. Just picture it:

Sorority Girl 1: Hi, I'm Jenny. What's your name?

WashingTina: WashingTina.

SG #1: Nice to meet you. (polite smile) So, tell me, what happened to your face?

WashingTina: I ran into a door.

SG #1: Really? (feigned concern) Oh my gosh!

WT: No, actually I fell down an elevator shaft.

SG #1: No way! (stunned disbelief) Are you okay?

WT: Just kidding. I'm in an underground kangaroo boxing league, and I didn't fare so well in last night's bout.

SG #1: (nervous giggles) I'm beginning to think you're fooling with me.

WT: You're right . . . I broke it playing rugby.

SG #1: Come on, seriously, what happened? (frustrated consternation)

WT: Seriously, I broke it playing rugby. Really.

SG #1: (big sigh) Fine. Don't tell me. I guess I'll take you to meet some of the other girls.

WT: Okay.

SG #1: Hi Kimberly, have you met WashingTina?

Sorority Girl #2: Hi WashingTina! So, what happened to your face?

WT: Well . . .

And so it went. And surprisingly enough, I actually did get into a sorority even though I looked like the loser of the Thrilla in Manila. Say what you want about sorority girls, but at least some of them were able to see my inner beauty.

As far as rugby goes, that was my first and last match. I decided to listen to my nose, and preserve the better features of my face for future bad decisions. Besides, sorority life was much more my speed.

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 2)

2012-01-21T02:03:00.000Z

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: I don't have any.

Cop: Then I'm going to have to arrest you.

BT: Well, I might have a student ID.

Cop: I need something that shows who you are.

BT: Well, I might have my Social Security card.

I'm going to have to to interject here and say, a) who on earth carries her Social Security card in their wallet and b) who doesn't carry any identification with them on a regular basis? Oh, right, Brain Trust.

Cop: I need identification.

At this point, BT was digging through her purse under the cop's watchful eye. In her bag she had a pill bottle full of niacin (she had recently watched a documentary about vitamins and swore that niacin was going to save her life--and that we should all take it too, because it would probably save ours). The cop asked her what was in the bottle, because, as she put it, "apparently niacin looks like drugs. What-ever." It was around this point that she started to get an attitude with the cop. She told him he had no right to ask for her ID. I'm not sure what Law & Order episode she learned that from, but I'm pretty sure he did have the right (then again, I'm no attorney).

Finally she produced either her Social Security card or student ID, I forget which, and the cop issued her a citation. But the story doesn't end here, dear reader. So indignant was she that she refused to pay the ticket. She waited and waited and waited, regaling nearly everyone in our office with the story of the cop, the turnstile, and the niacin. And then, with a giggle, she would say, "So if I don't pay the fine, they're going to swear out a warrant for my arrest." On the last day she had to pay it, she asked my coworker about where the nearest police station was to go pay it. He told her and she said, "That's too far. I don't have time," and then heaved the put-upon sigh of a huffy 13-year-old. Guess what? She didn't pay the ticket in time. A point she enjoyed sharing with us all, repeatedly, including in meetings with outside clients. I think she eventually did pay the ticket, but somewhere she's got a police record. You know, because she's awesome.

The real kicker, though, and the event that sealed her fate, was a meeting two weeks prior to our annual conference. We were preparing for an all-staff meeting that included our meeting planning contractors. As we were assembling in the conference room before the meeting, a roach skittered across the floor. Anyone else would've hit it with a shoe (girlish squeal, optional), but not Brain Trust. Her response was much more . . . drastic. She shrieked a shriek rivaled by the best horror movie vixens in Hollywood. She yelled deep from her soul, as if she had been thrown from a plane. She screamed is if she were being assaulted in a dark alley. And then she ran, like Flo-Jo, out of the conference room and down the hall, leaving the rest of the staff open-mouthed and staring after her. (In case you were wondering, I think someone did eventually hit the roach with a shoe.)

Not two days later, the staff, sans BT, was summoned to the conference room again to be informed that Brain Trust had been relieved of her duties and sent packing. And thus the entertainment ended. I was almost sad to see her go. Almost. But then I remembered all of her antics and realized that despite my desire for more opportunities to roll my eyes, working with such a loose cannon wasn't really something that was desireable. Still, every time I see a roach, I think of her.

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 1)

2012-01-12T08:19:00.001Z

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 fairly relaxed, and we don't have a dress code, per se, but the Brain Trust would often show up inappropriately attired for work. The first sign was the day she showed up in a sequined mini-dress paired with a long sweater-coat and Ugg boots. I really thought, had she sneezed, we might've seen her moneymaker. But this was the least of her offenses. Take for instance the time we had an all-staff interview. The conference room was exceedingly warm that day. Brain Trust had clearly dressed for the occasion in yoga pants, sneakers, a t-shirt, and a fleece. As luck would have it, I got the lucky spot next to her during this meeting (that's the last time I show up a minute late for anything). The interview concluded and I sat there fanning myself with my note pad. BT leaned over to me and said, "It's so hot in here," to which I agreed. She went on, "and I can't take my fleece off because I forgot to wear a bra today." Cue jaw drop. What does one say to a comment like that? First of all, why did she feel the need to share that information with me? Secondly, how on earth do you forget a bra? I'd like to take a moment to poll my fellow bra-wearers out there: has there ever been a day, from the time you were, say, 13, when you forgot to put on a bra? You simply don't forget to put on a bra. Not possible.

Another time there was a several-day-long computer training class that some of us had to take at a remote office in Bethesday. Brain Trust, as one of the main administrative assistants, had a particular reason to attend the training. Computer training is boring. Let's make no bones about that. And three days of it straight can be downright excruciating. But if it's an aspect of your work that you need in order to succeed at your job, you suck it up, pay attention, and get the most out of it that you can. Then you go home and drink heavily until the next day. Unless you are Brain Trust. In that case, you minimize the training window, open up your browser, and start talking to your sleezy boyfriend on G-Chat. This is how she spent three days. On the fourth day, after getting caught, she just minimized the window and sat there staring at the screen. I may have seen drool spilling down her chin.

Brain Trust regularly ended up crying at her desk. The littlest thing could set her off. One day she was asked to call for a refill prescription for her boss. When the pharmacy informed her that there were no longer any refills left, BT lost it. She dissolved into hysteria, sobbing into the phone that she had to have it. That the world might end if she couldn't get the scrip filled. My coworker and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. We were getting used to her crying jags. There had been another time when her mother, who looked like a Real Housewife of Tampa (I know this because once she came to visit and BT brought her to the office), was scheduled to go on a blind date with someone who may or may not have been a registered sex offender. I learned know this because she was constantly talking with her mother on the phone about her mother's dates. One conversation (which I only heard one side of) went something like this, "So, did you get the restraining order?" [pause--insert imagined Mama-Drama here] "Well, he was stalking you." [pause--more Mama-Drama] "But, that's not fair. He's dangerous. He should be in jail." [pause--more Mama-Drama] And then she began to snivel and cry. Her words became unitelligible.

Another day she was trying to print a spreadsheet from Excel. Since she neglected to set the print area, her printer continued to spit out plain sheets of paper, much to her confusion and chagrin. Coworker and I could hear her huffing and puffing, lost in her own befuddlement. My coworker, who is a much nicer person than I, finally took pity on her (after about the 35th muttering of "what the hell!?"), and went to see what was wrong. "This spreadsheet just keeps printing out blank pages, so I keep taking the paper out and putting it back in the printer." Coworker stopped the print job and got her set up to print properly. He then walked back to his desk, shaking his head. There was a lot of head-shaking that went on during her short tenure . . . [To Be Continued . . .]

There She Is . . .

2012-01-09T07:54:00.001Z

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 real, I swear, Google it). Apparently nobody can spell quite right and an extra "z," "y," or "eigh" is to be desired -- bonus points if you change any other letter to a "k". While little Payriz is on stage doing her "beauty," momma is in the audience giving her cues. And by cues, I mean she's full-on doing the dance moves and acting out the entire routine (often while yelling something along the lines of "Git it girl!") for her babygirl who has been hairsprayed, spraytanned, false-teethed, and lipsticked within an inch of her life.

It's easy to laugh at the spectacle and be appalled by the behavior of the mothers, but it scares me most because I could totally see myself standing in the back of the room, hopped up on RedBull acting out a Lady Gaga number in my a-little-too-tight Juicy Couture velour track suit with the faux fur collar and permanently surprised face, while I cheer on my "dazzling babygirl." I mean, who doesn't want their babygirl to nail her beauty? Who doesn't want their babygirl to sparkle in her Vegas-wear? I can feel my adrenaline surging just thinking about it. Sadly, WH and I don't have any kids, but I promise not to get spraytan in its eyes and I will always yell "Git it girl!" louder than anyone else, if you just let me borrow her for the afternoon.

Two for the Road

2012-01-07T08:59:00.003Z

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!

Let's Not and Say We Did

2012-01-05T16:07:00.002Z

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 middle, I've been to 30 of the 50, but I think I'm set. Sure, I'd love to see Alaska and Hawaii, but should I leave this earthly paradise without having set foot in Oklahoma or Idaho, I'll be alright.

Shoot a Gun -- please don't go all NRA on me. I know I have the right to bear arms, but that's enough for me. I don't feel the need to exercise it. Bang, bang.

Go Camping -- this might not count. I've been camping. Sort of. One night with the Girl Scouts in 4th grade. Platform tents. Spiders. Outhouses. 'Nuff said. Just make me a reservation at the Sheraton, please.

Dive in a Shark Cage -- or at all, for that matter. If we had been meant to spend extended periods under water, we'd have been born with gills. I swam with dolphins once and spent 12 years on the swim team as a kid. I think I'm all set with the water.

Burning Man -- seriously. I'm 36 years old and I wear suits to work. I think that pretty much disqualifies me from attending anyway. (See also, Go Camping.)

Eat Organ Meat -- brains, hearts, livers, no thanks. I've tried a lot of things (octopus, alligator, even bear), but I really just don't want or need to pretend I'm enjoying sweetbreads or chitlins, thankyouverymuch. This goes double for blood pudding.

Read Another Book By Gabriel Garcia Marquez -- because you can never get those plodding hours back. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you thought Love in a Time of Cholera was brilliant and all, but honestly, it made me want to hang myself. Never again.

Take a Spinning Class -- biking is not my thing, even around the flat landscape in Rehoboth. I can't think of any reason why an otherwise sane individual would want to combine club music, dim lighting, and extreme bike riding. (See also Hot Yoga.)

I'm sure there are more. I can't think of them at the moment, but maybe I'll update this list in future posts. What things would you not like to try before you die?

That's All, She Wrote

2012-01-01T10:16:00.001Z

Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved to write. I kept diaries throughout my school years. When everyone else complained about writing papers in college, I actually enjoyed it. That might be why I went into a profession that requires me to spend most of my day each day writing. When I started this blog, nearly two years ago, it was so that I could write what I want when I want; a creative outlet to supplement the not-so-creative writing I do at work.

My first year blogging, I was pretty dedicated and managed to get (I think) quite a following. Friends, family, and even a few strangers read and commented on the blog. I was covered in a couple of publications (holy cow!) and it was a great boost for my creative spirit. But year two wasn't such a success. A friend of my mother's recently asked me what had happened to WashingTina, and I had no answer. I thought for a minute and realized that 2011 was a bit of a bust. Nothing particularly interesting happened, WH and I didn't travel anywhere, and I was going through a bit of a "blue period." But unlike Picasso, my blue period did not beget any creativity whatsoever. As it turns out, I'm not of Hemmingway's ilk, and my best material doesn't so much come when I'm unhappy (or drunk, as it were).

But last week four things happened that made me realize that this is too important to not keep up. First was my mother's friend's question (and further encouragement: see Wise Crackers). The others stemmed from gifts I received for Christmas. My sister gave me a WashingTina scrapbook, illustrating and highlighting some of the memorable moments from the blog. She and my mother had spent a great deal of time selecting their favorite stories and putting the book together. Just listening to them gush about the blog and the stories and how hard it was to pick just a few, really struck me. Someone besides me enjoys the blog. Someone besides me felt the void of my absence here. Someone wanted more.

Thirdly, WH gave me a book by a writer (duh, who else writes books?!) that reminded him of me. As I started reading her words, her talk about writing, I was inspired. I was reminded how gratifying, how cathartic it is to write. How important writing is, and always has been, in my life.

Finally, my father-in-law, who had never read my blog before, spent some time with the scrapbook on Christmas reading my writing. He was so impressed, he told me that when I write my book, he plans to be the first in line to buy a copy. From someone that I respect immensely, this was the last little message I needed. I must write. For myself. For the people who love me. And maybe, just maybe, for some of those people who first found their way here, and who might find their way back again.

This New Year's Day, I'm resolving to write. It might not always be great, but it will be here. And I want to hear from you . . . because it matters to me. And it makes me happy. I'm not so much kissing my blue period goodbye . . . I'm just going to write my way through it. And maybe when I come out on the other side, I'll have left a little nugget of something worth reading behind.

Wise Crackers

2011-12-31T01:06:00.000Z

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 appeared with crackers and an interesting looking cheese. I looked at my mother and asked, maybe a little loudly, "What's with the crackers?" She looked confused and her fellow Church Lady, Jean, started ribbing me about it. Church Ladies #2 and #3, Ginny and Candy jumped in next. "Ey, yo, what's wit da crackers?" they teased. "No, no," I stuttered and stammered, "what's with the crackers, you know what's with them?" I didn't really help my case much as I tried to explain myself. I think I finally managed to (really badly) explain myself, but it didn't matter. The fire had been lit.

WH, never wanting to miss an opportunity to get a laugh at my expense, responded with, "In most western countries it's customary to serve cheese with crackers," which set the group off again. We couldn't go 10 minutes without someone saying, "What's with the crackers?" much to the confusion of the guests who weren't privvy to my gaffe. I never did find out what was accompanying the crackers (which was what I wanted to know, but had asked so poorly), but I did supply the catchphrase for the evening. So it turns out, what was with the crackers was a side of wiseass. As it should be, especially on Christmas.

Crime Doesn't Pay

2011-11-24T02:15:00.000Z

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 attention to him, didn't attend teacher conferences, and sent a neighbor to pick him up when he was suspended for bad behavior in the third grade. A downward spiral until one day, he lived up to his name.
Wardrobe. Once he began living up to his name, his mother stopped buying him Garanimals and he had to start wearing the hat, cape, and mask. It was all downhill from there.

And so, today, after many years on the lam, causing trouble for Ronald McDonald and Grimmace alike, the Hamburglar finally met his ultimate fate. I suspect Mayor McCheese will use this as his campaign platform in the upcoming election. Robble, robble indeed.

Reflections on a Decade

2011-09-09T09:50:00.004+01:00

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 have Carlos get his things and come to the office to go home for the day." Slowly the students trickled out of class, confused and confusing those left behind.

Later on, in the hallway, one student's parent, a woman from another country, had arrived to pick up her son. As they were leaving, he asked what was going on and her reply was, "We have to go home. They're bombing here like they did in our country." I don't think it hit me until that moment just how horrible this had become -- and how all too commonplace it was for some. That was the moment that my heart broke for the country we had been, and in a moment that day, the country we had become.

In the following days, we saw the reawakening of the American spirit. Without question, people streamed to the disaster areas wanting -- needing -- to help. Blood donations were at a record high. Everyone wanted to do something. Anything. We were down, but not out. The American spirit was -- and is -- still strong. And that is what I remember when I think of that day -- the strength of our country's spirit. When it didn't matter your ethnic background, politics, color, religion, or beliefs . . . because we were all American. We are all American -- and it did not break us.

Recess

2011-09-07T23:44:00.000+01:00

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 jammies unfolded on the floor and use it to my advantage.

Otherwise, WH and I didn't do much at all. We trekked up to the family beach house in Rehoboth, which is always fun. We have a favorite little place on the boardwalk there, Gus & Gus'. It's a greasy little Greek food stand with the best french fries you'll ever have (don't fall for the glitz and glamour of the Thrashers across the street, trust me). I can also vouch for the fried chicken, steak and cheese, and BLT. I don't know if they have corndogs or not, but the next time I'm down there, I'll be sure to check it out.

There was the earthquake (another one!), which thwarted a work trip to New York. Lucky me, I pulled up to Union Station just as everyone was streaming out, like in one of those horror movies from the 50s. I ended up having to walk home to Adams Morgan from there, and by the time I got to about Thomas Circle my suitcase had gotten one flat tire, so I had to drag it like a maniac the second half of the way. Needless to say, it was not a good day and I was not happy to have missed my dinner reservation at Les Halles. Harumph.

There was a hurricane (sort of), which provided fantastic entertainment in the form of the local news coverage. Channel 4, the NBC affiliate here, oughta win an Emmy for their ability to cover the storm for 24-hours straight without taking themselves too seriously. I should know, I watched the full broadcast.

And that's about all I've been up to while I've been away from the blog. Pretty tragic, huh? I know my image purports to be a glamorous life of travel, fast cars, and fast women, but this summer was a bit of a bust. What kept me away from the blog? Reruns of Law & Order. But since my summer recess is over, I'll be back and (hopefully) churning out the stories that put the asses in the seats. So c'mon back now, ya hear?

Local Celebrity Swag-ger

2011-07-15T15:43:00.002+01:00

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 rocky. As we sat outside eating a pre-theater dinner at Cafe du Parc (one of my favorites, btw), a bird pooped in my lap. Only me, right? Fortunately our waiter was quick with the club soda and an extra napkin and I was able to (mostly) de-poop-ify myself. Hey, at least he didn't poop in my wine.

After dinner, we were off to the theater! I hadn't been to the Stage's new location, which was huge and gorgeous! There was not a bad seat in the house. I met the fantastic publicity team (thanks to Kirstin, Julia, and Alexa!) from Arena Stage, and collected my tickets.

I hadn't seen Oklahoma! in years, and had forgotten just how innocently cute it is. If you haven't seen it, it's the story of coy Laurey and her not-so-coy cowboy paramour, Curly in the turn of the (last) century territory that would be come Oklahoma. They were great, but the supporting cast of Aunt Eller, Will, Ado Annie, and my favorite, Ali Hakim, really made the show. The songs were familiar and fun, but seeing the show in the round was a special treat! I especially enjoyed Nehal Joshi's hilariously fraught Ali, the Persian peddler, who kept getting himself into trouble with the ladies.

Ali Hakim (Nehal Joshi) and Ado Annie (June Schreiner)
courtesy of Arena Stage

As with all Rodgers and Hammerstein stories, there's a little drama -- in the form of creepy fieldhand Jud -- which is resolved lickety-split, just in time for the happy ending! If you're around this summer and need a little innocent sweetness, take a vacation in Oklahoma! (playing now through Oct. 2) -- you won't be sorry!

*Note: I am not media. I'm not a theater, restaurant, or fashion critic--though I do love offering my opinions, solicited or not. However, if you would like to promote your business by giving me free stuff (I'd be more than happy to weigh in on Wicked or Citronelle, for instance), I'll happily indulge. It will go a long way to proving to my friends and family that I actually am a Local Personality, which really is the most important thing. I promise, I won't let it go to my head.

Fucking Spongebob

2011-07-02T02:20:00.001+01:00

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 hamburger car. Now tell me, which one is on acid?

WT: Yeah.

WH: Why is he wearing pants? I don't get it. Oh, and his enemy is calamari? He's an evil calamari.

WT: Oh.

WH: And what does Spongebob eat? I don't know. I'm pretty sure he's not taking a bite of his own car. He drives a cheeseburger. He fights a calamari. And I don't have any clue what he eats. Maybe he eats soap.

WT: Soap?

WH: He's a sponge! And why in the world does he live under the sea in a pineapple. I dare somebody to find a weirder situation.

WT: Yeah.

WH: What about a knife who lives in outerspace and in order to survive he needs to cut space cheese. Maybe someone else can come up with a better idea, but it's still not as ridiculous as a sponge under the sea living in a pineapple.

WT: True.

WH: And what kind of pants do you put on a knife? Yoga pants? Straight jeans? Tights? And definitely the knife has fish eyes -- one on this side, one on the other side.

WT: Probably.

WH: I can imagine the face of those sweatshop workers in China, making those Spongebob toys, wondering what the fuck are these. Why are American kids playing with these. I'm telling you, they are ruining the kids.

WT: I guess.

WH: Chinese children are doing math problems and playing with nunchucks in their spare time, while American kids are watching Spongebob and sucking down a Big Gulp. And we're hoping to catch up with China?!?

And on and on. I never realized how passionate one man could be about a cartoon character. Though I tend to agree. I'm not sure who they are, but if they came up with Spongebob, they should probably be in rehab.

Pen and Paper

2011-06-09T22:38:00.000+01:00

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 stronger. In those years, long before the internet, two little girls connected with each other with only our words and nobody thought it strange at all. In fact, I remember people marveling at the fact that we had stayed in touch for so many years and how remarkable it was that we had finally met.

In the past year or so, I've cultivated a number of robust online relationships. Through this blog and Twitter, I've connected with a variety of people on a whole range of topics. The D.C. area is ripe with events for bloggers and tweeters and other ways to catch up with online people in "real life". But for some reason -- stigma, perhaps -- when I tell people that I've met friends online, it's not met with the same quaint enthusiasm as my third grade penpal -- even though the nature of the connection is quite similar. Two strangers, connecting over something they have in common using nothing more than written communication. The same way I connected with another little girl on the other side of the country nearly 30 years ago.

Stephanie and I are still in contact, though not often by pen on paper anymore. We're Facebook friends and exchange emails from time to time. For all the internet has given me, it's also taken some of the excitement out of it. No more going to the mailbox, anxiously waiting for a letter. Or waiting for the latest photos to arrive. In an instant, I can see what's new simply by checking out her profile and photos. And so it is with my new online friends . . . there's no delay. I can find out what's going on with the click of a mouse or the sending of a text. In fact, I expect it -- we all do. Yes, the internet has given us a lot . . . but there's a part of me that really misses some of what we've lost. I think I'll sit down tonight and write her a letter, just like old times, and hope I get one in return.

Boldly Go Where No Ham Has Gone Before

2011-06-08T00:57:00.000+01:00

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 anniversary of my grandfather's death and subsequent funeral. In order to understand the events that transpired, you have to understand that my grandfather was a southern boy himself. And one of his favorite things in the whole world was country ham. Whenever our cousin would come up for a visit, he'd bring ham for "Uncle Buddy" (my grandfather). During the visit in question, my grandfather was not doing too well. In fact, he died in the middle of the week of SC's visit. And the grand tragedy was that he never got to have his last taste of country ham. This caused our cousin great consternation.

On the day we all gathered at the funeral home to say our goodbyes and greet the guests, the family arrived about an hour early for a private viewing. When Southern Cousin arrived, he came in with the country ham under his arm. One of my uncles noticed it (how could you not . . . it was a ham, after all) and asked him why he had it. "I'm fixin' to put this ham in Uncle Buddy's casket." And with that, the collective jaw of the group dropped. "What?" someone managed to say. "I'm fixin' to put this ham in Uncle Buddy's casket," he repeated. And then he did.

I know people leave all kind of mementos to be buried with the deceased. I left a tube of lipstick with my grandmother when she died. But this is the first casket-ham I've ever heard of (and thus far, the last). But there it was, just for my grandfather.

I know this because while the rest of the family was inside the room with my grandfather, I was sitting in the hallway outside, as I am not one who wants to see someone's body in order to say goodbye. While the rest of my family was in the parlor, I sat waiting. Just then, these two big mafioso-looking goombahs in dark suits who worked at the funeral home came out and stood in the doorway. They took no notice of me as they had this conversation:

Goombah #1: Are we still closing the casket before the viewing?

Goombah #2: I think so.

Goombah #1: Did you see the ham?

Goombah #2: Yeah. What are we doing with that?

Goombah #1: I'm not touching the ham. Are you touching the ham?

Goombah #2: I'm not touching the ham.

And on they went. I couldn't figure out why these two huge dudes, who spend all day around dead bodies were so afraid of a little ham. Sure it was weird, but it wasn't something you didn't want to touch. Maybe it was because it wasn't embalmed. Maybe they were vegetarians. Maybe it's because country ham smells worse than a dead body. I don't know.

Of course, I couldn't wait to share with the rest of the family the ham drama when they came out into the hallway. A few at a time they filtered out and before going back into the parlor. And as they did, I regaled them with the saga of the ham. Before long, everyone was buzzing about the ham. It was a highly inappropriate moment of levity at an otherwise somber occasion.

The next day, during the funeral, family members got up to share their memories of my grandfather. It was sad . . . until SC got up. The first words out of his mouth were, "My Uncle Buddy loved country ham. . ." I have no idea what the rest of the eulogy said because I was laughing so hard, I had to pretend to be having a coughing fit. A ripple of similarly disguised laughter went through the first few pews where the rest of my family was sitting. This just egged SC on, "Yes. Y'all know he really did love that ham."

The rest of the funeral was pretty run-of-the-mill, with no further cured meat appearances. But afterward we went to where my grandfather would be interred, and as far as we know, nobody had removed the ham. And that's the story of how my grandfather went to his eternal rest with a ham in his casket.

Epilogue: When WH and I got married later that year, Southern Cousin came to our wedding and brought with him his momma, a case of SunDrop, and a country ham. I guess old habits die hard.

Rain of Shame

2011-05-24T12:09:00.001+01:00

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. People on the opposite side of the bus got up to look out the window. If it had been a plane, it would've tilted to one side. I hurriedly scooped up as many of the tampons as I could and put them back in my purse. The bus was waiting, though, so as I was hurrying aboard, I still had a bouquet of tampons in my hand.

Photo by ecastro via Flickr

I walked down the aisle to a seat, and it was like that scene in Forrest Gump where he wants a seat on the bus but they were all taken. And there was no sweet-faced Jenny to take pity on me. There I stood, in my shame, in the middle of the aisle while every last person on the bus laughed and pointed at me with their eyes. I learned my lesson that day . . . when taking feminine protection to work, carry it in a separate bag from your SmarTrip card. Or just buy it when you get to work instead.

(It's in French, but you get the point.)

To Catch a Mockingbird

2011-05-23T00:22:00.002+01:00

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 buddies were in fact the crow's parents and he was a juvenile. Fortunately, after a little while for the bird to "shake it off," he was fine and able to fly off with his parents. This, of course, reminded me of my own adventure in the animal kingdom.

Back during the Summer of Paula, I was living at home with my parents. One night, I heard a squeaking and a scratching coming from the ceiling above my bed. I figured it was probably a squirrel, and forgot about it until the next night when I heard it again. This went on for a few days, when I finally was able to convince my dad that there was something up there that needed eradicating.

One hot June Saturday, my dad propped up the ladder and climbed into our attic. There he found a nest with four baby mockingbirds and a ripped screen where their mother had gotten in. The nest was in the far back corner of the sweltering attic, and the birds were parched. He plugged the hole so the mother couldn't get back in a peck his eyes out while he rescued the babies, and attempted to crawl into the corner to catch them. Already pretty mobile and nearly ready to fly, the babies had other plans. They flapped and hopped and went even further into the reaches of the attic. My dad couldn't get to where he could reach them. After a few choruses of "goddammit!" I was recruited to help. You see, I have what we in the business like to call monkey arms. They are longer than normal, and skinny, skinny, skinny. They can reach into crevices only reachable by broom handles and fishing poles.

I changed my clothes and wriggled my way into the attic. It felt like being sucked into a dryer. Armed with garden gloves and a cardboard box, I chased the babies around the unfinished attic with my monkey arms. Taking care to not bang my head on a beam or an exposed nail, I managed to catch three of the four birds and send them back down the ladder. I could hear the mother bird squawking up a storm outside. I took a breather to get cooled off and regroup my plan to save bird #4. A headstrong little fella, this bird was laboring under the delusion that the 147-degree attic would make a delightful permanent home. What could I say, he was young and foolish and needed to be taught a lesson. I'm sure in retrospect, he would agree with me that this wasn't one of his better decisions.

Photo by Jason Riedy via Flickr

Up I went, armed with my cardboard box and my weapon of choice -- monkey arms. It was a battle of wits and wills that I was determined to win. So was #4. We squared off, like to boxers in a ring. He with the advantage of speed and knowledge of the territory, while I was fully hydrated and outweighed him by about 100 times. He looked me in the eye and braked left. I was nearly atop him when he faked right and hopped over a beam. It's all a blur of feathers and insulation, but eventually I did prevail. Cursing, I reached out to grab him, and he surrendered to my garden glove. Once inside the box, he quieted and settled in for the ride down the ladder and into the bushes with his brothers and sisters.

Once triumphant, I was a good sport and didn't lord it over the bird. He was only a baby, after all, and didn't have the advantage of my wisdom. I gave him a little talking to as I released him into the bushes . . . encouraging him not to be so stubborn in the future, as he would likely not find a neighborhood cat so friendly and helpful as myself. I'm not sure what happened to #4 and his siblings, but I'd like to think they made their home in a tree somewhere and carefully avoided all attics. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere in mockingbird land, there's a statue erected in my honor. I'm pretty sure I'm wearing garden gloves in it and the length of my monkey arms is grossly exaggerated, but this is the cross a hero has to bear.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

2011-05-06T01:10:00.003+01:00

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? Wow. She looks great for her age!

Sister: She really does. It must be Weight Watchers.

Client: What do you mean?

Sister: Oh, she used to advertise for Weight Watchers.

Client: I don't remember that.

Sister: Well, it was a few years ago.

Client: Wow. She has really been busy. I mean, when did she find time to sing with the Black Eyed Peas?

And that's how it happened, folks. How my sister met the biggest idiot in Washington, D.C. Kinda makes you fear for our future, doesn't it? She went on to explain to her client the difference between Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York and Stacy Ferguson, the singer who peed in her pants during a concert. Then again, I'd pay good money to see Sarah Ferguson do a lavish musical number with the Black Eyed Peas wouldn't you?

Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York via NY Post

Not to be confused with:

Stacy Ferguson, The Black Eyed Pea via NY Mag

You Give Me Fever

2011-04-28T00:47:00.000+01:00

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 husband (and, truth be told, budgetary constraints). My own good sense did not prevail, as the early stages of RWF were already at work.

I have eaten up the dish about who would design the dress, the babble about whether or not Kate would wear a veil or a tiara or flowers in her hair, and other blather about carriages, cars, and horse allergies. When it was revealed that the Royal Wedding would take place at 10:00 a.m. London-time (that's 5:00 a.m. D.C.-time, kids), I made the (very astute) decision to take off of work that day so as not to miss a minute of the festivities. I racked my brain trying to think of ways to mark the day . . . what would be an appropriate way to celebrate on this side of the pond? And then it hit me . . . what's more British than tea? Nothing, that's what. So I made reservations for WH and I to go to high tea the afternoon of the wedding day. What a fitting tribute, right?

I have been much maligned for my excitement . . . but, curiously enough, our intimate little tea party-for-two has turned in to tea-for-ten. Parents, friends, friends-parents . . . come one, come all to my Royal Wedding party. Beware, you'll catch RWF too, if you don't watch out.

From what I can figure, the symptoms of RWF are these:

You feel the need to wear a hat. Preferably with feathers. You consider becoming a "hat person," who wears hats to various occasions, including, but not limited to weddings, showers, polo matches, and tea parties.

via Kate Middleton For The Win (a must-see for the snarky Middleton fan)

You agonize over your Royal Wedding breakfast menu. What will you serve on the big day? Will it compare to the buffet lunch that Windsors will be serving?

You find yourself making Kate/Diana comparisons and getting indignant when someone says, "She's no Diana," or "I think she's kind of boring." Yes, someone actually said that. True story.

You force your unsuspecting family to discuss the merits of the Royal Wedding during Easter dinner, whether they want to or not.

You are late to work each morning because you are captivated by the latest developments in Royal Wedding news. The hat (yes, hats again!) to be worn by a Royal Wedding guest was the featured segment on Good Morning America earlier this week. And I had to see it.

Once you get to work, you are unable to concentrate on anything because you are planning your tea party, wedding-watching party, and wondering what juicy tidbits the media has been able to dig up in the minutes and hours since you last were in front of a television.

You add the "Official Royal Wedding" website to your bookmarks and obsessively check it every hour on the hour to see what the news is. You may or may not also add @ClarenceHouse to the list of folks on Twitter you follow. It is the Prince of Wales' official Twitter feed after all.

You insist that your sister-hairdresser make your hair look like Kate's, no matter how much she laughs at you, going so far as to demand the shine. When she tells you Kate's hair looks like that because she probably uses a $75 conditioner, you outwardly scoff, but secretly consider purchasing one.

You annoy friends, coworkers, and family members with your incessant chatter about "the big day." When they roll their eyes or stop responding to your text messages, you pretend not to notice and simply forge ahead.

You lose three Facebook friends a day because of your hourly updates to your status about the Royal Wedding plans (and/or news items about Will/Kate/Pippa/Harry/Diana/Westminster Abbey/hats). You don't care and keep posting.

You have Royal Wedding dreams. Usually where you sit near the banks of the Thames with fellow revelers as Will and Kate pass by, happily waving from their coach. Even though the route they will take goes nowhere near the Thames (minor details). And then there's that one where you're actually, miraculously, invited to the wedding. All three parts. And you hope you may never wake up from it . . .

If you are suffering from three or more of these symptoms, I'm afraid you've got RWF. The cure, of course, is to watch the Royal Wedding on Friday, and perhaps several times over the weekend. Have a spot of Earl Grey (lemon or cream, never sugar) and a cucumber sandwich, and enjoy the ride. Give in to it . . . because to fight it would simply be uncivilized.

As Simple As Black and White?

2011-04-22T18:26:00.002+01:00

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 girlfriends since we were little kids (and in the case of the Lady Doctor, babies). So it never struck me as odd that I'm the only white girl in the group. The first time anyone called it to my attention was when I was in college. I had a picture of all of us in my dorm room and a friend said, "Do people look at you weird when you go out with them?" I didn't understand the question. Eventually the lightbulb came on and I realized that perhaps not everyone came from a neighborhood that looks like the United Nations. Since then, my, ahem, lack of melanin has been a source of entertainment for us for years.

One summer, shortly after college, The Girls (as we've called ourselves for years) and I went to Chicago for a long weekend. One night, we went to some party at the House of Blues . . . and I was the only white girl there. Who cares, right? I sure didn't. But shortly after we got there, the only other white guy in the place came over to us with his friend. They talked to us for a bit, before my pale-faced brother asked, "Uh, excuse me, but what are you?" A lady? A Washingtonian? Catherine Zeta-Jones? I knew what he was getting at, but playing dumb was so much more fun.

That same summer, my friend the Policy Lawyer's Mother discovered an article in a local African American-community newspaper about distinguished young people who had graduated recently. Guess who appeared prominently in the article? (Turns out it was written by a friend and colleague of my mother's, who thought it would be nice to mention me.) PLM's (joking) response? "I didn't know WashingTina was black." Neither did I.

Another time, shortly after a summer trip to Mexico (so I was much less melanin-challenged than usual), I was walking to my car at the Silver Spring Metro, and a man walking in the same direction struck up a conversation with me. He was about my age, friendly enough, and black. It didn't occur to me that he thought I was black, too. That is, until he said, "I have to know, what are you?" Again . . . what is the correct answer to that question? A Wiccan? A trapeze artist? A member of the Junior League?

My friend the Policy Lawyer used to work for UNCF, so WH and I were invited to a fundraiser they were putting on one year. When we got there, we got raffle tickets. It was a lovely event, down on the SW Waterfront in the old 701. It came time for the raffle, so we got out our tickets. There was all kinds of stuff, though I don't remember what most of it was. The grand prize was a leather UNCF bomber jacket. Three guesses who won. I walked timidly to collect my prize . . . again, the only white girl in the room. Thank goodness I had been passing all those years. I decided that my father, who never met a free T-shirt he didn't like, would find this jacket the ultimate in free stuff, so I ordered his size.

This brings me to the fact that I'm not the only one in my family who may or may not be white. For years my parents have been members of the NAACP. They used to go to their annual dinner every year. Shortly after the dinner one year, my father received an invitation letter to join the black alumni association at American University (he actually is an alum there). We began to wonder if everyone else knew something that we didn't.

WH often tells me I'd make a perfect spy because I can blend in to any group. When I'm with his Iranian family, nobody would know I'm not Persian. Frequently in our Adams Morgan neighborhood, someone will ask me for directions in Spanish. And I like it. It's nice to fit . . . especially when so many people never get to fit. I'm lucky, I fit anywhere.

Independence Day

2011-04-15T00:01:00.012+01:00

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 streets, going to the places where I used to hang out, it was such a great feeling. Going back to somewhere I knew before – it was wonderful. I have been to Turkey three times, and I only have good memories there.

Finally the day arrived to go to the embassy, and I was so nervous. I had all my documents very well organized. I was so nervous. Many times I went with high hopes to different embassies – Switzerland, Turkey, Germany – and was rejected. Always the answer was no. In fact, in Zurich, I had an invitation from a Marine Corps general that my brother, who was in the Marines at the time, had gotten for me, and I was so sure I was going to get the visa. I’ll never forget it. The counselor said, "I don't know who you are, or why you have this invitation, but I'm not giving you a visa." I was nine years old.

This time I didn't have high hopes. All I had were worries. All kinds of worries. When I got to the embassy, I walked in, looked at the American flag and saw the Marine standing there and it reminded me of my brother. I wasn’t able to see my brother when he graduated and I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Every step I took, it felt like one step closer to him.

Photo Courtesy of PMillera4 via Flickr

At the embassy, it's exactly like the DMV – you get a number and you sit down. The counselors are behind bulletproof glass like at a bank. When it was my turn, I got called up to the window. The counselor was a Turkish-American lady, and she was only a little bit older than me. She looked at my number and asked me, "Do you want me to talk to you in English, Farsi, or Turkish?" And even though I didn’t really speak English very well, I said, “English,” and gave her my package. She looked at it and said, “This is the most organized package I've seen all week,” which made me very happy. But I did have one document missing. When that happens, usually you have to go and come back . . . and it takes six months or so before you can come back. Luckily, this lady was so nice and she liked me, so she told me to get the document faxed to me and just come back tomorrow. I got the document, but I didn't sleep that night. I had everything I needed, but I still didn't sleep that night.

The next day, I went back to the embassy, which was in walking distance from the hotel. I had the fax in my hand, and put it in my jacket. But then I was afraid it might fall out of my jacket, so I held it in my hand. Then I was afraid someone might steal it from my hand, so I put it back in my jacket. I kept putting it in my jacket and taking it back out, the entire way to the embassy. I got there and gave the package back to the same woman. Then I had to pay, exactly like at the DMV. I paid and everything and boom . . . they gave me a package. A sealed package. That’s how you get your green card. (When you get to the United States, you come with that giant package and give it to immigration in the airport and then they send you your actual green card later.)

Walking out of the embassy, holding that package, it felt like winning the lottery. Looking back, I think there were very few times in my life when I felt truly happy deep in my heart where it shook my body. When I had that package and walked out of that embassy, it started raining, and I put the package under my jacket. I never enjoyed rain that much in my life . . . just walking in the rain.

I know lots of people get their green cards, but I had been waiting all my life for this moment. Millions of people come to the U.S. every year. I know I wasn’t the only one. It was just that I had waited for it for so long. I hadn't seen my brother for 10 years. Finally I could start my life where I wanted to be. But first I had to go back to Iran and get ready – that was in October. I came to the U.S. in April. For those few months, packing up, figuring stuff out, slowly breaking all the barriers. It's interesting – many people come here and still have a home where they came from, but I had to figure out how to pack my life into two suitcases and bring it with me. It's like when you move to a new house and you throw out the stuff you don't want and the stuff you don't need, and save the stuff you don't want to throw out. Except this is beyond that. You get to the point where all the stuff has sentimental value, all the clothes you love, and still you have to make a choice which things you want to take with you and which ones you want to leave behind.

Saying goodbye to everyone I knew – my family, aunts, uncles, cousins, my friends that I grew up with – and going somewhere that I didn’t know anybody, created a ball, a rolling ball of mixed emotions inside my stomach. On the one hand, I was leaving everyone I knew, but on the other hand, I was coming to the U.S. and getting to see my brother, who I hadn't seen in 10 years. I was very happy, and very sad. Really mixed emotions. It wasn't Facebook time, where we could all be in touch between two worlds. We were out of touch for years. It exactly felt like dying, it was so painful. And the happiness felt like being reborn, the way it was powerful. From the airport in Iran, getting on the plane going to Amsterdam, coming to the U.S. – traveling across the universe to get here – I died and was born again. It was another life I had there, and yet I remember every second of my past life.

All the time during the trip, I kept my package with me. It was close to my heart. I was so nervous when I got to Iranian airport. My soul was inside of that package and I had to protect it. While I was in Amsterdam waiting to get on the plane, a man in a suit came and sat next to me. He started asking me questions, like “Did anyone pack your bag for you?” and “What do you have in your bag?” and other things. I was nervous and my English wasn’t very good, so I mixed things up. The man started to test me, “But you said this . . . you said that. Your stories don’t match.” My hands started sweating. Fortunately, a lady who worked in the airport walked by who just happened to be Iranian, and saw what was going on. She explained to the guy, and he let it go. It was very interesting, and as I looked around, this happened to many people.

When I landed in the United States, it was exactly like a new world. I saw the American flag again and as I got off the plane, my heart was beating like crazy. I was so happy, but so afraid that something, anything, was going to go wrong and I would have to go back. In fact, I was so nervous I left my passport in the airport. It wasn’t until two or three days later that I realized that I didn't have my passport. When you get to the airport, they take you to a little room, interview you, and take the package. It takes about 45 minutes or so, and then they let you go. I went and got my bag. When the doors opened, I started looking at people. I saw someone who looked like my brother, but he was shorter than I remembered. The last time I saw him, I was just 13 and I was shorter than him. By this time, I was slightly taller than he was. His hair was longer – no more military haircut. But he had that nose – the same nose – and I knew, that was my brother.

I’ll never forget the feeling the next day of walking out the door, after my brother went to work. It was a sunny, clear, warm day. I remember thinking, I can't believe I'm here. And as I walked around Dupont Circle, I realized that I could walk for hours and hours and not bump into anybody I knew. I could guarantee that. That’s the first thing that really bothered me. But I changed it for myself. Now I can’t walk down Connecticut Avenue without seeing someone I know. It’s a new world, a new life, but it's mine finally. Today this is my home. Where I was before is the old life. You can’t un-die and go back. I'm in a new chapter. I will not go back to chapter one.

Many people see July 4 as Independence Day, but for me it's April 15 -- my second birthday.

Happy Second 12th Birthday WH!

Not-So-Fine Dining

2011-03-26T02:38:00.000Z

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 video:

"What kind of animals eat on the train like that?" says the woman across the aisle.

The diner snaps back with an epithet, and the exchange quickly degenerates into a fistfight.

"Chill out!" shouts a man as he tries to pull apart the two combatants.

Apparently the kind of "animal" who eats on the train is in the same class as the kind who starts a fistfight on the train. And the poor "chill out" man. He was probably just trying to get home from work, maybe to a spaghetti dinner of his own, cooked by his long-suffering wife. I know just how he feels, having witnessed a full-on picnic on the bus not too long ago. But what I don't understand is how someone could even want to eat on the train or bus. I mean, think about it . . . it's hardly the dining room at Citronelle. Bumpy, jerky, smelly. It does not make for a dining experience (or at least a positive dining experience, anyway). Even on its best smelling days, transit still mostly smells like a barn. And I don't know about you, but I've been to a barn or two in my day (hard to believe, I know), and they also are not someplace where I want to enjoy home cookin'.

Maybe that's the real reason Metro doesn't allow eating and drinking on the train . . . they're trying to save us from ourselves. Because who wants to get deep into a meal, then get a whiff of feet, urine, or unidentified excrement of some sort and spontaneously become The Sick Passenger? Or worse, publicly berated and then socked in the head? And besides, as the article puts it, you get a free "dose of weird" with every fare -- because what else would entertain us during our daily commutes?

What's your take on the Subway Spaghetti video?

I Really Stepped In It

2011-03-24T00:41:00.002Z

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 pushed open the door and walked into the bathroom, I stepped in something. Something that shouldn't have been there. Poop. I slipped out of my shoe, leaving my cute sandal stuck in the mystery poop, and hopped down the hall to my classroom.

I don't remember the exact details of what happened next, but I will never forget the conversation that followed. My teacher, Miss Massey, looked at me and knew something was up.

Miss Massey: What happened to your shoe?

WashingTina: It's in the bathroom.

MM: Why?

WT: Because I stepped in poop.

MM: Where?

WT: In the bathroom.

MM: What was it doing there?

WT: I don't know.

MM: Was it yours?

WT: No.

MM: Who's poop was it?

WT: I don't know.

MM: How did it get there?

WT: I don't know.

I can't remember what happened next, but I'm guessing a janitor was summoned to clean up the mess and retrieve my shoe. We never did find out the owner of the mystery poop, either. But one thing's for certain, I never wore those shoes again. I guess my mom was right, it was a WashingTina moment . . . so where are my royalties?

Let's Be Reasonable

2011-03-19T17:14:00.000Z

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? "Sorry, we don't like your kind around here . . ." and they leave? Is it because they're cute and you don't mind them around your house? Whatever the reasonable one is, it seems like I don't mind having the reasonable insect around. It's the unreasonable insect that I don't want around, so what's the point of the screen?

WT: You're probably right.

WH: I can just see the cockroach sitting on the windowsill, looking in. What happens, I offer him a sugar cube and say, "I'm sorry, you're not welcome here. Please leave," and he says, in an Irish accent, "Righty-o!" and leaves? What's an unreasonable insect? He just gives you the finger and comes in anyway?

WT: The cockroach has an Irish accent?

WH: Sure, why not.

WT: Okay.

WH: Are we living in the Amazon? Rude, ugly, dangerous, dirty . . . that's unreasonable? Seriously, let's look at this. When all those lawyers sit around in a confernece room to write the liability sticker, what did they think is a reasonable insect? I'm not joking now. Maybe they thought a ladybug is a reasonable insect, it's cute. Maybe a butterfly is a reasonable insect, it's pretty, you get happy when you see it. Now, same way, let's think about what they consider unreasaonable. Tarantula? A very large hissing Madagascar cockroach? Again, I want the unreasonable insects to stay out. If something can chew through the metal screen and come in, I guess it's a good thing the screen cannot stop a person jumping through, because I will jump out. They come in, I go out. In fact, what would be your reaction if you're sitting and enjoying a warm sunny day and all of the sudden you see an unidentified being sitting on your screen chewing the metal to come in? What would you do? You can see some hair, long antennae, but if it's up here [we live on the fourth floor] you know it can fly, because it's up here out of nowhere, and it can chew through metal. If lawyers came up with that warning, they must know something we don't know. It has to exist. I live in Washington, D.C., not the Amazon rainforest.

He's got a point. Who writes these things? And what is it that they actually mean? They're sitting in a conference room somewhere that probably doesn't even have windows, coming up with this very poorly worded warning. It really isn't clear. Sure, we get it from the graphic that the screen won't keep a human in, but it might've been more helpful to have a graphic showing what exactly the screen might keep out. It must be clear to them, but not so clear to us. At any rate, I'm going to think twice before opening the windows from now on. I don't want to have to reason with any insects.

To Tweet, Or Not To Tweet

2011-03-16T17:25:00.000Z

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 Twestival benefits FAIR Fund, an organization committed to ending human trafficking, particularly of youth. As the mother of two daughters, this issue speaks to my heart. People tend to think of human trafficking as an “elsewhere” problem, but it’s very much a problem in the United States as well. All too often we hear of young girls going missing and many of them have been taken by pimps and abusers and forced into prostitution and servitude. The majority of human trafficking is for the purpose of sex. We must do something to stop this! After a lengthy process, FAIR Fund was selected as the DC Twestival beneficiary. I’m glad to be a part of it because it is most definitely a much needed organization.

This year’s event takes place on March 24 at DC venue, Shadowroom. If you’re in the DC area, come out and help support a worthy cause. It’ll be fun and, as if you needed anymore prompting, I’ll be there! Tickets on sale here.

It's a FUNdraiser -- for a really good cause. So even if you aren't Twitterly-inclined, you can still participate, because who doesn't love socializing and supporting charity? It's the perfect combo. Will I see you there?

It's A Small World

2011-03-09T23:53:00.001Z

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 her.

When I was in high school, I spent the time when I wasn't playing sports or participating in afterschool activities babysitting for the Little Girl and the Little Boy. She was five and he was a baby. I had been sitting for them off and on since the Little Girl was two. Through their parents, I met several other families for whom I babysat, but the Little family was always first on my list. I became a bit of a babysitting mogul . . . because I had a car and my parents didn't mind if I stayed out late if I was watching kids. In fact, I didn't have to get a "real" job waiting tables or at the mall like most of my friends, because I was able to finance my lifestyle with babysitting. I think the Little family and their cohorts fully funded my recreational activities my freshman year of college. Anyway, when I left for school, I left the kids behind, though I would occasionally come back for a visit. As is the way these things happen, I lost touch with the Little family and went on with life. I've often wondered what became of the Little Girl and the Little Boy who were two of the brightest and most well-behaved kids I've ever met.

And then . . . there the Little Girl was in the office bathroom. I sent an email to the address on our office list, thinking that maybe she wouldn't remember me (after all, we hadn't seen each other since she was about seven-years-old). But of course she did and we caught up later that day. Yesterday we had lunch together, which was slightly mind-blowing, as having an adult conversation with someone with whom I used to discuss the finer points of The Little Mermaid seemed strangely out of context. I quickly got over it though, and it was such a delight to see that she had turned into a poised young lady (yeah, I know, I sound like an 87-year-old grandma). She told me that I hadn't changed a bit . . . since I was 17! We chatted like old friends . . . or new friends. And isn't that the beauty of the small world? Running into someone, years hence, and realizing that you have made a new friend of an old friend?

Has anything like this ever happened to you?

Search and Recovery

2011-03-02T01:20:00.002Z

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 who could string more beads in some specific increment of time. It was highly stressful. (Yeah, go ahead and laugh. But thanks to Ms. Bradley's techniques, I can now type 120 wpm.) I'm sure we did other stuff in that class, but all I really remember is stringing beads. Whatever else we did, it worked.

I was released from special ed classes and sent back to regular classes relatively stigma-free. Unfortunately, though, nobody ever worked on my lack of organizational skills (or at least, I never went to special classes for it). This problem still rears its ugly head periodically in my life. This week, in fact, I've been trying to organize some video interviews for a conference at work and for the life of me couldn't get my shit together. I spent the better part of the afternoon today wrestling with an Excel spreadsheet. My desk looked like a bomb exploded on it. It was not good for my self esteem.

This reminded me of another time, in the fourth grade, when I had let my desk get to a biohazard level of disgusting. I literally could not find a pencil, my lunch, or the kid who sat next to me because the desk was so full of junk. Apparently my teacher had noticed, because after lunch, just before we started math lessons, as she waited -- and waited -- for me to hunt down my homework (or worksheet, or eraser, or my Safety Patrol Belt), she came around and watched me root through the junk. That's when she snapped. I mean, teaching 30 nine-year-olds all day long would get to anyone, but throw in a packrat/hoarder/Fred Sanford-clone and it was enough to send her over the edge. And then . . . it happened. She took my desk, tipped it over, gave it a little shake, and dumped the contents all over the floor. I'm pretty sure we found the Lindburgh baby in there. I definitely found an old lunch. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor rooting through the papers and culling the herd for stuff that wasn't necessary.

If a teacher did this to a kid today, she'd probably be sent to Siberia to mine for quartz or something and the kid would have to go through grief counseling, but I'm pretty sure I deserved it. Besides that, when your mother is a very active PTA parent and spends 24-7 at the school, you can't get away with anything. (In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if my mother told her to do it. I really was a mess.) You might feel bad for me, but don't. Mrs. Williams was a great teacher, and one of my favorites. And I got to miss math that day. I'm pretty sure it was the day we learned how to balance checkbooks, because I still don't really have that skill. But what I do have is that little angel hovering over my shoulder telling me what I should do all.the.time. And today it told me that I should blog. So I am. And I'm going to tell you the same thing I used to tell my parents every Sunday night before the diorama that I had two weeks to complete was due . . . "I promise I'll do better. I did read the book. And math is boring!" But you know what, I always did well with writing . . . so, yeah, I'll do better. Really.

Code Orange

2011-02-14T17:30:00.002Z

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 said she was fine with me passing along her email . . . but it was a busy week, so I promptly forgot about it . . . until Friday when I received a "WTF" email from her. It seems The Friend had contacted her. Rather than explain, I'll share the text (only slightly modified to remove any identifying details) below, because it's simply too good not to share:

Greetings! I hope this finds you well. It was a pleasure meeting you the other evening at [the restaurant], I was the gent sitting with [your colleague]. I write to you with a dual purpose.

On the one hand, I was taken off guard with the light flashing through your eyes. I couldn't help wondering through my meal. Fleeting? Inner radiance? For verification and security reasons in these erstwhile days of code orange, I sauntered back over to your table in the shadow of [your colleague] and sure enough, the light shone through again! [Redacted], you must be a beautiful person inside considering the glow about you, gorgeous allure and beauty notwithstanding. So you'll understand it was with pent up burning poetic fury that I departed the restaurant without being able to speak with you a little. Too many onlookers in too close proximity. For that, I profusely apologize.

In order to capture the spirit of unconditional positive regard, may we meet for lunch or dinner? There is Cuba Libre or Thai something or other in Georgetown or whatever suits you. If that's possible, I'll be in Washington this coming Sunday, Monday and Tuesday....have appointments Tuesday AM through around noon, at Congress of all places, for an unrelated matter. And I'm not even sure how people get acquainted these days.

On the other hand, I made inquiry with [your colleague] regarding having [my business] project publicized to all [of your organization's members], those across the nation who may travel to Washington DC. I admit he did not suggest you specifically, but he did suggest I contact someone here in DC [in your office] that may be able to direct me to the right person. Well, in closing, I hope we can talk. Thanks again for your time.

WTF indeed. My friend was wearing a ring on her finger, so there was to be no doubt about her status -- and we both thought we remembered that he also sported "attachment jewelry." Her response, ever classy, but also abrupt:

I think brevity is necessary here. I am married, as I believe, so are you. Please do not contact me again

To which The Friend responded:

I'm confused. What would I be contacting you for, again? Read your message. Har har, I gotcha. But you still make a pleasant impression and I hope you're able to smile about this overall!..... Unless, like your friend implied, you prefer that my call represents an augury of harrassment, stalking etc... Writers have been accused of talking too much. Good bye.

My friend and I had a good laugh over this, while still both confused. Sure, she does have a radiance about her, but our table was hardly lit by the fire in her eyes that evening. Maybe he was he had one too many caipirinhas or something and imagined that the candle on our table was in fact her eyes. Either way, he started seeing stars where there were none. I don't know. I've taken it as a sign that my freelance career can wait.

So, whether you're celebrating this Valentine's Day with a loved one or spurning it in a chocolate-induced haze, I hope you enjoy! And if you happen to see this particular cupid's arrow coming your way -- DUCK!

*And in honor of Valentine's Day, please share any of your disasters from the front lines of looooove . . . I would love to hear them!

Remembering A Hero

2011-02-10T01:23:00.001Z

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. In fact, I can remember receiving my schedule the summer before my senior year started. I had selected the class, but I wasn't registered for it when my schedule came. I didn't even wait 24 hours before I was up at the school arguing with my guidance counselor to get in the class. Mr. Campbell was so good that his reputation preceded him. It was the class to take.

Our school was incredibly diverse, boasting students of all colors and nationalities, and Mr. Campbell made sure we were aware of it. His classroom was plastered with posters about various issues -- homelessness, HIV/AIDS, diversity, you name it -- and they reflected his personality. He was the most open-minded, accepting person I had ever met before or since. He required each of us to complete community service long before it was a requirement for graduation. In his class, you could disagree with him or other students, but it never got personal (which is a feat of epic proportions with teenagers). And he loved us all. And we loved him back.

One day during our third period class, Mr. Campbell solemnly (and if I'm going to be honest, nervously) told us that he was HIV positive. He was honest and treated us like the young adults that we were . . . never sugarcoating any of it. We were shocked, but it didn't make us love him any less. At the end of class, as the bell was ringing, each of us lined up to express our support and share a tearful embrace with him. The entire school -- the entire community -- rallied in support around him. Later that year, during a unit on death and dying, we visited a funeral home and cemetary where Mr. Campbell talked to us frankly, and showed us what he had picked out for his own funeral.

We honored him at graduation, and when I went away to college in Ohio later that year, he promised to keep in touch. We exchanged letters from time to time, but there's one particular thing that I will never forget. I was lounging in my dorm room one fall afternoon my freshman year when the phone rang. I almost didn't answer it because I was getting ready to take a nap, but when I did, I heard a familiar voice on the other end. "This is Mr. Campbell! We're at the student center . . . come out and meet us!" I was stunned. "My student center? At my school?" "Yes, come over here and meet us!" I put on my shoes and went running across the street where I saw Mr. Campbell and his partner John waiting for me. It turns out that they were driving from Indiana back to D.C. when he saw the sign for my school and told John, "Oh, that's WashingTina's school. We can't drive by and not stop!" So they did.

They had bought an armoire, which was wedged in the back of the car, so I squeezed myself in next to it and off we went for an early dinner. I didn't care -- it was the best surprise ever. We had a great meal, catching up. It was just the dose of home that I needed being so far away from D.C. The three of us has our picture taken in front of the student center that day, which I still have framed in our apartment.

Mr. Campbell got sick and was hospitalized while I was home at Christmas, so another friend and I went to visit him. It was the last time we ever saw him. He died in early February, 1994. At his memorial service more than 600 family, friends, colleagues, and former students showed up to remember our hero. The board of education issued a proclamation commending his teaching and the impact he had had on the community. There were many that spoke about him that day, students whose lives he had impacted. Another teacher from my high school gave a speech that embodied Mr. Campbell's legacy. The movie Schindler's List was just out that year, and the speaker told us that we were Mr. Campbell's list -- that our responsibility was to carry his legacy forward, to teach the way he taught us, to love each other, and to tell his story. I'm so happy to have known Mr. Campbell, to have felt his influence, and to have learned from his example.

I've kept in touch with his partner, John, over the years, and when WH and I were married, he and his current partner were there with us. It was Mr. Campbell's birthday that day, and I'm certain he was there with us too. The circle of Mr. Campbell's influence keeps growing as all of us who knew him embrace each other, and open our arms to those who never did.  I'll never forget what he taught me and the legacy that it is my responsibility to pay forward.

Flashed in Flash

2011-02-05T03:51:00.001Z

"Have you ever been flashed?" WH asked me tonight. "No," I started to say . . . and then I remembered a time when, in fact, I had been flashed. I think it was so traumatic I blocked it out of my memory. But now it's back, so you get to hear all about it.

At the beginning of my sophomore year of college, my family and I were driving back to my school in the middle-of-nowhere Ohio. My parents were in the front car and my sister and I were following them, cruising along, top down, in my beloved Mustang, Flash. I had recently procured a CD of TV show theme songs from the 70s and 80s, and we were singing along at the top of our lungs to The Facts of Life theme song (the irony of this is not lost on me). Suddenly my sister started screaming. "Look, look! That man is showing us his . . ." and lo and behold, driving next to us in a beat up old sedan was a creepy pervert driving with one hand (going somewhere around 70 mph, no less) while the other hand was hanging his johnson out the window. He had his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes were bugged all out. He had a ruddy complexion and was sweaty and had greasy hair. I really will never for get it.

My sister and I both started screaming, and I think I rolled up the window . . . as if it wasn't made of clear glass and could shut him out. I also stepped on the gas. It's a wonder I didn't crash the car. But what's more, I don't know how he didn't crash the car. Little Sister and I spent a the last hour of the trip analyzing how on earth he managed to keep his foot on the gas, steer the car, all at the same time as he was wagging his pickle at us. We weren't able to figure it out then, and I can't figure it out now. I also can't hear The Facts of Life theme song without having a violent flashback. "You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both . . . and there you have the facts of life." Ain't that the truth!

Here's the Kicker

2011-02-03T23:42:00.001Z

In the context of a project we were working on, my boss was telling me a story today about a party she was at with Supreme Court Justice Breyer. You know, a typical Washington story. I'll bet you'd never guess where this party was? If you guessed at The Watergate, you'd be right on the money. Because where else do you suppose Supreme Court Justices party? This got me thinking about a party I attended with a Supreme Court Justice. Yeah, that's right, I'm from Washington and I can name drop too!

A few years back, the organization I worked for was having its annual conference, and Sandra Day O'Connor was scheduled to speak. It was customary to invite the speakers to attend the receptions, but they never actually did. Flash forward to the reception: I was waiting in the receiving line with some of my colleagues to greet and congratulate the president of our board of directors. It was nearly our turn when this little old lady walked up and cut in line in front of us. I elbowed my friend and said, "Hey, kick that old lady. She cut in line." Do you see where this story is going? My coworker said, "Sandra Day O'Connor? You want me to kick Sandra Day O'Connor?" Cue jaw drop.

The Justice had dropped in on the party and spent the next hour or so mingling with staff and leadership of the organization. She was incredibly gracious and friendly, and even took a few moments to give some improptu remarks to the group. I approached her and introduced myself and she was absolutely lovely. And not just because she was afraid I might kick her and run away. I learned my lesson that day, friends: never kick an old lady and/or a Supreme Court Justice (sitting or retired), even if she cuts in line.

P.S. Just so you don't think that I'm really the sort of person who goes around kicking old ladies and Supreme Court Justices, I was at an event last year with Ruth Bader Ginsburg and I didn't even think about kicking her. So there.

Pointe of Contention

2011-01-26T23:44:00.001Z

I am not coordinated -- not by a long shot -- which is weird because I played all kinds of sports growing up, and I was even moderately good at them (I even played field hockey in college for a year). But try to teach me the Macarena and you'll be wondering how it is that I'm able to walk and chew gum. When I was in high school, my friend Katie decided that she was going to start taking ballet . . . so I decided to join her. That's what I did in high school -- I joined things. I was a prominent member of the student government (that's right, prominent), and on the yearbook staff, field hockey, swimming, and soccer teams, SADD, and even the Spanish club for a year, I think.

Our ballet teacher was a humorless woman named Madame Bailey (which she pronounced like Ballet--barf). She never smiled and she took herself -- and ballet -- very seriously. Everyone in our class was an adult, so we weren't alone in our lateness to the game. At 5'6" and 95 pounds, you'd think I would be perfect for ballet, lithe and graceful. Wrong! Despite my high arches ("Lovely feet for daaaahncing" as Mme. Bailey would say), I gallumped around the studio like an overweight rhinocerous. But I was undeterred (one time, Katie and I even got off school early to go meet Mikhail Baryshnikov at the old Woodward & Lothrup, but that's another ridiculous story for another time). I stuck with the classes for nearly a year. As Katie got better, I got . . . dirty looks from Mme. Bailey. She got promoted to "toe shoes" and I got asked to quit. So much for nurturing a budding talent and sparing a young person their feelings. This was, sadly, not the first time I had been asked to quit something. I had an unfortunate run-in the previous summer, when at the urging of my friend Shana, I took up tennis lessons (see, a joiner). After whiffing one too many tennis balls, the instructor told me, "Do yourself a favor, find another hobby." It was no big deal, though I had developed thick rhinocerous skin to go along with my not-so-graceful moves.

Photo by whiteshark29 via Flickr

Flash forward nearly 20 years. I had watched Turning Pointe one too many times and grew myself a few delusions. I don't know why I wiped the torture of having to do all those -- I don't even remember what they were called, I was so dedicated to my craft -- passes across the studio while everyone looked on (judging me, I'm sure) from my memory, but I did. I decided that I needed exercise and that I could certainly stand to work on the strength in my legs and core and the best way to do that was through the art of the dance. Not content to simply go to one of the myriad local studios that offer adult ballet classes (for beginners, of course -- I wasn't that delusional), I decided that The Washington Ballet would be the best place for me to go. I called to find out if, in fact, the class was truly for beginners and they assured me that it was. I merely needed comfortable, close-fitting clothing and ballet slippers, so I ordered myself a pair and packed my bag. I was going to ballet after work that day!

I got to the school and was met with a gaggle of adolescent girls (ah, just like me and my friend Katie all those years ago . . .) in tutus and makeup. I could here the lilting notes of the piano and the sound of dancers en pointe. My heart lept! Maybe that would be me in a few short months. After all, it looked so easy! (See, I told you, delusions.) Instead of opting for the $15 one-off class, I opted to purchase a 10-class package, because I was going to do this at least once a week! Then I got into the studio where we were to wait for the class to start. About 25 other adults, mostly women, in full-on ballet gear (we're talking leotards, tights, buns, and those flowy little skirt thingees--even a few legwarmers) were stretching on the floor and at the barre. I looked like a complete bonehead in my yoga pants and tank top. But I didn't care. I had "lovely feet for daaaahncing," and I was going to do this! Plus, I totally wanted to spin around in a tutu.

The instructor came in and greeted everyone in the class by name. Everyone but me. Clearly I had found my way into a class of not-so-beginning beginners. "Let's pick up where we left off last week, with blah, blah, blah something French," the instructor said. And with that we all spread out across the studio floor to get our ballet on. I stood as close to the back as I could, trying to blend in as we went through the five positions (hey! I remembered something!). Then it was time for barre work, which was great. I found my space at the barre and we went through more of the motions. The woman standing next to me even told me that I had great turn-out (she was wearing a near-tutu, so I was pretty sure she was an expert). About 20 minutes later, it was time for the hell I had forgotten. The part of the class where everyone runs across the room doing various ballet things (that's the technical French term for it, I'm sure) while everyone else watches.

I hung back and watched the others do their graceful moves, studying their feet so I'd be ready to join in eventually. Then there was nobody left in my corner of the room and the teacher finally noticed me. "Are you new? I'm so sorry! I didn't know we had a new student today! What's your name?" Grrrreat . . . now the whole class of beautifully appointed dancers was starting at me. I wanted to hang myself from the barre. After I told my name, the instructor insisted that he and I do the moves across the room together. While everyone watched. I'm pretty sure the shade of red that I turned doesn't actually occur in nature. And I was so bad, he made me do it three more times back and forth, back and forth, while everyone else stood there, probably wishing I had hung myself from the barre. This kind of awful dancing was cute when you are three, but in your 30s, it's just tragic. The instructor was patient and easygoing, but the pressure was too much for me. I didn't care how much I wanted a tutu, I wasn't going through this kind of humiliation every week.

I boarded the bus to head home, feeling sorry for myself. Then I realized that maybe I'm not good at ballet, but I am good at a lot of other things. I'm good at writing, and cooking, and being willing to try new things. And that's what it was really all about, wasn't it -- being willing to step outside of my comfort zone? I mean, I had auditioned for a play at the Kennedy Center, eaten bear meat, wandered around London and Prague by myself, and a whole lot of other fun and different things. And even though I wasn't good at it, I had danced ballet. So the next time I get an urge to do something a little different, I'll do it, because what do I have to lose? And the next time I decide I want a tutu, I'll just go ahead and buy one. I can totally wear that around the house.

Photo by paessels via Flickr

Bittersweet Stink-phony

2011-01-22T00:24:00.000Z

Today my bus smelled like feet. This is not unusual -- my bus often smells like feet. In fact, I'd hazard a guess that feet is the most popular--albeit not the most offensive--aroma on the bus. Granted, I haven't conducted a scientific study, but based on personal olfactory experiences, I've reached this conclusion. There's a smorgasbord of other odors that frequently present themselves on transit. Please, allow me to elaborate--there are a few distinct categories of stink (in ascending order--least to most offensive): food; mechanical; excretions; body; and miscellaneous.

Food Stink -- Everyone knows that food and beverage aren't allowed on Metrobus or Metrorail, but the threat of arrest doesn't stop some people. There are a couple of subsets of this variety. First, is the "delicious" food. Its perfume taunts you and teases you (pizza, burgers--or my personal favorite--fried chicken) as you slog home from work, starving, but going home to leftover boiled chicken. You start to drool as you silently curse the person with the offending carry out container--but you realize you should sit back and enjoy it, as it may be the one and only time the Metro has ever smelled good. The second subset is the "offensive" food. This smell has often been confused with one of the other categories, but can almost always be traced back to food. Perhaps it's the nearly foot-like vinegary smell of some sort of pickled vegetable that's been sitting under your seat for too long, or the slightly barfy scent of old lunch meat from a sandwich that's been their since Metro began operating in the 70s, or the punjent, almost fruity stench of a nondescript slime that's been oozing on the already-gross Metro carpet and eking it's way down the aisle (see also Miscellaneous Stink).

Mechanical Stink -- Have you ever smelled that slightly dead-body-ish stink? You know, it's sort of like decay, along with lightly singed rubber, with a dribble of burnt hair thrown in for good measure? Yeah, that's what happens when the railcars get new brakes and then the operator stops on a dime in the station. It's super awesome -- and it lingers. It lingers so badly that it's all you can do not to stick your head inside the neck of your shirt and sniff your own cologne just to rid yourself of the funk of 40,000 years (or maybe you do).

Excretion Stink -- Sweat, urine, feces, vomit . . . you get the idea. I have smelled each of these (and sometimes two or more) during my many years of travel on the Metro and bus. In fact, this brings to mind one time when I was a kid and my family and I went down to the museums one weekend. On our return Metro voyage, there was a baby that I can only describe as having exploded. His dirty diaper smelled so bad that my family and I gagged and closed our eyes as they burned from the stink. When we could finally take it no more, we all got up and ran to the next car faster than you can say "baby poop." Of course, at that point we were met with the smell of grape gum (see also, Food Stink) that smelled shockingly similar to dirty diaper. Go figure. Another time there was a sick kid who literally barfed the most stinky fruit-cocktail-cheese-and-ground-beef upchuck you've ever smelled (see also, Food Stink) right in the middle of the aisle near the door. After one heroic leap over the puke, I changed cars. Interestingly enough, though, this was back in the days before the infamous "Sick Passenger," so the train just continued on its merry way. The passengers, on the other hand, not so merry.

Body Stink -- While this category could easily be a subset of excrement, but I think it deserves a category all its own. Body stink encapsulates myriad odors emanating from the human body, the worst of which, I think is a little something we in the business like to call "Death Breath." It might occur in the morning before the offending passenger has brushed his teeth (but interestingly, still had time to have his coffee and morning cigarette), or it could confront you in the evening after the culprit has had a head of garlic and an old shoe for lunch. The aforementioned feet also belong in this category. Body odor -- the kind that would make Jerry Seinfeld sell his car -- frequently makes an appearance on the bus. It usually happens when there's that one last seat . . . the seat that nobody's sitting in and you don't know why. Then you sit down and immediately you are slapped in the face by what can only be described as "air needles." This flavor is so malodorous it causes your eyes to cross, but your commitment to social norms (and also possibly to not being pointed at and derrided by your fellow bus riders who knew exactly why the seat was vacant) is so strong that you remain in your seat, looking out of the corner of your eye at the guilty party and smiling awkwardly.

Miscellaneous -- Perhaps there's that smell hanging in the air that you can't quite identify. It's hard to tell if it's coming from another person, something stuck under the seat, or a lingering something that just can't escape the poor ventilation. Several times a month, I get a smack of old lady . . . you know it's a misting of Jean Nate mixed with mothballs and that strange musk of 80-year-old skin. Not to be confused with the oily je ne sais quoi of an unwashed old man. Some days there's the cloyingly sweet smell of too much J.Lo. "Glow" hovering in the car -- it gives you a headache and reminds you of a stripper you once met in New Orleans. You might run into the old ashtray smell of a four-pack-a-day smoker that causes you to feel like you might get emphysema from the secondhand smoke emanating from the fabric of the once-white-but-now-greyish overcoat.

Each of these, in their own unique way, makes you grateful to see that your stop is the next one and that you're mere steps away from fresh air. Perhaps I've missed something obvious? Please, tell me . . . because I don't want to be unprepared the next time I get on board.

Yes, and . . .

2011-01-19T17:35:00.001Z

Sometimes I can be a little . . . pessimistic. I'm not generally a sourpuss, but I can certainly see the glass half empty from time to time. I like to call it realism, but I get that sometimes my "realism" isn't appreciated. I'm not sure what got me me thinking about this, but I'd like to try to turn over a new leaf. This reminded me of an improv concept (yes, I have improv training) called "Yes, and . . ." The idea is that when doing a scene, rather than shutting down your fellow improv-er, you want to agree and add to what's being said. So, for instance, if your scene partner says, "Oh my gosh, my grass hut is on fire!" your response might be something like, "Yes, and so is your grass skirt!" thus building the tension and the heightening the action. I've been toying with adding this technique to my daily life. Let's think about it, shall we . . .

"Yes, and . . ." At Work: think of all those times when you want to say something just to shut down an awkward work situation. But what if you go totally opposite--agree and heighten!  Your boss says, "I'm sorry, you'll have to work late tonight to finish this report." What you really want to say is, "I'm sorry, I have to go to the proctologist tonight, so I won't be able to get that done." But instead you reply, "Yes, and while I'm at it, why don't I paint your office--what about a nice rosy taupe?" Imagine the surprise on your boss' face. You just might be employee of the week and secure that pay raise you've been waiting for. Or what about if your work nemesis were to say, "WashingTina was the one who heated up fish in the microwave," the reply might be, "Yes, and that's my three-week-old meatloaf in the fridge growing fur!"  You'll be the most popular person in the office in no time!

"Yes, and . . ." At Home: If your husband/boyfriend/paramour asks, "Do you want to order Chinese for dinner?" and you employ the improv strategy, "Yes, and I'd also like a backrub and foot massage" things could really work out in your favor.  Suppose your mother calls wanting to discuss family politics, "Uncle Waldo left Aunt Sue, can you believe that?" You might want to say to her, "Duh! Everyone knows she's a nasty shrew," but rather than insult your mother's sister, you say, "Yes, and he took all of her high heels with him!" you win friends and influence people (not to mention start a nasty little family rumor that will go down in history and be the toast of Thanksgivings yet to come).

"Yes, and . . ." At Parties: Just think about all those awkward dinner parties and other situations where you get stuck talking to the biggest wet blanket because your sadistic friend stuck you sitting next to him because you're the fun one who can talk to anyone (can you tell this has happened to me before?).  How much more fun would it be if you stirred things up a little? When the wet blanket says, "So I was working on some projections for tax season, when I realized I forgot to include the 1099-G and ruined my day. Do you have any idea what that's like?" you could say, "Yes, and I also know what it's like to ride through the desert on a horse with no name. Do you like horseback riding?" Or when some drunk weirdo tries to sidle up to you at a cocktail party, "Hey there, shweetie, wanna do a shot?" you might come back with, "Yes, and let's ask your wife to join us!" The possibilities are endless.

"Yes and . . ." In Public: Maybe you're waiting in the "15-Items-or-Less" line at the grocery store and someone in front of you has 37 items and is paying with a check. As you sigh huffily, the person says, "Is there some sort of problem?" You might normally say, "Oh no, go ahead, no problem," but if you go improv, instead you might say, "Yes, and everyone else in this line agrees with me, asshole," you just might start a revolution. That person will think twice about breeching social norms, that's for sure. Perhaps you're riding the bus and someone offers you a seat. Normally you'd decline just to be polite. Not this time. "Would you like this seat?" to which you respond, "Yes, and I'd also like you to do a better job of bathing." Just imagine the cheers of your fellow bus riders! Suddenly, you've got the world on a string (and a seat on the bus!).

I guarantee, if you start using the "Yes, and . . ." strategy in your daily life, things will be much more interesting. I mean really, that kind of honesty is simply hard to argue with. Crowds will part as you approach, seats will open for you on Metro, the "15-Items-or-Less" line will always be just that, you won't get stuck working late or cleaning the office fridge--it will be a thing of beauty! Life will go your way. Really, isn't that much easier than being a pessimist? Yes, and it's also a good way to keep people guessing. Trust me on this one.

A Blogiversary

2011-01-07T01:24:00.006Z

One year. It's hard for me to believe that one year ago today, after a particularly ridiculous bus ride, I started this grand endeavor. I thought about doing this for a very long time, and sitting here today, I'm not sure why I waited so long to start. But I did, so let's not dwell on that. Instead, let's think for a moment about what's transpired here in the last year. I've bared my soul (or my ass, as it were) and shared my husband with you. You've gotten to know my vivid imagination and my quirks. Together we've survived a blizzard, putting my house on the market, and the Metro. It's been quite a ride. And maybe it didn't change the world, but it did change my world.

Photo by Marcin Wichary via Flickr

And let's face it, anniversaries are pretty important. They mark the passage of time, and often an accomplishment of some sort. Of course, I can't hear the word anniversary without being reminded of one time when I was in the fifth grade. A friend of mine and I were left to our own devices one afternoon at her house and we decided to make prank phone calls (it was either that or practice kissing on the back of our hands, and how long can you really do that for anyway?). We'd look up in the phonebook (yes, it was that long ago--it was also way before caller ID) the funniest names we could find and then call the person. And then we'd sing . . . "Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, HAAAAP-PY Anni-ver-sary! Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversary. . ." and end by saying, "Happy Anniversary, Tony and Barb!" There was no Tony and Barb. Not that it mattered. The caller on the line always got a kick out of the song. Nobody ever hung up on us. Most of them thanked us. A few even apologized for not being Tony or Barb. Maybe it's because we were a couple of dumb kids singing into the phone for no good reason, or maybe it was because anniversaries really are special.

So I'm going to spend this anniversary, this bloggiversary, doing the opposite of what I usually do -- instead of going on for a few more paragraphs, I want to hear from you. What stories were your favorites? What do you want to see from WashingTina in the coming year? How can I make this blog even better? Tell me . . . because I can't wait to see what happens next!

The Chosen One

2011-01-06T01:00:00.000Z

A friend of mine is looking for a job. In fact, she's applied for a job and has decided that this job is THE ONE. She sent me an email earlier today lamenting the fact that they haven't called yet. I know exactly how she feels, and I suspect, so do you. You see, looking for a job is a lot like dating. In fact, I'd dare say it's almost exactly the same thing. Let's review the similarities, shall we?

The Resume -- During the job search, you submit a written resume with a brief professional history. Dating is the same, especially if you're doing it online. You outline your strengths and try to present yourself in the best possible light. When you meet someone for the first time, you give them an overview (who wants to let all the demons out of the closet right away?). But it's fairly superficial. Someone is going to judge you for your typos (or your metaphorical typos, like if you say "supposably" or "anyways").
Waiting For the Call -- After you've found a desirable choice (job or mate) and you've given your resume, then comes the waiting. This is when you start wondering . . . maybe I'm not good enough; maybe I said too much; maybe my phone isn't working. So you check your phone, making sure the ringer is turned on. And you wait some more.
The Call (and What Follows) -- The day finally comes when your phone actually does ring. Your palms start to sweat. Should you pick up or let them leave a message? You decide to answer, but not on the first ring. "Hello . . ." you say, not too eager, not too breathy (you hope). The conversation is short. You're merely setting up that first appointment. Maybe one fake laugh, a question or two, directions to where you will meet. It's over before you know it. Then you really start to sweat . . . what did you say? Did you go on too long? Was the laugh too fake? And what on earth are you going to wear? You spend the time in between the phone call and the upcoming meeting analyzing your wardrobe. What's the best way to make a good impression . . . you don't want to dress up or appear too fussy, but at the same time, you don't want to be a slob. Is the red suit too much? Maybe the blue blouse? Are the heels too high? It's just too much pressure! After you've settled on something to wear, you may as well plot your route. You talk to friends, you look online. Metro, driving, taxi, walking. You run through it over and over in your head, but you'll make a snap decision at the last minute based on traffic and weather conditions (it's really the only reasonable way to go).
The Interview/Date -- This could go one of two ways: awkward and confusing, with stilted conversation; or like a reunion with your long lost someone. The former is a sign that it's not worth trying and you should relax and enjoy it. The only trouble with this philosophy is that the more you try to relax, the worse things end up going. A simple question like "Where are you from?" sends you into fits. "Uh, well, I was born in Columbus, but I grew up in Denver, but my dad was in the military so we moved around a lot . . . what was the question?" From there, you know it's going straight downhill. The second option is much more favorable. You spend your time together happily chatting away, and even though it's a fact-finding mission for you both, it feels more like easy conversation. That same simple question, "Where are you from?" becomes the springboard for all other things. "I was born in Columbus (go Bucks!), spent my early years in Denver, but since my dad was in the military, we really lived all over the place. Have you ever been to Germany?"
Waiting (Again) -- If the meeting went well, you wait. Should you call? Send an email? Follow up and express interest? And if you decide to do one of those, how long should you wait? It's not good to seem over-eager, but nor do you want to seem disinterested and wait too long. Whatever you do, though, there's more waiting. The overanalysis continues: will I be chosen; am I right for this; will they think I'm right for this; did I talk to much; not enough; maybe my shoes were too much . . . and on and on. This is the point where you start to become slightly unhinged. Every time the phone rings, you think, "This could be it!" and when it isn't, you feel the need to either a) eat, b) cry, or c) eat while you cry. Every time you check your email and see that you have a new message, the sweating starts again. When you realize it's just an ad for Frrree_meddss_frommm_Cannadiaan_pharrmaaacy!!!, you die a little inside. More analysis . . . the shoes were definitely too much; I talked about my college internship for too long; they really didn't like my writing samples after all. Lather, rinse, repeat. And then you wait some more. It might be a day, it might be a week, or in some rare instances, it takes a month or more.
The Commitment -- Perhaps scenarios 3, 4, and 5 will repeat themselves several times, but eventually a decision must be made and you are chosen. It's an unbelievable feeling! It's validation. You are worth commiting to! You are about to enter into a permanent relationship (of sorts). Maybe a little more self-doubt (am I really making the best decision?), but at least you have made a decision. Now that you have been chosen, now that the call has come in, you can call the shots (or at least some of them). And that feels good!

I didn't tell my friend this, but I think she already knows. Besides, you can't really talk sense to someone who is deep in the throes of job search madness (or dating madness, for that matter). The best you can do is sit back, relax and revel in the fact that you're not currently looking for a job and think to yourself, the next time, I won't let that happen to me. I'll learn from my friend's experience. Cooler heads will prevail. But maybe I better update my resume anyway.

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

2011-01-05T01:08:00.001Z

The Mega Millions jackpot is $355 million. I'm pretty sure I'm going to win. Wonderful Husband and I have periodically played the lottery for years. Not often, not regularly, but off and on. Whenever we buy a ticket, we start planning what to do with the spoils of our victory. These plans have changed little over the years, and always include travel and property. It would do you good to make friends with us now, because once we have all that cash, we might find your motives dubious.

Image courtesy of Robert S. Donovan via Flickr

You always hear about these poor fools who win the lottery and then two years hence are penniless and working resetting the pins in a local bowling alley. In fact, this "curse" is so real that E! did a True Hollywood Story on it (twice! so you know it's newsworthy). What I can never figure out is how someone goes from being a multi-millionaire to broke (this also often happens to professional athletes, but that's for another day) in the blink of an eye. And the toll it takes on marriages? I don't get it. From what I understand, the trouble most marriages have is money . . . which I always took to mean debt, not having too much money.

When we win the lottery tonight, we're going to go to the Carribean (or some other tropical locale) on a private jet with our nearest and dearest for a month. It's going to be awesome. Upon our return, we'll buy ourselves a nice (but modest) place in the city for us to lay our heads and to hold our stuff while we travel. Then we're going to start some sort of foundation (or become beneficiaries via endowment to some deserving organization--know of any?) because what good is all that money if you can't do some good with it? I'd really like to be appointed to the board of the foundation so that I'd have something to occupy my days (because, yes, I will be quitting my job once we win -- I'm going to hold off on giving my notice till tomorrow, though, as I really would like to make sure it's a done deal). You see, we won't be idle rich. We're going to give back. We'll be generous to our friends and family. We're going to spend wisely and invest even more wisely. We will not be working resetting the pins in the bowling alley two years hence.

Sure, there's a lot of criticism about lotteries (and gambling and the like), but it's easy to criticize when you haven't won $355 million. Sounds like a case of sour grapes to me. But let's just say, for argument's sake, that WH and I don't win the lottery tonight. What have we lost? Three dollars. That's the price of a Lean Cuisine (when they're on sale). But what did we gain? An evening of fantasy where we can plan what we might do with our winnings. Idle conversation about fun stuff we might someday be able to afford to do. Ideas about the happiness of those closest to us when we invite them on lavish vacations and buy them expensive gifts. I don't know, but that's pretty priceless to me. And sure, maybe it'll be gone tomorrow . . . but maybe, just maybe, it won't be.

The Boob Tube

2011-01-04T01:32:00.000Z

I have a love-hate relationship with television. I watch more TV than is really necessary (is any of it actually necessary?), and, yet, at the same time, I constantly feel like my intelligence is being insulted. Just when you think we can't stoop any further, television takes us to a new low . . . and I'm there every step of the way. I've mentioned several times my confusion with the content of commercials (see here, here, and here), but this goes beyond that. This goes to the full-length programs that network executives continue to greenlight. I do have my standards, of course (no Jersey Shore for me, I swear), but they're quite Lilliputian (I had to throw that word in so at least you wouldn't forget that I'm well-read. Trust me, after this, your respect for me will wane).

The people in TV land, I think, are constantly trying to figure out just how low they can set the bar and then continue to limbo beneath it. There are the histrionics of Jeff Lewis on "Flipping Out." Have you seen this one? He's a "house flipper" who does these projects to improve homes and then sells them. He has a long-suffering staff who must put up with his obsessive-compulsion. Entertaining, sure. Tragic, absolutely. And his business is booming . . . he even has his own line of home products on QVC (you know you've arrived when you are hocking stuff on QVC). But it's not just reality television. Take for instance "Minute to Win It," hosted by perpetual douchebag and sometimes tv cook, Guy Fieri. I have not actually watched this show, though from what I can tell, it consists of people doing bar tricks on TV in an attempt to win money. And it's on for an hour during prime time. There's also "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader," which pits "ordinary adults" against eleven-year-olds. For goodness sake, even the host isn't smarter than a fifth grader. If ever there was an argument that the U.S. education system is doing better now than it did years ago, it's this show. Someone get Arne Duncan on the phone . . .

Besides the game shows, there is the misogynism of "Two and a Half Men" -- which boasts the highest paid actor on television, Charlie Sheen (an habitual frequenter of rehab and prostitutes) -- where two single brothers live together with the one brother's young son. The women on the show are set dressings, playing one of three parts: the shrew, the bimbo, or the mother (and to tell the truth, the several mother figures on the show may as well be shrews, too).

What sparked this train of thought was tonight's premiere of The Bachelor. For the uninitiated, this is a show where some allegedly desirable single gentleman (and I use that word loosely) lives in a suspended reality with 20-some-odd women to choose from. The women, hell bent on destroying the feminism that our foremothers spent many years trying to achieve, fall all over The Bachelor in bikinis, in a hot air ballon, during safari, rapelling off the side of a volcano, on a jet ski, etc. And I must watch it. Every week. For two hours.

Sure, there's some good stuff on television, but I'm going to have to talk about that another time, because it's time for The Bachelor to start.

Resolutions and Reflections

2010-12-28T02:50:00.002Z

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 job of advancing it this year.

Sure, I know there are things that I could be doing better . . . I would really like to be even more regular about blogging. I'd like to write more frequently. I'd like to find a design that's not quite so generic, that reflects the character of the writing. But overall, I feel pretty good about what I've accomplished this year -- because when I started, I had no expectations.

I can't believe the attention that these thoughts--stories of the absurdities of my life--have received this year. When this all started, I thought I'd write for myself (which is still the number one reason why I write), and maybe my family and friends and a random stranger or two who stumbled upon the blog. I thought I'd get some creative satisfaction by finally "making it happen" and writing for myself. I thought I'd have a nice little product to look back on at the end of the year. What I didn't know was that other people (people who don't know me!) would take notice. I would have never guessed that other bloggers might take note, let alone media outlets (holy cow!).

I'd love to be able to say, nonchalantly, that I don't care who's reading, who's paying attention. But let's be real. In these days of 24-hour connectivity and billions of pages of inanity on the internet, it blows my mind that I seem to have found a niche for my pieces of inanity. I never could have imagined that WH would have his own following, that our quirks and quips would find their way to other parts of the country--let alone the world. I started this for myself, to get some satisfaction out of writing what I wanted to write . . . but what I got out of it was so much more. An audience. A voice. Gratification. It matters to me that you're reading this, commenting on it, sharing it. So as I look to the new year, all I can hope is that I keep getting out of this blog what I put into it . . . little pieces of myself.

*And if it's not too much to ask, how about casting your vote for WashingTina as best local blog in The Washington Post #DCTweeps awards (Question #6) by December 31, here: http://wapo.st/eIYXAu (Oh, and it's an honor just to be nominated, really!)

The Good, the Bad, and the Merry

2010-12-24T21:19:00.000Z

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 "Christmas Eve in Washington." This last one is really trite and pompous, and that's coming from a Washingtonian. With such astute lyrics as, "It's Christmas Eve in Washington, America's hometown. It's here that freedom lives and peace can stand her ground." No. I didn't make that up.

Some of the truly awful songs aren't about the actual song, but about the delivery. For example, Madonna's version of Santa Baby is particularly cringe-worthy. Also bad is Barbra Streisand's manic Jingle Bells, where it sounds like the record is skipping . . . but no, it's just Babs having a musical seizure. And any song by Josh Groban, Celine Dion, or Amy Grant.

Of course, this is all subjective, and I realize that two of my most favorite Christmas songs are universally poo-pooed. I can't help it, but I love Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer . . . not for its clever lyrics ("She'd been drinkin' too much egg nog. And we'd begged her not to go. But she'd forgot her medication, and she staggered out the door into the snow") but because my own, now-departed grandmother got such a kick out of it. Another of my favorites is the condescending Feed the World, which was an anti-hunger anthem of the 80s and brags "There won't be snow in Africa this Christmastime," and "Well tonight, thank God it's them instead of you." But despite it's lyrical offenses, there's something pretty cool about all those stars coming together for a common cause (before Michael Jackson dreamed it up for We Are the World).

But really, the issue isn't what songs are good and what ones aren't . . . because none of them are good when played nonstop for 2 1/2 months straight (I'm looking at you WASH FM) and then put away suddenly on December 26th as if they'd never existed, only to return sometime in the late-summer the following year. I'll leave you with my favorite Christmas song of all time, Judy Garland from Meet Me In St. Louis with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. If that doesn't get ya, nothing will.

What are your favorite (and most cringe-worthy) Christmas songs?

After the Wedding

2010-12-10T02:38:00.003Z

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 planning and all of the trips to the dress shop (Carine's in Georgetown, in case you ever need the best atelier in the city), standing in a giant (and freezing) floral warehouse picking out the flowers, the paper for the invitations, selecting all of the courses during our tasting. I remember it all. But that's not a marriage. It's a wedding. And there's definitely a difference.

Every day since then, WH and I have been building our marriage. When I got sick on our honeymoon, that was marriage. Without complaint, WH got up with me, before the sun, and rode in the rickety "taxi" (consisting of benches in the bed of a pickup truck) in the rain all the way to the highest point on the island of St. John to go to the "hospital," which was a small building that could only be entered after having rung the doorbell. There was one nurse on duty and one doctor on call. He waited with me for three hours, wandering around this tiny shopping center while we waited for the pharmacy to open at 10:00. He went with me to the same sushi restaurant three times, just so I could get miso soup (the only place we could find soup on a tropical island). He held my hand as I cried on the plane home as my eardrums burst.

We are a team, WH and me. We laugh at the same things, roll our eyes at the same nonsense, and enjoy the company of the same people. But even though we are a team, we each have our own interests. WH is an athlete, enjoying the gym and nutrition. I'm literary, enjoying to read and write in my spare time. We go out together and we go out separately. We have had our ups (loads of them!) and downs (a few of those, too--have I mentioned the honeymoon bronchitis?) over the past two years, but at the end of the day, what we have is each other. And when you have someone who plans for the zombie apocalypse, walks through a blizzard with you to get McDonald's, continues to live with you in a "staged" apartment while it's on the market, protects you from pigeons in your air conditioner and indulges your love affair with Cher (or whatever it is that's important to you), hang onto it, because there's nothing better. Trust me, I know.

Unicorn vs. Hamster

2010-12-09T02:02:00.000Z

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. You see, the Unicorn Man only comes out at Christmas (and maybe Valentine's Day). Sure, he might say he's right here and always will be, but come January third, he's history. Sure, he'll reappear briefly around Groundhog Day, but he'll be back in his hole before you know it. And as WH points out, the man with whom he is replaced is a "Hamster Doofus." This guy is more like a son than a husband, and needs to be taken care of, chastised, and generally watched over so he doesn't poke his eyes out with the corner of his Doritos chip. See proof below:

This particular guy has been dubbed by WH as the Yogurt-Stealing Hamster Doofus. He also does not actually exist. WH had some deep thoughts on the issue:

How is it that the the guy who is supposed to be strong and romantic becomes a hopeless Hamster Doofus two months later? And how is it that this woman who relies on the strong chest of her partner all of the sudden becomes a controlling witch? I'll tell you why. Around the holiday season you must buy diamonds and the rest of the year, you must buy yogurt. You know what I'd like to see, put that cool guy in the kitchen and the Hamster Doofus in the cabin. I bet you anything that Hamster Doofus would go hide under the table during the storm.

I agree with WH about the men, but good grief, what about the women! What is that lady staring out into the dark for anyway? And why is she so terrified of a little thunder? It's not the nuclear holocaust. And let's not even get me started on that shrew with the yogurt. Why should she care if he's talking on the phone with his buddy? It's yogurt, not the Yalta Conference, for chrissakes.

The reality is that nobody's perfect like the Unicorn and nobody's completely inept and afraid of eating their wife's yogurt. Husbands surprise their wives with jewelry, and they tick them off by leaving a half an inch of orange juice in the carton. Boyfriends leave their socks on the floor and they cook gourmet meals on the fly. Trust me, WH has the best taste in jewelry of anyone ever, and I've called my friends to tell them about my latest gift. And even though he has eaten the last yogurt, I have never, in all our years, caught him on the phone with a friend discussing his love affair with pineapple upside down cake.

Meet the Parents

2010-12-08T00:01:00.001Z

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 wouldn't you? When given the opportunity to act like a sophomoric 12-year-old boy, you really must do so.

WH said to my DOD, after we had placed our dessert and digestive orders, "I really like Cockburn." My eyebrow raised, but I thought nothing of it until he continued, "I had it the other night and thought of you." It was then that I got what I like to refer to as "church giggles," you know that laugh you know you really shouldn't indulge in, but can't control yourself? My father, who was sitting in the middle of the table, looked at me and started laughing too. WH went on, innocently, "The first time I had it, you gave it to me." By then, my father and I were crying, we were laughing so hard, my mother was fuming and WH's parents were looking at us with a mixture of stunned confusion. Fortunately for all of us, the waiter arrived shortly after that with our desserts and mouths were stuffed so nobody could say anything -- and what could be said after that, anyway?

The good news is that despite the slightly off-color double entendre, our parents really enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) each others' company. So much so, in fact, that we are lucky enough to spend all major holidays and occasions together. So . . . as you look forward (perhaps with apprehension) to family gatherings during the holiday season, just remember about the time my father gave my husband Cockburn's.

Christmas Traditions

2010-12-07T00:29:00.001Z

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.

The first blow was when Lady Doctor's mother moved off of our street. We revised our partying ways, but still managed to spend our Christmas Eves together. My grandparents got older and we even ended up spending one Christmas at their house in Rehoboth when my grandmother was too ill to travel. I think the hardest Christmas of all, though, was the year that my grandmother died. On Christmas morning. She had cancer, my grandfather had died earlier that year, and she was spending Christmas in the hospital, alone. Her biggest worry, which she had expressed to me, was that my grandfather would be alone without her. Maybe it's a little simplistic, but I believe he came to get her that day so that neither of them would be alone on Christmas. It was the worst Christmas my family ever had. After that year, we had a hard time getting our traditions back in order, but when I think back on it, I don't remember specifics. It's funny how the mind does that for you.

One year, shortly after, the Christmas Eve party moved to my parents' house. WH joined the mix seven years ago -- this will be his eighth Christmas with my family. My parents sold my childhood home and moved into a condo a few years back, so we adjusted our traditions again. Some years friends are traveling for Christmas, so they miss the party. We've added new friends, husbands, and babies -- some years bigger than others. But what's really important is that we are together, my family and whomever can make it that year. There is always enough food for everyone, a gift for each guest to open, and enough holiday cheer (liquid and otherwise) to sustain us well into the New Year. And I've learned that the best tradition is one that doesn't just happen once a year, but that embodies a sentiment that builds on the love of family and friends and carries itself all the year through.

Merry Christmas from WashingTina!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T14:59:00.000Z

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

2010-11-24T18:32:00.000Z

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 guess what happened next . . . we were selected for "additional screening."

At the time, the body scanners were only a twinkle in Big Brother's eye, but the pat down was already in the TSA toolbox. There was even a private little "room" cordoned off behind a curtain where the agents took those needing "additional screening." I got to go first, while WH was stuck talking to another screener. The woman was business-like, albeit completely unfriendly. I mean, if someone's going to second base with me, shouldn't she at least entertain polite conversation? Or buy me dinner first? (Does this remind anyone of "Seven Minutes in Heaven" that game from boy-girl parties in the sixth grade? You'd go into a little room, probably some closet, and then stay in there for seven minutes, doing who knows what.)

Behind the curtain we went. The agent patted down my legs, butt, back, arms, and middle. Then she got to my bra. I'm no Dolly Parton in that department . . . more like Keira Knightley. Using her wrists (apparently screening for bombs is similar to testing the temperature of a baby's bath water), she scanned my boobs. She seemed troubled by the underwire, as if she had never felt one before, as if she wasn't wearing one herself. What is this? What could this strange metal be? I'm going to have to go in for a better look. So she reached in (using her fingers this time, as I'm guessing the dexterity of her wrists simply didn't allow for what was to come next), grabbed my bra, touching the underwires, and pulled. Then she let go. Not since seventh grade gym class had I had my bra snapped. And now it was all in the interest of "national security." "You're free to go," she informed me, but not really, as I had to wait for WH and talk to the other delightful TSA agent before we could board the plane.

While I waited for WH, the other agent made "small talk," which I'm sure was really meant to find out the true meaning of my business in Washington, D.C. "What is your business in Washington?" "Well, I live there." Frowny face, "So, where are you staying when you get to Washington?" "Um, at my house." Eyebrow raise, "I see. And what was your business in Key West?" "Drunken birthday partying." Furrowed brow, "I see. What do you do in Washington?" "Public relations. I work for a nonprofit." Blank stare, "I see." By that point, WH was done with his jostling and we both stood there, waiting to be cleared. At last the "interrogating" agent informed us that we were "free to go."

The entire plane had been held while we were being scanned. We boarded to the derisive looks of the other passengers. I'm not sure what they were so pissed about. They hadn't had their nonnies jarred by a stranger. Obviously we weren't terrorists, we were tourists. Though I can see how someone might mix the two up -- Hawaiian shirts are easily confused with army green jihad outfits. But they let us on board and off we went.

We arrived in D.C. without further incident, thankful that we could begin our holidays in peace. So, whether you're scanned, fondled, jostled, or are simply staying home this Thanksgiving, make it one to remember.

Happy Thanksgiving and Safe Travels, my friends!

Little Mary Sunshine

2010-11-19T00:38:00.001Z

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 already gone to work or is still asleep, so I don't have to talk to him in the morning (and he's not really a morning person either). I ride the bus and speak to no one. And then I get to the office. The front desk guy in our building is exceedingly friendly. I find that I steel myself for his cheer each morning. "Good morning, my friend!" he says. I can slink by without speaking if there are a bunch of other people arriving at the same time (and that's just the way I like it). But there are those days when I have to muster a "Good morning." Those are not my best days.

Once I get to my office, I usually say a cursory good morning to anyone I might run into on the way to my desk. Then I sit down and hope that nobody talks to me until at least 10:30. This works pretty well most of the time. But that wasn't always the case. I used to work in an office with Little Mary Sunshine. You have probablly met her (or someone just like her) at some point in your life. She is always cheerful. She ends all of her sentences with exclamation points!!! She has corn syrup running through her veins. She says "darn" and "poo" and "geez." She is enough to make you want to slap her mother for giving birth to someone like her.

Anyway, the LMS in my former office was the queen of them all. She sat right next to the door to the office, too, so I had to walk by her every morning in order to get to my desk. And, of course, she always got to work early because she is what we like to call a morning person. I'd peer in the door, hoping she'd be on the phone or have her mouth full of oatmeal or anything that would stop her from speaking to me. But she never was, and thusly I was greeted with, "GOOD MORNING, WASHINGTINA!" every single morning. Rainy days, sunny days, days where the sky was falling, this woman was officially the worst.

Turns out my other coworkers were not exactly enamored of her either. Finally someone in the office realized that we could go a roundabout way through our conference room to avoid the barrage of saccharine-sweet greetings. That, unfortunately, only worked for a little while, because she would then come find me at my desk to say "GOOD MORNING! AND HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!" I really hated her for it. I'm pretty sure she hated me too . . . but she'd never let me know that. She was way too nice for that. Instead, I think she took sadistic joy in taunting me each morning with her chirpy enthusiasm. I could always imagine her going home to her husband and having a good giggle (she always giggled, never laughed) about my obvious dismay.

The good news is that she got pregnant and we were all saved from having to pretend we were human early in the morning when she left her job with us to be a stay-at-home mom. We threw her quite a lavish party, and I'm convinced it wasn't so much the good wishes for the baby (sure, we had those), but a deep-seated joy that we wouldn't have to act like we were awake before we'd had our morning dose of caffeine.

Are you a morning person? A night owl? A Little Mary Sunshine?

Plastic Bag Pariah

2010-11-13T18:55:00.003Z

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 pretend I was engrossed in the items in my basket. When that didn't work (I swear, I could hear the hipsters behind me snickering), I craned my neck as if I were looking for my companion who was nowhere to be found (s/he had probably made off with my reusable bag). No luck. The hipsters weren't falling for my act. Nobody pointed, but I felt their stares and judgement.

When I got up to the table to pay, the woman who was weighing my vegetables looked expectantly at me. I looked behind me to see if I might see the imaginary companion who had absconded with my bag. But alas, nobody appeared. "Do you need a bag?" she whispered, looking disappointedly at me (it was the farmers' market equivalent of "Your card's been declined."). It was like she didn't want to get stuck ringing up such an environmentally irresponsible ogre. "Yes, I must've forgotten my bag today," I replied, praying for her mercy. "They're ten cents," she said, unforgivingly (a five cent markup from the usual five cents the grocery stores charge). "I don't have a car! My carbon footprint is very small," I wanted to scream, but instead I paid my pennance and slunk off amist the disgusted stares of the more thoughtful shoppers, surprised that they didn't pelt me with organically grown rootabegas as I made my retreat.

Photo courtesy of velkr0 via Flickr

And as I walked back past the line of shoppers waiting to pay on my way home, I spied one other bagless customer. A guy about my age who looked just as sheepish as I had felt. We gave each other that knowing look . . . the look of someone disgraced, someone ashamed, the look of a pariah. I can't be sure, but I think he stood a little taller after seeing me, encouraged by my fearless plastic-bag-carrying confidence. I left knowing that perhaps I hadn't left the world a little greener than I had found it today, but at least I made another person feel good. And I swung my plastic bag full of goodies all the way home.

Baby Boomless

2010-11-12T00:42:00.003Z

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 okay? I realize that I was supposed to get married a long time ago (read, before I turned 30) and that by now we are supposed to have children, but we don't. We're on our own timeline, not the rest of the world's.

Every time I am nauseated it's not morning sickness, but thanks for asking. If I'm looking a little thicker around the middle, it's probably because I've been indulging in a few more French fries than usual and forgoing the gym (as has been my habit for many years). If I turn down a glass of wine, you can keep your sideways glance to yourself -- I'm probably just hungover from the night before.

As more and more of my friends get married and move to the suburbs and have children, I am more acutely aware of the fact that we don't. It might also be because at least once a week someone will ask me, "So, when are you going to start a family?" I hate that question and what it implies: that WH and I are not a family because we don't have children. That the family that we've built for ourselves that consists of our parents and siblings and an army of friends doesn't really count.

We're approaching the holiday season . . . a time of parties and gatherings and family events. It's inevitable that I'll be asked at least once about our family planning. The same way we were asked for four years about our marriage plans. And the same way I was asked for years before that if I was ever going to get a boyfriend. (I was even told once, "Aren't you getting a little old to be coming to Thanksgiving by yourself?") What if we were to have a baby . . . what would the next question be? When are you going to start teaching him to read? Where is she going to college? When is he going to get married? When are you going to die? I mean, where is the line?

I read a joke once where a woman said, "Every time I'm at a wedding and my elderly aunt says to me, 'You're next,' I just wait for the next funeral when I can say the same to her." Maybe I should figure out a way to take this approach the next time someone pries into my personal business. In some cases, I know it's because they care about us, but in most cases it's simply because they're nosy.

So consider this is my pre-holiday public service announcement. Think before you ask some of these questions. Not everyone can have children. Not everyone wants to get married. And believe me, if it's a woman who lives in the D.C. area, it's not exactly easy to find a boyfriend. Besides, the person you are asking already thinks about it a lot more than you do. Your question just calls attention to something that is out of all of our hands. Or maybe, just maybe, some of us are happy just the way we are. Instead, stick to gossip about crazy Aunt Jane's reindeer sweater or how drunk the office douchebag is getting at the Christmas party. Either that or be the drunk douchebag -- at least then nobody will ask you if you're pregnant.

One of These Things is Not Like the Others

2010-11-10T01:56:00.002Z

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 himself. Then he started in on his seatmate, "Me, me, I like it," he said. When this failed to elicit a reaction, he turned up the volume a little louder, "Me, me, I like it!" I couldn't tell if it was "Me, me," as in himself or "Mimi," as in Mariah Carey (maybe he was really happy she's finally pregnant). But whatever it was, he wanted attention.

"ME, ME, I LIKE IT!" he said in his loud, sing-song way. The balding, 30-something yuppy next to him replied, "Pardon me?" Morning Crazy responded with something unintelligible. On we ambled and the crazy intensified. "I don't get it. I don't get it," MCrazy said. "Pardon me, sir?" the balding seatmate replied. "ME, ME, I LIKE IT!"he repeated over and over, until finally wearing out the hospitality of the yuppy. "Sir, I don't want to talk to you anymore," the yuppy said.

Finally the yuppy gave up and moved away. The seat remained empty for a couple of stops, but this enraged MCrazy. "I'm a Cuban American!" he yelled. "I been here 31 years!" And on he went. "I don't get it." He was getting louder and a little bit scary, so The Hero stepped up. Another 30-something man, who in my estimation was former (or current) military (based on his haircut, the way he talked, and his ability to remain calm in a "crisis"), sat down next to MCrazy. And then he unleashed: "Listen, you are annoying these people and I don't care what the fuck your problem is, you need to be quiet and take your bus ride and let these people go to work." He said this in a very quiet, even voice (which I could hear because I was sitting directly across the aisle as this transpired).

MCrazy informed The Hero, "I'm just riding the bus. I'm trying to ride the bus. Will you take me home?" It was kind of sad, but The Hero was having none of it, "You need to be quiet. I'll give you money to get home if you will just leave these people alone." (At this point, I was getting nervous that MCrazy was going to get violent. He was practically incoherent, he was belligerent, and he didn't appear to understand that he was making everyone on the bus uncomfortable.) "Man, I got money! I got money! I want you to take me home," MCrazy said.

This went on for a little while longer, when finally MCrazy said, "I don't know what I'm saying." Everyone on the bus gave a visible eyeroll at this point, thinking finally he'd gotten a clue, and even The Hero said, "That's the first thing you've said that made sense."

MCrazy finally stopped talking. And then we got to my stop. The Hero got off the bus (as did I), so I don't know how this little fairy tale ended, but I like to imagine that it had a happy ending: MCrazy continued on to the stop near his house, went home, and slept off whatever was ailing him. Maybe he was having a reaction to cold medicine or had some bad clams and was slightly delirious. Maybe he was an actor practicing a role a la Joaquin Phoenix. Maybe he woke up at noon and realized he'd been a compete weirdo to everyone on the bus. But whatever it was, he got my daily dose of crazy out of the way early in the day, setting the stage for me to have a rather productive workday. And that's a happy ending in itself.

Reflections on Turning 30 . . . Something

2010-11-09T02:14:00.003Z

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 year. In attendance were childhood friends . . . friendships that span more years than the Jonas Brothers (all three of them!), Lady Gaga, and Christina Aguilera have been alive. Some newer friends, who were just meeting my long-time friends for the first time, marveled at the longevity of our friendships. It's something I think we take for granted most of the time . . . when you've known someone all your life, they become your second family, and you know they'll always be there. And spending time with old friends, the people who remember my awkward phase (73-pounds, 5'4", braces, perm and 1987 bangs), reminded me that there are some definite pluses about getting older. So, I decided to compile a brief list of reasons I'm glad I am the age I am and not any other age:

1. You can look at the "youngsters" and scoff, "When I was your age . . ." and fill in any appropriate blank. For example, "You think you've got it bad? When I was your age, we had Crystal Pepsi, Brett Favre couldn't even imagine retirement, and George Bush (the old one) barfed in the lap of the Japanese President" or "When I was your age, I had to print my papers on a dot matrix printer, do you know what that is?"

2. Betty White's career resurgence is evidence that you absolutely do get better with age (but please put me out of my misery if I'm still working in my 80s).

3. Toys. WH has waxed philosophically about the toys he loved as a child, and I think he's right. A little friend of mine is attached by a cord to every toy she owns. But when I was a kid (which can be used interchangeably with "When I was your age"), our toys were awesome. Favorites of mine include the hippity hop, that horse on springs you could ride back and forth, the Sit and Spin, and Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Image courtesy of kramerwalks via Flickr

4. No more 20s! Don't get me wrong, I loved my 20s. A lot. But I wouldn't go back for anything in the world! Case in point, Linsay Lohan. Poor child still has most of her 20s ahead of her. Can you imagine having gone through all that rehab and court dates and bad movies (I Know Who Killed Me, anyone?) and still having another 7 years left before you turn 30? My 20s were exhausting, what with all the graduating from college and pretending to be an adult and social events and such. Mostly the social events. You have to do that stuff while you're young, because if you try that shit in your 30s, your head will explode. But, on a side note, if you happen to run into me on the street and want to tell me that I still look like I'm in my 20s, that'd be okay.

5. I've never had to live in a world without Saturday Night Live (even in the years we all may have wanted to).

And as I sat there on Saturday night, surrounded by friends and family, I realized just how lucky I am. Even if later that night someone took my bar stool the minute I stood up, so that when I went to sit back down I came crashing to the floor bruising my tailbone. And even if, because of that, I've been walking like a 90-year-old grandma for several days. Because when I went crashing to the floor, I looked up and saw the faces of people who love me (and who love to laugh at me) and realized that as long as you can laugh, at yourself and others and along with your very best friends, it doesn't matter how old you are.

I Voted!

2010-10-28T01:57:00.002+01:00

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, handing out literature. Most of the time, all of us poll workers, even when we were supporting different candidates, had a sense of comeraderie (how could we not after enough ornery voters had passed us by, refusing our literature and smiling faces?). Election night meant staying up late, watching the returns come in (or better yet, attending a party somewhere). I haven't gone to bed on time on an Election Day in 20 years.

Living in D.C. brings with it a whole different electricity on Election Day. Without Congressional representation, there's not a lot that we vote for that counts for much, but our local elections really matter. This year one of the candidates for Advisory Neighborhood Commission in my neighborhood has done the ultimate in voter outreach. He's hosted mixers, made personal phone calls, and (my favorite) sent out handwritten, personalized letters. I spent a good 15 minutes talking to him one afternoon a couple of weeks ago. Needless to say, he has earned my vote wholeheartedly! Because what really matters, to me and, I would hazard a guess, to many of my neighbors, is constituent relations. I've already mentioned my love for Jim Graham's staff. If you want things done in what can be a dysfunctional city, you've got to have someone you can call.

And frankly, in return for earning our vote, our elected officials owe us their attention. Even when the person representing you is not the candidate you supported, they still have a responsibility to listen to you. It's a part of good citizenship to ask much of our elected leaders. It's also good citizenship to get out and vote. There aren't many people in my sphere who don't vote, but the ones that I can think of have been browbeaten by me about the responsibility of voting. (Don't even get me started on what a privilege it is to be able to vote and what people in other countries -- not to mention our own -- have gone through for the right to vote.)

There's a new trend emerging to encourage early voting. It's a great idea in theory, but there's just something so exciting to me about going to the polls on Election Day. When I was in college, I had to vote absentee, which was always really depressing. No proudly pulling the lever (because that's how they did it in those days). No campaign workers issuing last ditch attempts to get my vote. No "I Voted!" sticker. Just a pencil and a stamp. Boring. That's why I'm not going to vote early (or often!). This year, I'll be waiting in line at the polls, same as I do every Election Day, filling out my ballot, and proudly wearing my "I Voted!" sticker all day long like a (possibly dorky) badge of honor. Because Election Day really is my favorite holiday.

Get Rich Quick

2010-10-26T03:48:00.006+01:00

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't hear back, we automatically release the photos to Quiznos and all the news outlets.

WT: Oh. But how do you know he got work done?

WH: These are the facts. First, everyone who comes on TV to tell how they lost weight, they always have a body shot. Females always have a bikini and males always have boxers. But not Jared . . . he always dresses like Charlie Sheen's brother in "Two and a Half Men." You never see him naked. Number two, when they show him training for a marathon, it looks like it's the first time he's ever been running in his life.

WT: Okay.

WH: We have to do it on Halloween so nobody will even notice that we're wearing masks. It still looks normal.

WT: But where will we get a van?

WH: You can't get it from Budget. You can get it from a lumber yard or from some dealership with no security camera in West Virginia or Pennsylvania. Cash only. And in Hollywood, since terrorists always use black vans and pedophiles always use white vans, I guess we'll have to get a grey van.

WT: Well, how do we know where he is running?

WH: You're going to have to do your homework. And since he's an ego maniac, when you call him over, "Oh my gosh! It's Jared from Subway!" he won't even think anything is weird. Technically, he's not going to remember. Then before he even knows what happened, he's going to wake up in the grass somewhere, with the last memory of some people in masks on Halloween.

WT: Oh.

WT: And if we ever do get caught, our lawyer is going to ask him, "Did they drug you?" and he's going to say yes. That's when the lawyer is going to say, "So you admit, you were under the influence of drugs. Then how do you know what you remember?" I know. I watch Law & Order.

It does make sense. And I really could use $5 million dollars. But I don't want to be the one stuck driving the van.

Happy Halloween, Jared!

*Note: No Subway spokespeople were harmed in the writing of this story.

The Witching Hour

2010-10-23T03:05:00.003+01:00

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 thing . . . when they eat that raw meat, they have the insides of a wolf. But the next day, is their colon the colon of a human or the colon of a wolf? Because that makes a huge difference. If it's a human colon, I bet the next month they're going to think twice about rare meat.

WT: Hmm.

WH: And why the hell does a werewolf have a sixpack? When you look at the stomach of a wolf, they don't have sixpacks, in fact, they usually have a round tummy.

WT: Yeah.

WH: And what if they already had a big meal before they turn into a werewolf? What then?

WT: I don't know.

WH: If werewolves do exist, I'm pretty sure they live in Pennsylvania or in upstate New York. I don't think they have werewolves in Arizona, because it's too hot there. They would turn into a were-coyote.

WT: Right.

WH: And you know who was the weirdest werewolf ever?

WT: Who?

WH: Michael Jackson. He decided to go dancing instead of hunting. Round up a bunch of dead bodies and go dancing.

You can't make this stuff up. He went to say that if they do exist, he'd rather be attacked by a werewolf or vampire than having to deal with religious extremists. I have to agree with him on that one.

A Semi-Private Room

2010-10-17T00:16:00.000+01:00

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's not for the faint of heart. Or the claustrophobic.

One look at the MRI and my doctor almost threw up. I have never seen someone with a worse poker face than me. "This is not good. I'm going to get you into see my friend who is a neurosurgeon. Tomorrow." Nothing like a doctor telling you "it's not good" to instill confidence in your care -- especially after having ignored my complaints for the better part of a year. I must admit, there was a tiny part of me that enjoyed being right, but before I could even muster an "I told you so," the larger part of me had a conniption fit about having to have surgery.

When I saw the neurosurgeon the next day (the last appointment on a Friday -- he had stayed late that day because of the urgent call from my other idiot doctor), my fears were confirmed. Surgery was a must . . . if I wanted to remain able to walk, write, and feed myself. In fact, the surgeon wanted to admit me to the hospital that night for surgery in the morning. I had made his top ten worst list, and he performed that surgery several times a week. But even with that knowledge, vanity was my biggest fear. He was going to have to slice into my neck, go in past my voicebox and fix my neck that way. I was going to have a scar. It was at that point that I burst into tears. Not when he said, "If you don't have this surgery now, you may not walk in the future." Can you say, drama queen?

I scheduled the surgery for ten days later, a Tuesday. I assured my friends at work that I'd be ready for happy hour that Friday, neck brace be damned (because I didn't want to impinge on my social life, hello!). Oh yeah, did I mention that I had to wear a neck brace for 12 weeks after the surgery? It was hot. We went to the hospital early that morning and my parents checked me in. I don't really remember much after that becuase they knocked me out and cut me open. I woke up in some room with my parents there and these things on my legs that were supposed to keep me from getting a blood clot. They were so hot, and all I wanted was to take them off. Then I fell back asleep.

I woke up next in my room. I was sharing it with some old lady who had had a hip replaced. I snoozed in and out, waking long enough to throw up from the anesthesia. My friend the Policy Lawyer showed up with flowers and sat there while I dozed and barfed. (It's friends like that who you know you can count on forever--thanks, friend!) Sometime after she left, the old lady in the bed next to me turned on the TV. She must've been half deaf, because it was cranked! I was so miserable, and all I could hear was Judge Judy squawking at someone. Then she started to moan (the old lady, not Judge Judy). "Aaah! Oooh!" And on she went. Finally I pushed the nurse call button. They came in to see me and I begged them to get her to shut up. Or at least to turn down the TV. There's nothing worse than being in the hospital . . . unless it's being in the hospital in a "semi-private" room. I can still remember the nurse going over to tell the old lady, "There's a very sick woman in the next bed. You have to be more quiet." "Well, what's wrong with her? Is she sicker than me?" the old lady argued.

I think I must've fallen asleep shortly after that, because the next thing I knew, it was morning. Breakfast had arrived (styrofoam eggs) and my neighbor was moaning again. She hollared through the curtain, "I hear you're sick over there. Can I have your breakfast?" I said she could and a nurse came in to give it to her. Then she asked me why I was in. "Neck surgery, " I told her. Ray of light that she was, she informed me, "Oh, that's too bad. You know, once they get their hands on you, you'll never be the same again. I'm having my third hip replacement." I pretended I was aleep after that because I really didn't need her sourpuss. I never did move that curtain to see what she looked like, and thank god for that.

While I was waiting to be discharged (laying there as uncomfortable as can be with an IV and a hard plastic neck brace), the old lady called for the nurse. And then it happened. "I can't go," she said, "You're going to have to give me an enema." I prayed I was hearing wrong. The nurse tried to get her to wait, but she was insistent, "If I don't go soon, I'm going to get really cranky." Nobody wanted to see her crankier than she already was, so the nurse went to get the supplies. On her way out the door, she gave me an apologetic look.

What happened next was like something out of a bad comedy. As I lay there suffering, the nurse administered what had to be the world's loudest enema. I heard every gurgle and hiss of the tube. And then there was the smell. It was the grossest thing that's ever happened to me. But at least I wasn't the nurse. The old lady felt the need to narrate the entire process, which I will refrain from doing here, because even I have my standards. Let's just say, it was without a doubt the most disturbing part of the whole hospital experience.

At long last, my parents arrived and the doctor discharged me. Once I was at my parents' house (where I had to stay for six weeks until I swapped out the hard brace for a soft one), I was happily ensconced in my own private room and my real recovery began. I never did make it to that happy hour, but lots of friends came by to visit during my confinement. I'll never forget all of the support I got from everyone, but I have to say, to this day, I can't hear Judge Judy without having flashbacks.

Stink Bug Mafia

2010-10-13T01:45:00.002+01:00

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 take immediate action to limit damage caused by Halyomorpha halys.

You can't make this stuff up. Frankly, I fear grave danger (to quote Jack Nicholson, "is there any other kind?") for speaking out against what I am certain is an underground, organized effort. A mafia. Think about it. They get in silently when you least expect it. When threatened, they release the stink to summon fellow mafiosos. And just look at them . . . you know they have names like Vinnie, Vito, and Nicky the Nose. What I haven't yet figured out is what they want. Are they out for money? Blood? Global domination? My money's on the latter, though I haven't been able to prove it. But I haven't seen this organized an effort since The Sopranos went off the air.

The other night, WH and I were watching TV when we spied one of these fellows sneaking across our wall. Just as we became aware of him and were ready to combat him, he took wing. Exactly what you'd expect of an enforcer. I mean, he didn't want to be recognized. He certainly didn't want to be caught. But . . . like all of the underlings, they eventually do get caught. I have perfected my stink bug catching tool (because you can't squish 'em, lest you unleash the stink). It involves a Swiffer mop (to coax the high-up-the-wall bug down to lower ground), a paper towel (for the bug to crawl onto), and a swift walk (with a modicum of girlish squealing) to the toilet for a forceful flush. This is my method of necessity, even though I'd really like to hit 'em with a shoe. What worries me, though, is that some stink bug consigliere somewhere is apprising the rest of the family about my technique and they're getting smarter and organizing a counter attack.

I'm not sure what I did to anger the Boss Bug, but I'm pretty sure I almost ended up with a horse head in my bed one night a few weeks ago. Thank goodness I'm a light sleeper. I awakened to a tickle on my arm. And then that smell. Not sweaty feet, as The Post suggested, but something more reminiscent of wet paint mixed with fart. It was all over me. But I got the last laugh. I captured Salvatore the Stink and sent him to a watery grave (minus the cement shoes). I did a quick clean up that involved washing my arm of the offending smell (so as not to summon additional goombahs to the party) and went back to bed.

I slept with one eye open that night, you can be sure. But I've started to be lulled into a false sense of security. That's just what they want. Because when I least expect it, I'm sure the mafia will strike. Maybe I'll be summoned to a sit down over cups of espresso, kissed on the mouth and welcomed to the family. More likely, my fate will include a trip in the trunk of a car. So if you don't see me for a while, send out a posse, because I really don't want to end up a stone in the foundation of the next monument to be added to the National Mall.

A Force of Nature

2010-10-01T20:56:00.086+01:00

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 only did we share a love of theater, but also of elephants, good food, and just about anything creative. Karen had an incredible artistic streak.

I'll never forget the day she called me to tell me she was sick. We often chatted during the workday, so it wasn't particularly strange when I saw that she was calling me at my desk. "I don't want you to worry and I don't want you to get upset, but I have breast cancer. And I am going to be fine," she declared. She faced a mastectomy and chemo, but she did it with such a positive attitude that I always said, "If I ever get sick, Karen's the first person I'm going to call." She didn't just sit back and wait for the doctors to do their thing . . . she sought out an acupuncturist, a healer, and a hypnotist. And she got better. She liked to joke that she was the only person who actually gained weight while on chemo, her healer was so good.

And when she got better, she did the most amazing thing. She contacted a photographer friend of hers and asked him to photograph her nude in various stages of recovery and reconstruction. The warrior goddess -- that same impish grin, and a tremendous amount of strength. It was around this time that we started writing together. We'd meet on Friday nights at Love Cafe with my laptop in tow and work on a sitcom that I'm determined to this day to get made somehow. The original story was her idea, but it grew organically out of our synergy. The only way I can describe it is magic.

Then life happened and we both got busy. Work, family, hobbies, and all those other day-to-day things got in the way of our regular writing dates. But we always kept up with each other. In January, 2008, as I was planning my wedding, I got a call from Karen's sister informing me that the cancer had come back and that Karen had surgery again. It was like a punch in the gut. It had been nearly seven years that she'd been okay. She was a survivor. It was over, the cancer was gone. Only it wasn't.

Karen's friends rallied around her as she recovered at a friend's house in Chevy Chase. It was at this time when I got to meet Karen's sister ("Doesn't she look like Meg Ryan?" Karen would say with pride), her two sons whom she loved more than anything, and the army of women who were her friends, confidants, and supporters. And I realized just how incredible this woman was. Friends clamoured for the chance to spend time with her and make her meals. There literally were days when the house looked like Grand Central Station. And there was Karen, feeling ill, but basking in the glow of all the love. It was powerful -- just like Karen.

She didn't make it to our wedding in September, because though the cancer was gone at that point, she was still going through treatment and just wasn't feeling up to it. We talked a several more times after that, and again life got in the way. One night I had a startlingly vivid dream about Karen, which prompted me to call her. When her sister answered the phone, I knew it wasn't good. Just a week earlier Karen and the doctors had decided that nothing more could be done and treatment would cease. I could hear in her sister's voice all that that implied.

Karen died in March 2009. Her memorial service was standing room only. Her army of women (and men) joyfully remembered the force of nature that she was. That she is. I talked to her sister that day, and she declared, "You have to get that sitcom made. Karen's going to haunt you if you don't." And I promised I would.

After seeing the life force that Karen was able to command in her army of women, I was moved to join another Army of Women. Army of Women is a nonprofit that provides the opportunity for women (and men!) to take part in breast cancer research studies aimed at determining the causes of breast cancer -- and how to prevent it. It harnesses the power of the internet to connect women and researchers. And today is Blog for Your Breasts Day, a day to recruit for that army. It takes just a minute to sign up -- and you'll be added to a database to learn about research projects and given the opportunity to opt in to studies that interest you. The projects are not clinical trials, but are prevention based. So I encourage you, if you're over 18, to please join the Army of Women -- and tell your own army to join. It costs you nothing, but could make all the difference in the world. Learn more.

I did it for Karen. Who will you do it for?

Metro-types

2010-09-23T02:59:00.005+01:00

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. That's a special kind of magic. These passengers have also been known to be Seat Hogs from time to time.

The "Like" Girls: I ran into these delightful sweeties this morning, actually. They are friends. Some might even say BFF. They are so excited to be together that they don't know or care that the entire bus is listening to their conversation about who they were with last night, how many beers they had, or how boring their job is. They punctuate every third word with "like." As in, "Oh my god, like, I seriously was, like, so drunk. Like, for real." On the off chance that these BFF aren't together, one of them is inevitably talking to the other on the phone (see also Loud Cellphone Talker).

The Bouncer: this is the (usually burly) individual who has staked out his real estate at the door of the train. He has designated himself the guardian of the door, guarding it with his imaginary velvet rope. If he's not looking around disinterestedly pretending he doesn't see the hoards of people trying to get into the train, he's probably reading his Wall Street Journal or playing with his iPad. He will not move. You could shout "FIRE!" and he will remain rooted to the spot right at the door like a sequoia, because he is better than you. He's already gained entry into the elite club known as the center car -- you know, the one with working air conditioning. A subset of this group is the aisle bouncer. On the off chance that you've gained entry, this delightful fellow is blocking the aisle so you can't get to the one open seat next to the Snoozer.

The Faregate Moron: you know this one. This is the person who can't read arrows. Or goes to the gate with the red circle. They gum up the works for those of us who want nothing more to escape the bowels of the station. A subset is the person who doesn't realize until they've tried 14 times that they lack sufficient funds to exit. She is also the same person who pays her bus fare in all nickels.

The Pole Dancer (also Pole Hugger/Leaner/Clencher): the pole belongs to this person. I mean they own it like a stripper on a Saturday night. The best part, you don't have to tip them. They swing, sway, lean on, hug, and, in some unfortunate circumstances, even clench the pole between their buttcheeks. It doesn't matter if it's packed like a sardine can in there and you need the pole to keep yourself from careening into the 80-year-old woman with the walker for whom nobody would move (see Seat Hog), the pole belongs to the dancer. A special subset are children (usually of tourists) who squeakily whiz themselves around the pole as fast as they can, until they land on the floor. One particular young man of about eight once did the whiz-spin and on his way back up, licked the length of the pole (I know, because I was there). I didn't see any news stories about a kid whose tongue turned black and fell off, so he probably just died before that happened.

The Ding Dong: mouth open, eyes up to the sky. The Ding Dong is completely clueless. This is the passenger who gets on the bus during rush hour and doesn't know where they're going, rides the escalator to its conclusion and just stands there oblivious to the increasing number of commuters backing up behind them, and (my personal favorite) stands on the left of the escalator. Everyone hates the Ding Dong. A lot. I bet they have no friends. (See also the Faregate Moron.)

The 100-Yard Dasher: get out of the way. No, I mean it, get out of the way. It's urgent that I make the train. My grandmother is dying. My wife's having a baby. I'm going to pee in my pants. I think I just saw David Hasselhoff. I'm going to miss the train . . . and I'm way more important than you, person who is walking at a normal (maybe even brisk) clip. This passenger sprints, trenchcoat flying with belt trailing, knees high, long strides, to catch the train . . . that hasn't even arrived yet. Don't be this person.

Big Junk: this is always a man. And he has big junk. It's the only explanation for why he must sit, legs splayed in a near-split, airing it out for all the world to see. If you are sitting next to him, you better squeeze your knees as close together as they can get, because you have no other choice. His junk is big.

The Ear-Splitter: is that Kanye I hear? Oh, now I can sing along with Metallica! Katy Perry, is that you serenading all of us passengers? Wait, no, it's just someone else's headphones . . . five rows away. It's okay, they're annoying now, but in ten years they're going to have to have an ear transplant. Just sit back and gloat.

The Line Leader: no matter how long everyone else has been waiting for the bus or train, this person is going to get on first. Not second, not third, not after the man with the prosthetic leg. First. You can usually spot this person when they arrive on the scene. They sidle up to the group already waiting. They crane their neck as if they're looking for someone they might know (or possibly the bus or train that hasn't arrived yet). Then they move up near the front into the remaining six square inches of free space and manage to elbow their way to the front of the line. They are more important than you (see also the Bouncer, the Pole Dancer, and the 100-Yard Dasher). Did you notice, I mentioned them last?

Public transit is a slice of life. You can bet Big Junk sits like that at home. I'm certain that the Snoozer is the first one to fall asleep on the plane, the park bench, at happy hour. The Ding Dong's mouth never closes and the mindless wandering is how they do it at the mall, the Smithsonian, the emergency room. And the Line Leader has been at the front of the line since second grade. But if you ever see me on the train, you'll easily be able to pick me out. I'm perfect. It's hard work, but I've gotten pretty good at it.

Who's your favorite Metro-type? Who did we miss?

*Special thanks to FixWMATA, chrispulaski, schwars1, ScarlettL, chocolategirl1, aka_tk, theitgirl, and _jpscott for their invaluable input on this story.

Do You Believe in Life After Cher?

2010-09-22T00:20:00.006+01:00

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't Wonderful anything to me at that point), when Cher was on her marathon Farewell Tour, three friends and I managed to get tickets to see her at the Verizon Center (then MCI Center). We planned for weeks about it and fantasized about getting called up on stage during her finale. We even had "What Would Cher Do?" t-shirts made, with a top ten list on the back*. We made sailor hats to throw onstage during "If I Could Turn Back Time" (a Cher concert tradition). And we spent evenings at Timberlake's listening to Cher on the jukebox over and over again, annoying the other patrons to no end. In truth, we may have gone a wee bit overboard, but Cher's worth it.

The night of the concert, we decked ourselves out in our WWCD t-shirts, feather boas, and sailor hats (because what else would you wear to a Cher concert -- besides maybe a buttless bodysuit). We found our seats, on the side about 15 rows up and three sections back, middle of our row. Not too bad. The crappy comedian who opened for her was inconsequential to us, and we waited, somewhat impatiently for the real show to begin. The lights were up and people were milling about while the roadies put the finishing touches on the stage. My friends were chatting and I was stretching a stiff neck and looking around when I spotted a guy who kept staring at us. He'd look at us, then look around our section, then land back on us again -- I can't imagine why, unless it was the sailor hats and the rainbow feather boas.

The next thing I know, the guy is at the end of our row and pointing to us, "Hey, you, do you guys want to move up?" Did we ever! I poked my friends, getting their attention and gathering my coat to get up. My friends and I scooted out of the row, spilling beer down the necks of the people sitting in front of us. We followed the guy down the steps of our section, down, down, down until we reached the floor area. That's right, the floor. At this point, we giggled like little kids, clapping our hands together and wondering where we were going. The guy kept going down the middle aisle, until he stopped . . . at the four seats front and center, within sweating distance of where Cher would be performing. It is at this moment when I nearly passed out. My one friend, the Cher Fan, and I couldn't stop shaking and staring at each other open mouthed. In fact, since then, I've never seen him so excited.

So there we were, shaking and sweating and gawping like maniacs waiting for the show to begin. We couldn't sit down, this was Cher, after all. But much to our surprise, the people seated around us, the ones who actually paid the big bucks to be up close and personal remained subdued and seated throughout. It was weird. At last the show started and we jumped up and down, we sang along, and we made a spectacle of ourselves. But we didn't care. As the finale approached, we got our sailor hats ready. When the moment came, we zinged them onto the stage . . . and if memory serves, CF nearly took Cher out with his.

And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Cher was taking her final bow. We reached out to her, clapping and waving our hands as she ran across the stage slapping hands with everyone she could reach. Then it happened. Cher. Touched. Me. I immediately flashed back to that old Brady Bunch episode when Marcia got kissed by Desi Arnaz, Jr. and delcared, "I'll never wash my face again!" I could imagine it, preserving my hand in a plastic bag, declining to shake hands with people and feigning injury for the rest of my life. Then I remembered, I'm not crazy.

Still flying high, we all returned to Timberlake's and regaled our friends there with stories of the night. It was the best night of my life up to that point. In fact, it was the night when WH and I first kissed. One of his favorite stories to tell is, "The first time I kissed her, she told me it was the best night of her life." He conveniently leaves Cher out of the equation in the telling.

I've seen Cher in concert twice since then, including the time I dragged WH to L.A. to see her at the Hollywood Bowl for what she swore was her last concert, but nothing compares with that first time. The time she touched me. In fact, I "Believe" that if "I Could Turn Back Time" and relive that night exactly as it happened, I would, because that was the night "I Found Someone." WH has indulged my Cher obsession for the past seven years (don't worry, I undulge his love of UFC, because all's fair in a good relationship). We even danced to "After All" as the first dance out our wedding -- the other "best day of my life."

*From our What Would Cher Do t-shirts. Die hard Cher fans will recognize some of these.
10. Wait four hours for a table in the back, so she wouldn't be gawked at.
9. Win an Oscar.
8. Hang from a chandelier like a transvestite pinata.
7. Believe in life after love.
6. Cher, Cher, and Cher alike.
5. Choose Equal.
4. Be an evil frickin' diva for 40 frickin' years.
3. Singlehandedly support Bob Mackie's career.
2. Turn back time.
1. Hwahwao!

A Strange Bedfellow

2010-09-21T00:03:00.001+01:00

This weekend while WH and I were out, we met some strangers (as we are oft to do--though not as frequently since Timberlake's closed). Turns out the couple was on a blind date and, while they were both nice people, not particularly into each other. This isn't really a particularly interesting point of fact, other than that it serves as a segue to something greater. The guy introduced himself as "Vic," which is what leads me to the other story.

Years ago, in the sweet bloom of youth, I lived in New York for a year with a girl who quite possibly amounted to the biggest nutbag on the planet. (Yes, I realize this is a D.C.-centric blog, but the story begins here and, frankly, it's just too good not to tell.) We met in D.C. when we were both taking improv acting classes and cultivating dreams (delusions) of fame and fortune. We had a friendship of sorts, which included our mutual love of going dancing. There were red flags all along, warning me that living with this person wasn't a good idea, but I was desperate to get to the Big Apple at all costs. One such warning sign I really should've paid attention to: while we were out at a club one night, she insisted that I leave her (I was ready to go home and she wasn't) with two guys she was dancing with. I refused (and this was in the days before Natalee Holloway), which resulted in me following her to her house in my car while she rode with the guys. It was bizarre and showing a great lack of good judgement.

We moved up to New York in August, into what they call a "railroad" apartment (in the basement of a row house). This meant that you entered the apartment in the kitchen, with the bathroom immediately to the right as you come in the door. To the left, through the kitchen was the living room, and through that one bedroom. And here's the kicker . . . through the first bedroom was the second. As in, one must walk through the first bedroom to get to the second. I'm not sure how I managed to finagle it, other than by sheer luck, but I got bedroom number two, which existed behind a plywood door, but didn't require foot traffic to get anywhere else (this will be important later). It may sound awful, but we had a washer and dryer and each had our own rooms for a mere $1,000/month. It was practically a luxury apartment.

My roommate quickly revealed herself to be a nutbag (yes, I realize I already mentioned this, but I can't stress it enough). For instance, she only flushed the toilet once a day, whether it needed it or not. She also had what I like to call "selective bulimia." It consisted of her eating all of my Ben & Jerry's, but leaving her own generic brand ice cream in the freezer untouched, and then claiming she threw it all up and refusing to replace it. I know eating disorders are serious business, and I don't mean to malign them here, but I never actually heard or saw her throw up (even though she repeatedly confessed to/bragged about having an eating disorder), so the bulimia was dubious. Also, she smelled bad. She didn't shower much and she worked in this greasy diner so she alternately smelled of sweat or grease, and sometimes both. On top of her own personal aroma, she would often hang her uniform from the pipe that ran the length of the apartment to "air it out" (why she couldn't wash it in our washing machine was beyond me), so it contributed it's greasy stench to our apartment. But all of this was nothing really, compared to her ill-advised coupling practices.

She would often go out on Friday and Saturday nights to various clubs around town. Alone. She almost never returned alone. Fortunately, I was usually asleep by the time she and her "gentlemen callers" had arrived. But on the off chance that I was still up, she did at least extend me the courtesy of warning me so I wouldn't leave my room. And this is where our story gets juicy.

One Saturday night, I was home reading when there was a knock at my bedroom door. It was McSmelly (as I had taken to calling her). "Hey, Vic is going to stay the night tonight," she informed me. I indicated that I was heading for the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face before they did whatever it was they were going to do. She disappeared out the door while I gathered my stuff. It could not have taken more than two minutes. I walked out of my room to see her sitting at her dressing table putting lotion on her face. "Vic" was nowhere to be found . . . until I went into the living room. There was Vic, 98 pounds soaking wet, doing lunges in nothing but a baby tee. Yeah, lunges. In a baby tee, his man-berries free in the wind. I gasped, at which point Vic grabbed two pillows from the sofa, using one to cover the front and the other to cover the back. "Uh, those are my pillows," I stammered as I walked to the bathroom.

I fumed while I brushed my teeth, wondering why in the hell he was doing lunges half-naked. What kind of sexual acrobatics could he have possibly had in mind? And were they going to echo through our thin drywall walls? I found myself wishing for earplugs (and new pillows) as I finished up my bathroom routine and prepared to head back to my room, unware of what might await me. Perhaps Vic was now doing naked push-ups. Or maybe he was sitting bareback on the sofa doing yoga moves. I didn't know.

I stormed back through the living room (no Vic) and into McSmelly's room. She still sat lotioning up, and there, in bed under covers up to his chin, was Vic. I looked directly at her and said, "Tomorrow, we need to talk!" and headed to bed. I still don't know what he was warming up for, because (quite thankfully!) I didn't hear any addtional mayhem that evening. The next day, Vic was gone before I got up and when I forcefully informed my roommate to perform naked calisthenics at his house next time, she agreed that it probably wasn't the best idea. "And besides, I didn't really like him anyway. I should've brought his friend home instead."

After that, my relationship with McSmelly pretty much deteriorated into oblivion and we barely spoke. Her mother and aunt coming from Iowa to stay for two weeks in our tiny apartment (another story for another day) made me realize that I had pretty much had my fill of her. But on the up side, after that she never did bring home another guest and I learned the importance of warming up before physical activity. To this day, I can't hear the name Vic without picturing that poor strange guy doing lunges in my living room.

Zombie Apocalypse

2010-09-18T16:40:00.003+01:00

Last night WH and I went to happy hour with another couple, our friends the Foodies. I was invited, along with Foodie Girl and Foodie Boy, for free food and drinks, and WH was along for the ride. The night started off normal enough, but devolved when, somehow, the conversation turned to the apocalypse (which may or may not include zombies). While FB and I sat there listening (and I took notes), WH and FG discussed their survival plans. It started like this*:

Wonderful Husband: The way I see it, the earth is a living thing.

Foodie Girl: Yeah, and it's pissed.

WH: Exactly, and it cleans itself.

FG: It's douching!

Yes, this really happened. I kind of wonder what the people at other tables were thinking (if they were listening . . . and I would've been listening, because it was good free entertainment). And on it went:

FG: You know those flashlights that you wind up? I have three of them.

WH: Yeah, we gotta get some of those.

FG: The first thing I'm gonna get when the apocalypse happens is swords. Because swords don't jam.

WH: Yeah, and you need one of those shark suits made of metal.

FG: I'm gonna get swords and then I'm going to go to Costco and clean it out of zombies.

WH: We need to get Spam and pineapple.

FG: And Twinkies.

WH: And that canned chicken. My mom comes from Costco and she has six cans of chicken because they served her some on a cracker and she thought it was good.

FG: My mom does that too! And it's not good!

After a quick sidebar about the miracle of Costco, they were back on track.

WH: The first thing I'm getting is booze, because I'm going to need to be drunk.

FG: Yeah, but not only to be drunk, but also because it's good for cleaning wounds.

At least they're practical.

FG: You know, sometimes when I'm on the subway and I look at my fellow travelers and I realize this is who I'm going to be stuck with when the apocalypse hits.

WH: I think that too, but mostly I think, "Who am I going to punch?" I've already decided on my weapon.

FG: I'm totally getting a samurai sword.

WH: Oh yes, in a home invasion situation you don't to worry about getting your gun out of a box. You need golf balls. Because nobody is expecting you to throw golf balls at them.

Foodie Boy: I agree with that.

FG: And a baseball bat. And a katana

WH: You have no idea how many anchors I want to go after.

WashingTina: Anchors?

WH: Anchors. On the news. You know, Pat Collins.

FG: That's true.

So apparently, not only are they going to prepare for doomsday, but they're also going to go after newspeople.

WH: Everybody knows doomsday is coming.

FG: Even if you just joke about it, you really need a plan.

WT: Well, just leave me behind to get eaten by zombies, because you already know I'm not good in a crisis. And I don't want to be that girl in the movie that everybody keeps wishing would just die already.

FG: How do you feel about this, WH?

WH: She's too cute to die. But I really hate it when people go into shock..

WT: That's me.

WH: Then leave your shock away from me.

WT: Yeah, just leave me behind and let the zombies eat me.

FG: This isn't zombies, this is real people.

WH: Maybe even Teabaggers.

WT: Fine, then let Sarah Palin eat me.

This went on for some time. This is exactly how the conversation went, too. I know because, like a freak, I was sitting at happy hour taking notes.

I guess the good news is that, since WH has already come up with a plan, I can sit back and relax knowing that our (possible zombie) apocalypse contingency is already covered. I can worry about things like living wills and life insurance. The only thing that troubles me a little is how we're going to get to Costco. We don't have a car. But I'm sure WH already has that covered.

*This may or may not be original material by the artists currently known as Wonderful Husband and Foodie Girl. All I know is I reported exactly as I heard it.

The Tortured Artist

2010-09-15T00:51:00.001+01:00

Wonderful Husband and I celebrated our second anniversary yesterday, which got me thinking about all the details of our wedding and the planning that went into it. I know some brides who've had some real ups and downs when it's come to wedding planning, and I'm sure we had our fair share, but those aren't particularly interesting (at least not for comedic purposes). What was interesting about our pre-wedding activities was the quest for my wedding band. If it hadn't happened to me, I would never have believed it.

It all started with my brilliant idea to use my great-grandmother's and grandmother's diamonds to have my ring made rather than going with a ready-made ring. I had inherited the diamonds from my grandmother years ago and really wanted the sentimental aspect for my ring.  I had a design in mind, and set about finding a reasonably priced jeweler who could do what I needed. A good friend of mine, the Other Bride, who was also getting married around the same time recommended her jeweler, with one caveat: "I have to warn you before you go there, if you decide to use her." An eyebrow was raised, but as a harried bride-to-be, I didn't feel like doing any additional research.

OB went on to say that the jeweler's shop, located in Old Town, Alexandria, was messy and that she's (as OB's now-husband put it), "a tortured artist." So I played phone tag with the Ring Lady and eventually set up an appointment to drop off my diamonds and talk about design. I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other end of that phone. No warning OB issued could have possibly prepared me for anything to come. One day after work, I headed over to the shop.  The door was locked, so I felt a little confused. I had confirmed the appointment with RL twice. I knocked and waited. Then I called, and she informed me she'd be right there. A rustle, shuffle, and bang later and the door opened about 12 inches and Ring Lady's face peered out. "Come on in, it's a little messy because I'm having my office remodeled." Cue the understatement of the year.

I turned sideways and sidled into the "store." What met my eyes next was unlike anything I've ever seen before or since. To my left, just inside the door was a row of glass cases full of jewelry. The first case was shattered, the jagged edge covered with duct tape, all the jewelry still intact inside with shards of glass at the bottom of the case. To my right was a small space, just large enough for one person to stand and a small ottoman where I was told to sit while she looked at my ring. Surrounding me, were more cases, several armoires, piles of papers, a broken chair, and trays and trays of jewelry. Real jewelry.  Diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, oh my!  (I'd like to pause here to mention that I live in great fear of becoming a hoarder. As I've mentioned before, I'm quite the packrat, and were it not for WH, I could easily descend into madness. So there was just a small part of me that got Ring Lady.)

While RL whipped out her loup and looked at my ring and diamonds, I picked pieces of jewelry up from the trays around the ottoman where I was sitting. I started to twitch. And itch. And worry that I had made a grave mistake giving this woman a tiny family heirloom, and I had yet to let her out of my sight. I reminded myself of OB's endorsement (and the endorsement of the friend who had referred OB to the RL). And to be fair, the jewelry strewn about the shop haphazardly was really beautifully done. So, I ignored the voice in my head and left the jewelry with RL. She assured me that it would be completed at least two weeks before the wedding. When she handed me the estimate, I nearly fainted. It was extremely reasonable. Way less expensive than anything else I'd seen, and being a budget-minded gal, I was all in. Off I went, wary, but able to check one more thing off my wedding checklist.

The real fun began when my mother offered up her original wedding band, from which I chose to use the white gold and diamond baguettes. I called RL about a month after the first visit to check on the progress and see if it would be possible to incorporate the elements from my mother's ring as well. "What a nice idea," she agreed. "I haven't started yet, so why don't you come by on the weekend and drop it off." This time, so as not to have this simply be a figment of my imagination, I recruited my friend the Policy Lawyer to join me, with the promise of lunch in Old Town afterwards.

I should probably mention that PL is probably one of the most well put-together people I know. She's always imaculately dressed, and her home is beautifully appointed. I had no idea how she might react to the hoarder's paradise I was about to subject her to. The routine was the same . . . RL didn't answer when I knocked. She let the phone ring and ring. Just as PL and I were about to leave, RL shuffled, rustled, and banged her way to the door. The twelve inches opened and I squeezed in first, as PL shimmied in behind me. The door barely shut, but as it did, a dictionary fell out of nowhere on PL's ankle, causing her to gasp. Ring Lady was absolutely unphased, "Oh, just kick that aside. I'm redoing my office and it's been a real nightmare." It was at this point when I heard a rustle from deep within. I peered around RL and saw a small Scottie dog nosing around the rubbish. (This has become a bone of contention between Policy Lawyer and myself, as she insists I was making up the dog, but I have witnesses . . . there was a dog in there somewhere.)

Ring Lady went "into the back" to get my other ring out of the safe while PL and I stood there. I almost didn't dare to look at my friend, for fear that a) she would pick up the dictionary that had fallen on her and beat me to death with it or b) a simple glance between us would result in near pee-in-your-pants giggles (as has been known to happen when the two of us are together). I could, however, hear her snorting behind me. "What is this place?" she whispered to me. I ignored her for the aforementioned reasons. Just then, RL shuffled back with a large envelope into which she dropped the second family heirloom. Again she assured me that the ring would be ready "about two weeks before the wedding," and sent me on my way.

We were no sooner out the door and back in the car than my friend shrieked, "Oh . . . my . . . god . . ." between gasps for air. She had dissolved into hysteria, laughing and (I think, maybe) crying a little as she marveled at what we had seen. ". . . and that dictionary just fell on me, but she didn't even care. What the hell!" It went on like that for some time -- until I mentioned the dog. This fact was met with a declaration of, "You are lying! A dog? A dog? There was no dog. A parrot, maybe, but a dog? No way!" And on we went. This occupied our conversation for the rest of the day --especially the possibility of the parrot. We really got some mileage out of that one. If there had been a parrot, it would surely have squawked, "Aaawk! Watch your step!" in a parrot voice. "I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you," I kept saying to her. But how, exactly, do you warn someone of a hoarder's jewelry store with falling dictionaries, Scottish terriers, and shattered display cases? You can't.

Flash forward to two weeks before the wedding. I'll bet you'll never guess what happened? The ring wasn't ready. I should've known when Ring Lady neglected to return my calls. Not the best time to ignore a bride-to-be. Up to this point, I had been a pretty good bride, but a bride who reserved the right to go "Bridezilla" if necessary. At last RL called me back, informing me that her "diamond setter" had been sick, but that the ring would absolutely be ready within a week. I tried to remain calm, after all, this woman did have family heirlooms (not to mention the fate of my wedding band) in her hands (or her safe, or under a stack of newspapers, or in her terrier's stomach . . . you get the drift). The ensuing week flew by with appointments for dress fittings, pedicures, and visiting family. Still no word from Ring Lady. But did I panic? Did I storm her mounds of mess? Nope. I remained calm, calling to check in. She informed me that the ring would be ready Thursday. Evening. As in two days before the wedding. One small hiccup and I would be buying my ring out of a gumball machine (reminiscent of the lucite sparkler they used in Four Weddings and a Funeral).

Fortunately, WH, his father, brother, and my father had to go to Old Town Thursday evening to pick up their tuxedos, so I implored my father to pick up the ring for me. After all, I had paid for it in advance (yeah, I know). When he called me to say that he'd gotten the ring, and that it was "really nice" he seemed strangely unphased. "That was one weird woman," he said. Of course, after having been called a liar, I asked him if he had seen a dog. "Yeah, a little Scottie." Vindication!

My wedding band
(apologies for the bad cellphone-photo quality*)

So, if you ever need a recommendation for a jeweler, I know a really good one that's definitely worth the price of admission just to see the place . . . but I can't promise she hasn't been institutionalized or, better yet, featured on a recent episode of Hoarders. Or maybe, just maybe, that "office renovation" has finally been finished and she's simply put all of her stuff away at last.

*My camera was recently ruined at a friend's wedding in a wine-in-the-purse related mishap.

The Seven CVS of the Apocalypse

2010-09-02T00:03:00.002+01:00

Have you ever gotten a wild hair and refused to let up? I had an experience like this a couple of weeks ago. I had run out of my makeup and needed to replenish it. Since I work right next to a CVS, the replishment should've been easy (yeah, I wear drug store makeup, what of it?). Only that CVS no longer carries Almay. Half a block later, I was at the other CVS near my office, only to learn that they were out of the makeup in question. That was in the morning. I went to my office, naked faced and on a mission. At lunch you will be mine, I vowed to the makeup.

After looking up the other CVS locations within several blocks of my office, it was discovered that there were four more besides the two I had already checked. Phew! We wouldn't want the people of downtown D.C. go without their prescriptions, haircare products, and pantyhose. My goal in sight, I set out for the first of the CVS Stores in question. I headed down K Street to what I hoped would be the best bet (as it was the closest), 15th and K. Even though it was a smaller store, I was hopeful, as they had appeared to have just gotten a shipment of various and sundry items. But no Almay. I wasn't worried. I still had three other stores to visit, and one was bound to have what I needed.

Heading in the opposite direction, I set out for 19th and K. Bigger than the previous store, but still lacking, I turned around and headed for the store that was at 20th and L. It was getting hot, and I was getting frustrated, but I had my goal in mind and refused to entertain ideas that my face would remain unpainted indefinitely. I soldiered on. The store at 20th and L was huge -- and yet still sadly did not have what I needed. They carried Almay, but were again sold out. With one more location to check and hope fading, I started to think maybe I'd alter my plan, spend my money on lunch at Chipotle instead, and become the kind of woman who doesn't wear makeup. As I hoofed the additional block and a half to the final CVS, I imagined myself as A Woman Who Doesn't Wear Makeup. It would shave valuable minutes off of my morning, allowing for extra sleep or a healthy breakfast. Without makeup, I'd be appreciated for my inner beauty. Yes, and I'd save money! This was starting to sound like a good plan . . . until I arrived at 20th and M and caught a glimpse of my un-made face in the window on the door. It wasn't pretty. It was haggard and desperately in need of bronzer.

Too bad the 20th and M CVS also did not have the product I needed. I stumbled back out into the midday heat, practically delirious from all the walking and the thought of remaining a plain Jane indefinitely. I walked back toward 19th and L, determined to find some kind of product that would suit my needs. I couldn't let it end this way. I wasn't going to go out this way. I altered my expectations (isn't that a metaphor for life?), and picked another product (and a lipgloss for good measure) and went to the checkout armed with a $5 coupon (because at least I was going to save some money on the deal). Lo and behold, the universe was smiling (or at least smirking) on me that day . . . and with the coupon and another discount, the lipgloss was free! Whatever, it sounds good, but the universe owed me that lipgloss after the Great Bronzer Relay of 2010. I grudgingly took my wares and headed back to the office.

Later that day, WH and I met up with the Gay Lawyer and his partner, the Gay Historian, for happy hour drinks at Ceiba (I highly recommend the empanadas and samosas). I was regaling the group with my tale of woe, only to have WH inform me that, "there's a CVS right next door, you know." What? Could it be? Was there another chance to get what I really needed? Was the universe going to provide after all? GL and I got the same twinkle in our eye and sprinted for the door. We giggled like children as we speed walked to the final CVS of the journey -- only to be let down again.

See those blank spots?
That's where the makeup would be, if they had it in stock.
Photo courtesy of Gay Lawyer

Defeated, we returned to Ceiba to finish our cocktails. Lamenting the missing makeup, I drowned my poorly made face in a Dark and Stormy. Fortunately, if you can't have a perfectly made face, you can instead find good friends with whom to share a cocktail (or few). And besides, let's face it, after a few cocktails nobody looks like they've got any make up on anyway, so it all evens out in the end. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

A Dark and Smelly Night

2010-09-01T00:51:00.001+01:00

Wonderful Husband and I went to the beach this past weekend with Party On and The Funny Man (does that sort of remind you of Chico and the Man?). Anyone familiar with the drive from D.C. to Rehoboth knows that it's often a treat for the senses. For the uninitiated, you drive past a lot of chicken farms and through rural landscapes. It's not beyond the pale to smell some form of stink (often lingering) as you drive down the two-lane roads.

This is as good a time as any to point out that Party On is averse to any mention of poop (she also does not tolerate "fart" or "douchebag"). And while I'm not particularly an embracer of the scatalogical, it does make it difficult to make certain allusions from time to time. (On a side note, I will say I have my doubts about her aversion. This is the same woman who once passed around a photo of her cat's dingleberry during happy hour, so grossing out the Gay Lawyer, that he refused to open picture messages from her for months after.) So you can imagine the dismay when, as we were driving down Route 404, we were hit with what might be one of the foulest stenches in recent memory. But first we encountered skunk stink (or at least I was told we did . . . I was stuffed up from a cold/bronchitis, so I couldn't smell anything), perhaps as an omen of what lie ahead.

Just as everyone was recovering from the skunk stink, we hit what WH referred to as "a rainbow of stink." It started out fairly mild (from what I'm told), and grew as we drove deeper into what I can only imagine was a cloud of green steam. Party On was beside herself. To his credit, TFM was able to maintain control of the car as we barrelled down the road, deeper and deeper into the smell. As Party On contorted herself in the front seat, moaning from the horror of it all, WH shifted into comic mode. He declared that the growing smell was "like bad wine tasting, it starts out weaker and grows stronger as you go on." It was about this time that my sinuses opened up (thanks for nothing, Mucinex!) and the smell hit me too. And it was as bad as they said. My own take on it was that it smelled like we were hauling a dead body in 100-degree heat after it had been sitting in the trunk for six days. It was seriously gag-worthy.

Party On had her head stuffed inside her shirt. WH's eyes were watering. And I was wishing for my cold to return with a vengeance. All the while, TFM kept on driving (probably in the hopes that the faster he went, the faster we'd exit the danger zone). WH declared, "Jesus! If you gave a cow three bottles of tequila this is the smell you would get!" And on we drove. He then announced, "If anyone has to fart, now would be the time. Nobody will be able to tell and blame you for it." Party On writhed and wretched up front. What felt like 20 minutes was probably closer to seven. It was bad. And poor Party On had to listen to the rest of us discussing poop for at least the ensuing half hour (and the rest of the weekend).

We went into the dark that night, my friends, and came out different on the other side. We smelled the "spectrum" (as WH put it) of stink and miraculously survived. But perhaps the most telling was that skunk we met at the outset. WH observed, "That skunk came through that green cloud and died on the other side to warn us of what was ahead. We just didn't listen." No, we didn't.

Trendy Tricked Out Trucks

2010-08-20T00:40:00.001+01:00

What can I say? I like a little alliteration (hey, look at that, I did it again). I also like a trend. Not all trends, though. I mean, I haven't jumped on the Bieber bandwagon, I don't watch any of the Real Housewives shows, and I still don't have an iPhone. But one trend I have latched onto with both of my hands (and my teeth) is the food truck. D.C. has been innundated with them this summer, and I couldn't be happier. We've been introduced to the pizza truck, a curry truck, a "global cuisine" truck, and even a cupcake truck (talk about double dipping in the trend pool -- the only thing trendier than a food truck in D.C. is a cupcake -- heck, there's even a show about it). And so, while I usually leave the food blogging to my friends over at I Flip For Food (which you should be reading for great recipes and restaurant reviews, by the way), I couldn't resist weighing in on this growing trend.

Farragut Square, near my office, is a prime location for the trucks to park during lunch. According to the food truck tracker (yeah, there's an app for that--or there isn't--I don't know, I said I don't have an iPhone), D.C. currently has 13 food trucks with five more on the way. Today may have been the climax of the food truck fun, with the debut of the lobster truck. Yeah, you read that right, lobster. From a truck. Lest you think the truck is Uncle Bubba's cowboy Cadillac, let me paint a picture for you . . . the lobster truck has an LCD TV and soda fountain mounted on the side of it and it takes credit card payment via iPad. It's one helluva vehicle. (To be fair, the pizza truck has an oven inside, ensuring fresh pizza at a moment's notice. These are not your father's Oldsmobile.)

For weeks, the city (or at least Twitter and the blogosphere) has been abuzz with anticipation of the arrival of the lobster truck. And I'll be the first to admit I bought into the hype. Last Friday was supposed to be the kickoff, but glitches kept it off the road (and out of our tummies!). Then we had a near miss on Tuesday, when the truck's Twitter feed declared that they were rolling out only to be stymied by something or other. Yes, the lobster truck punked us that day and I went sadly back to my desk, lobster-less, to eat a Lean Cuisine. Yesterday's monsoon did not make for optimal lobster weather, so today was the big day! By 11:30, the line was down the block. I got a text from my sister saying, "They're selling lobster out of a truck and there are all these people in line." Clearly she had not gotten the memo.

Photo courtesy of @davecarson

I had already made plans to eat at 1:00, so when I heard about the lobster rush, I was worried they might run out before I was served. A coworker headed over to get in line around noon. Another friend and I went out to join him at 1:00 and the line was still nearly a block long, but he had made a little headway. Just as we got there, some industrius (read greedy) soul decided to scalp her lobster roll for $20. Right next to the truck. There's one in every crowd, right? Talk about chutzpah. Fortunately, the hungry mob waiting in line did not pounce on her and beat her to death with her own shoes (as much as we all may have wanted to), and she left with her lobster.

Finally it was our turn. Local time, 1:30. I was handed my fresh lobster roll, with pickle, chips, and soda (to their credit, the truck folks threw in the soda and chips for free--normally an extra $3--as a thanks for everyone's patience). It looked good, if a little small -- or maybe that was the hunger talking. Coworker, friend, and I made our way past the line of envious lobster seekers to a bench in the square to sample the sandwiches. One bite and we all agreed that they were good, but we weren't sure they were quite worth an hour and a half wait (or $15). On the positive side, they didn't scrimp on the lobster -- the roll was full of huge chunks. And after further thought, I can say definitively, the sandwich is at least as good as something you can get from any sandwich shop in general proximity to Farragut Square (except for the Greek Deli). For me, at least half the fun was the sweet anticipation and weeks of hype. Even my slight panic as I heard of the line growing around the corner was enjoyable for me. It's all part of "the thing."

As far as food trucks go (heck, as far as any sandwich shop goes, too), this was a success of epic proportions (400 lobster rolls were sold today!), and I can't help but think that today's climax leaves a sad denouement for the five trucks that have yet to debut. But to me, the climax occurred weeks ago when I tried the global food truck, Sauca. On par with street food from other countries (and as good as food you'd get in a sit-down restaurant), this innovative sandwich truck gets two thumbs up from me (try the pork banh mi -- you won't be disappointed).

So while I haven't embraced the cupcake craze (yay, alliteration!) that has taken the city by storm, I can get on board the food truck trend. And if you're looking for lunch in all the wrong places, may I suggest checking the truck tracker or meeting me in Farragut Square for some truly innovative meals on wheels? Happy lunching!

Listen to Your Inner Voice

2010-08-18T02:16:00.002+01:00

I've been having a bout with a recurring stiff neck, so I was telling WH that I probably needed to go back to yoga. He agreed that it would probably make me feel better, but he also reminded me of a little something he likes to call "The Seven Steps to Get Deleted From My Cell Phone." Just one of these things on its own won't get a person deleted, it's a process that builds on each step, so one must check all seven boxes in order to be deleted. Let's examine them for a moment, shall we (in his words):

Start taking yoga.
After taking yoga for a while, a regular plastic yoga mat will not do. You have to order one from India made out of natural fibers with a handmade mat carrier.
Then become a vegetarian.
After that, start talking about how much better you feel now that you've given up meat.
Start talking with your "inner voice" and blinking slower than normal people. [This one was my particular favorite, as he demonstrated the "inner voice" as being soft and calm and sort of whispery, with the slow blink.]
When you catch me eating a burger, you look at me with disgust and say, "Meat is murder!" and instead invite me to lunch at an Indian buffet.
Invite me to join you. I'm all for athletics, I love sports and a healthy lifestyle, but don't invite me. I respect your right to do all this stuff, but I do not like to be invited and I don't like to join!

Image courtesy of istolethetv via Flickr.

So you can imagine my concern about starting yoga again. For the record, we don't know any people like this (I'm not sure there even are any people like this), so I'm not sure where this graphic portrait comes from. And I'm pretty sure my love of bacon cheeseburgers will save me. That and the fact that my inner voice is that of a loudmouthed Italian.

Crisis Communications

2010-08-12T03:00:00.002+01:00

No one would ever accuse anyone in my family of being cool under pressure. We are a group that would crack under the stress of a flat tire, leaky pipe, or broken glass. We are the family that would, quite literally, cry over spilt milk. So when we are faced with a real crisis, we crack like an egg underfoot.

Little Sister is known for her hospital visits. The girl loves the emergency room (don't we all?). It's been quite frequent (though not recently) that she would end up in the hospital for a three-day stay after becoming dehydrated. When asked, as she was being hooked up to an I.V., "Why didn't you just drink some water?" she would answer, "I forgot."

One time, when my father fell extremely, critically ill in a hotel on a trip to West Virginia (during which he declared, "Please don't let me die in West Virginia!"), my mother, out of her mind with worry, grabbed an innocent bystander who had come to help by the lapels and shrieked in his face, "Help him! Help him!" All this was while my sister ran up and down the hall screaming like a fire engine.

Lest you think I'm a cool cucumber, there was another time, when I was about 15 and my mother was trimming hedges with one of those toothy trimmers that looks a bit like a crocodile, when, in an attempt to keep the cord from getting shredded, she sliced off the end of her finger. I was sitting on the patio reading a book at the time and as soon as I saw the blood and heard the delcaration, "I think I cut my finger off," I snapped into action. I got on the phone with 911 and started screaming for my father. Meantime, my mother insisted that she did not need an ambulance and for me to get off the phone. Calm as long as I had a job, once I hung up with 911, I lost my cool. Without anything to occupy my panic, I ran through the house and then into the back yard screaming bloody murder. It was like Friday the 13th, but without Kevin Bacon (yeah, he was in that). I can still remember my father driving away to the hospital as I hyperventilated and sobbed in the kitchen. Good thing she hadn't really cut off her finger, just nicked the tip of it. (And they left me at home in charge of my sister--or maybe she in charge of me.)

Another time, LS and I were in a car accident just before Christmas. I was driving and she was in the passenger seat when some kid ran a stop sign and plowed into the side of my Jeep. Neither of us killed, I jumped out of the car and started screaming at the kid who hit us. That's when my sister declared, "I can't feel my legs." The infinite voice of reason, I snatched the kid's cell phone and screamed in his face, "You better have a good lawyer because you paralyzed my sister," as I called 911. Fortunately she'd just hyperventilated, which had caused numbness in her extremities. Either way, we got a ride in an ambulance and a visit to the emergency room (score!).

And while I've highlighted my family's shortcomings in the art of remaining zen, I definitely win the prize (yeah, it gets worse than the finger and car accident stories). In fact, there's one story that has gone down in history as a family classic. We were vacationing in Mexico one summer when my mother stepped in a drainage ditch on the grounds of our hotel and twisted her ankle. She gasped, moaned, and declared, "I think I broke my ankle," while my father, sister, and I looked on. Always one to snap into action (lest I dissolve into panic), I ran to the front desk of the hotel. "My mom broke her ankle, I need help," I declared as I grabbed a bellman and ran back to the scene of the crime. I returned to see my mother hobbling down the path, leaning on my dad and my family looking at me like I was from space as I ran back with the (also running) bellman. My mother was furious (and amused). After convincing the very concerned bellman that she was okay, he finally went back to the front desk. And thus the merciless ribbing began. Nearly 20 years later, and my family still tells me to go "get the bellman" when someone skins a knee or breaks a nail.

So, fine, I'm not all that great in the face of a crisis. I get weak at the sight of blood. I scream at innocent (or not so innocent) bystanders. I might be too quick to call 911. And even though I've had first aid training from the time I was in fifth grade, I still dissolve into a puddle at the first sign of emergency. I can scream louder and panic better than anyone you ever want to meet. Sure, this may not put me in the running for "Best Under Pressure," but when the stakes are high, you can always count on me to call a bellman.

Midday Misadventures

2010-08-10T22:44:00.001+01:00

As I've said before, riding the bus during the off hours is an unparalleled treat. I'm not sure why that is, but I had a fun ride yesterday afternoon. It started before I even got on the bus, as a matter of fact. I was waiting on the bus stop when a generic looking man (slacks, button down, gray hair, about 55) walked up to the bus stop and, after standing there for a few minutes, declared very loudly to no one in particular, "Don't forget, beer gives you charisma!" He then walked away. I exchanged a puzzled look with the other woman on the bus stop and went back to my magazine.

Then the 42 arrived and the real adventure began. The driver, a woman, was the most cheerful I've ever experienced (though I'm pretty sure her charisma wasn't due to beer consumption). She was giggling and chatting with passengers as they got on at each stop. At one point, a young woman crossed the street against the light in front of the bus. Our driver said, with a giggle, "Outta my way, Barbie!" before carefully passing the intersection. This was about the same time that a woman with a gigantic backpack (with her bike helmet attached to it) swung into the seat next to me, whacking my knee with the helmet in the process -- without apologizing. I was sitting there fuming for a bit, but the cheeriness of the driver was contagious.

In fact, the best part of all was her singing. As passengers were disembarking, she would sing, "Thank you, thank you, thank you for riding . . . Metro!" It was really endearing. And it was hard not to smile. It got me thinking, what if we had cheerful, smiling (singing even) drivers driving the bus and train every day. What a difference that might make in the city. Can you imagine it? Passengers smiling at each other, saying thank you, apologizing for stepping on your foot or slamming your knee with their bike helmet, or maybe even just not scowling unconsciously as they sit on the bus. It would be a whole other kind of city.

But as I got off the bus, the chorus of the "Thank You" song echoing in my head, I realized that even if we had cheery drivers who sang and smiled, someone would find something to complain about. That was even easier to imagine . . . can you hear them? "I had this awful driver today who sang the 'Thank You' song all out of key so badly my ears were bleeding," or "My dog just died, and that driver had the nerve to smile at me . . . the outrage!" And so I realized that, the same way the 100-degree heat makes us appreciate the air conditioning, the surly drivers and rude passengers make us appreciate the cheerful ones all the more. Maybe they can't all be delightful all the time, but for my part, I'm going to try to do better and not let the surly sour my mood, but don't expect to catch me singing the "Thank You" song any time soon.

The REAL Real Housewives of D.C.

2010-08-06T04:17:00.003+01:00

I don't actually know any of the "Real Housewives of D.C." In fact, nobody I know knows any of these purported "real" women. This ridiculous program, which premiered tonight, claims to highlight a unique set of people indiginous to our city. But I know real housewives. I was raised by one.

This moniker, housewife, has a lot of connotations to it. They are simple, they are shallow, they are desperate. Except that they aren't. In fact, I find myself continually disgusted by the Bravo version of what a housewife is. This definition has reduced something honorable, something amazing, to a trite, ridiculous caricature. If we are to believe what Bravo is feeding us, via D.C. or N.J. or Atlanta or the O.C., a "housewife" is a vapid, empty, shrew whose only concern is where she might find her next pair of Jimmy Choos or blonde pool boy. But my version, the real real version of a housewife is so much more than that.

The real housewives of D.C. are the women I was raised by, grew up with, and spend time with by choice. My mother, who is one of the most vibrant women I know, is a housewife. She chose, during the height of feminism in the 1970s, to give up a very lucrative career to stay home and raise my sister and me simply because she cared about the kind of women we would become. She spent time with us, playing house, teaching us to read, making us lunch, driving us to school, and shopping at Sears. She did not spend her time at high-end salons, shopping at Neiman's, and looking for the next big party. She is a real woman, like many real women across the country. She made a career of being involved in my sister's and my education, via the PTA and the Board of Education, because she so believed in the people who were teaching us to be a part of society, to be better people.

My mother isn't the only one. I have long since entered the time where my friends have become wives and mothers. And we have chosen the paths of our mothers -- as vast and varied as that is -- to work and live and give and raise children in ways that will bring about a generation that is better than our own. Because that is our life's work. One of my friends is an attorney who had an adorable baby last year. She has continued to work while staying devoted to her husband and child. She does not crash White House parties or pretend she is a polo heiress. She is a brillant attorney and a committed and amazing mother. She has demonstrated strength like I have never seen.

And I am a housewife of D.C. So, I'm sorry, Bravo, but a housewife of D.C. is not some empty, useless bobblehead who sits at home waiting for the next big sale in Georgetown. I work 40+ hours a week, I come home and make dinner, I meet my friends for fun after work, and I like to think that I make the world a better place each day that I'm here. I don't make a million dollars. I don't shop in Chevy Chase. And the only pair of Manolo Blahniks I have, I bought at Filene's on a super duper discount (no, really, super duper!).

The one thing that we all have in common is that we are thinking, feeling, real-life women who are much more than the caricature that is presented on prime time television. So, when you think of the Real Housewives of D.C., please, think about who we really are and don't let the b.s. that makes T.V. ratings dictate your vision of what a housewife is. We are stay-at-home moms, we are working moms, we are childless women, and we are women who have empty nests. We are U.S. Senators, Supreme Court Justices, we work at CVS, and we drive your bus. We are women who are proud of who we are. But the one thing we are not is empty, shallow, party crashers who have nothing but a falsified cheerleading record to offer. We are the real (housewife) thing!

Let's Go Surfing Now . . .

2010-08-05T01:20:00.001+01:00

I almost killed someone on the bus today. No, it was not some grand case of bus rage. I was aisle surfing when, during a sudden stop, I went flying into a lady seated near me. It was early, I hadn't had my Diet Coke rush yet, I was hauling my usual 47-pounds of miscellaneous purse-stuffs, and I foolishly took my hand off the pole to scratch a mosquito bite on my elbow. In short, it was a perfect storm for a near-miss bus-icide. I nearly knocked my fellow passenger out with my bag before landing in her lap. Luckily, I'm agile like a cat!

I would say I go aisle surfing at least once a day. For the uninitiated, aisle surfing is when you're stuck standing in the aisle of the bus or train. You can hang on to one of the poles for dear life as the bus careens around corners, but you'd darn well better brace your feet too. This usually involves standing with your feet at least shoulder-width apart (wider if there's room and you can claim the space). I can't speak for others, but I always wear sensible shoes during my commute for exactly this reason. Tottering in the aisle is hard enough in flat shoes, but add a pair of four-inch spike heels and your balance ratio is significantly decreased (it's simple physics--I think, I never took physics because I was a literature major).

And speaking of four-inch heels, I always marvel at those women who wear their fancy shoes for the commute. Besides the fact that it's really quite treacherous to ride the bus or train in hot shoes, walking the city sidewalks can really do a number on a pair of heels. I've walked the tips off of more heels than I care to count going to and from work. It can get expensive having those little rubber tips replaced, which is why I don't anymore. But at least I can walk in them. Have you ever seen that poor soul who just can't manage a pair of heels, try as she might? This woman teeters around, head flung forward, rear stuck back, stomping heavily down the street with her ankles wobbling, her equilibirum thrown all off by the height of her shoes. You know this woman, the one who looks like a stork on crack.

Now, put the awkward Stork Woman in the aisle of the bus and you've got a recipe for disaster. Trust me, I know. I've seen this poor lady attempting to aisle surf at least once a week. And at least half of the time she ends up either taking someone out with her 24-pound handbag or sliding down the aisle into another passenger. I'm not saying that one shouldn't wear heels during her commute, in fact, I say more power to you if you can manage it. But, ladies, can we at least concede that there are a good portion of us who really should just wear a sensible shoe (and please take note, a sensible shoe does not include any of the following with your skirt suit: sneakers, those weird monkey shoes with toes, or espadrilles--and yes, I did recently see some sad woman wearing espadrilles on the bus)?

Photo by Dru Bloomfield via Flickr

To sum up, when surfing in the aisles, sturdy yourself with a wide stance (if possible). Hold onto the pole (and not your BlackBerry, iPod, Kindle, mosquito bite). Wear sensible shoes (no monkey toes, please). And for the love of all that is good and holy, watch where you're swinging that small piece of luggage that we all insist on lugging to and from work each day. Commuting's dangerous enough without the harm we can do to ourselves. Surf's up!

The Question is . . .

2010-08-01T03:54:00.002+01:00

I gave an interview recently, which got me thinking about an interview my grandmother did a few years before she died. She'd had knee replacement surgery and the local paper in Rehoboth, where she and my grandfather had retired, wanted to do a profile of her. A little background information: my grandmother had to be one of the most hilarious individuals I've ever met, whether she was trying to be or not. She loved cocktails (Beefeater martini, two olives, please), she could give TMZ a run for its money when it came to the collection and distribution of gossip, and she never left the house without lipstick. Several years before the infamous interview, she'd had major back surgery and mostly used a walker to get around. Not that that stopped her from much of anything, especially a good happy hour.

As long as I can remember, she and my grandfather went bowling. They loved it and even played in a league. But other than that, she wasn't particularly athletic. So you can imagine our surprise when the interview was published and it noted that "up until a few years ago, she even played tennis." What? Tennis? This one gaffe was the source of merciless teasing of my grandmother by my mother, my sister, and me. We just couldn't let her get away with that kind of tall tale. Far as anyone in the family knew, she hadn't played tennis in more than 20 years. And this story has gone down in family lore, never to be forgotten.

The reason this story has been on my mind lately is because, as I was giving my own interview, I felt a tremendous amount of pressure to be interesting. You never know who is going to be reading (and judging), and that's a heavy burden. I answered the questions as thoughtfully as I could, but in the back of my head there was that little voice saying, "You're just not that cool." And truthfully, I'm probably not. The worst part of the interview, for me, was when the reporter asked, "What local organizations are you involved?" Blank. Nothing. This was my grandmother moment. It would have been really interesting to say, "Well, I volunteer with Friends of the National Zoo fostering baby golden lion tamarins until they're weaned," or "I volunteer at a soup kitchen every Thursday cooking gourmet meals and I recently won an award for outstanding community service." But there was nothing I could say. Instead of making something up, I decided to acknowledge my own shortcomings. I told the reporter that I am, literally, not involved in anything. Oh, the shame! (Fortunately, she didn't print that part of the story. Though I guess I just put it out there for the world to read now, haven't I?)

The good news is that doing the interview was a process of self-discovery. I mean, now that I know I'm not involved in anything, a light has been shined on my fatal flaw. The only thing left to do is find some way to reach out to my community and become a player. I wasn't sure how . . . and then it hit me. Tennis. I'll teach tennis to disadvantaged youth. What better tribute to my grandmother? Just one problem: I have to learn how to play first.

Long May You Run

2010-07-29T01:44:00.005+01:00

Although these changes have come, with your chrome heart shining, in the sun, long may you run . . .

-Neil Young "Long May You Run"

I consider myself quite the sentimental fool. All my life, I've been attached to inanimate objects. My father loves to remind me of how I cried when they sold the family's old Ford Pinto. I was four. I'll be the first to admit that I hang on to things long past their usefulness simply because they hold good memories for me. Unfortunately for me (and maybe even moreso for WH), this leads to packrat tendencies that make me live in fear of becoming a hoarder -- but that's another story for another day.

I had a dream earlier this week about my first car, Flash. Yes, my car had a name. Not only did she have a name, but she had a personality. Flash was a 1983 Mustang GLX 5.0 red convertible -- told ya, personality -- a 16-year-old girl's dream car. And I loved that car like it was a person. In fact, one time after college, I was meeting a friend for lunch and it turned out that our waiter went to high school with me. He said, "Oh, I think we went to high school together. I recognized your car when you pulled up outside. Awesome." Everybody loved that car.

Flash's Twin
Photo via Top Shelf Reps

The first time I saw her, she was sitting in the driveway next to a brown, hardtop boring-looking Mustang that was for sale. It was love at first sight. But it was the brown car that my parents and I had come to look at. After talking to the owner, we learned that he was losing his license (too many speeding tickets) and that he might be persuaded to sell the red one. I elbowed my father (spoiled!). A little wrangling, including a phone call after we had come home to offer the seller even more money, and Flash was mine.

Small problem -- Flash was a stick shift and I had only learned manual. This resulted in my father very patiently trying to teach me to drive her . . . including one rather scary incident when I stalled out in the middle of a major intersection as the light changed. I hated her that day, but we quickly made up and the real love affair began. Flash made an impression on everyone who met her. I often had people check her out and even offer to buy her, but she wasn't for sale. She was nearly ten when I got her, so she broke down often those first few years and we got to know the mechanic pretty well. A car guy to the core, Gary loved Flash almost as much as I did.

Flash shuttled me back and forth to school in Ohio while I was in college, and even went on road trips to New York, New Haven, Virginia Beach, Rehoboth, Indianapolis, and even crossed the Mississippi to take a friend and me to St. Louis (also another fantastic story for another time). She was mostly reliable, but could also be tempermental, as most divas are. One time, when I was trying to get home for Christmas and a snow storm hit, I decided that Flash and I could "outrun" the storm and get on the road in advance of it. Yeah, not so much. Rear wheel drive and racing tires were no match for the snow, so I quickly ended up on the side of Interstate 70 just outside of town. Facing certain death in freezing temperatures, I figured at least Flash and I were together. Fortunately a state trooper arrived and called a tow truck to take me back to the sorority house (one of many rides she took on the back of a tow truck, I might add). The snow having hit pretty hard by this point, the driver was unable to see the road and ended up cutting across the quad rather than taking the road. I pulled up to the sorority house with Flash on the back of the truck to cheers and photographs from my friends. Long story even longer, I didn't make it home for another three days.

When she finally sputtered her last sputter, she had nearly 250,000 miles on her. She died on the way back from a trip to the beach. And when we had her towed to Gary, I think he may have been almost as broken up about it as I was. Rebuilding her engine would've cost thousands, so we all agreed it was time to let her go. Initially we were just going to donate her, which for some reason caused me more grief than I could stand, but one of the mechanics who worked with Gary asked me what we were going to do with her, explaining that he had a 10-year old son with whom he'd like to rebuild her. It was bittersweet, but I gave her to a good home. Gary took her steering wheel off for me, which I still have somewhere (I told you, packrat).

I know, it's probably silly for me to talk this way about a car. But, you see, Flash was more than just a car to me. She was all of those memories and more: she was the first way I had as a teenager to get away on my own when I had brooding to do; she was a connection to my friends cruising on a Friday night; she was a conversation piece with strangers; and for seven years, she was part of my identity. Maybe it is silly, but that car was not only with me as I was growing up, but helped me to grow up. And while I don't know if she ever got a second life, I like to think of her with her chrome heart shining in the sun. Long may you run, Flash, long may you run.

Symptom Symphony

2010-07-25T02:03:00.001+01:00

Last night WH and I were meeting our friends Party On and The Funny Man for dinner downtown. The Funny Man was coming on Metro, which is always a delight on a nearly-100 degree Friday evening. Party On arrived first, so we enjoyed some cocktails while we waited. TFM sent a text shortly thereafter, saying "It smells like dirty sneaker ass in a basement in here," and we knew it wasn't going well on Metro.

About 20 minutes later TFM arrived with news of a sick passenger and an offloading train. This got us talking about the infamous Sick Passenger. At least once a week this guy gums up the works by getting sick on the train. As a result, the train is offloaded or held up at the station, keeping other trains backed up in the system. This begs the question, who exactly is the Sick Passenger? We started hypothesizing and came up with several ideas.

Maybe SP had the flu. Perhaps he was throwing up all over the car, requiring an offload and clean up. This would certainly explain some of the smells emanating from the trains. Or did he have a nagging, hacking cough that was simply so annoying everyone chose a mass exodus, creating a bottleneck, and causing a delay? We really couldn't be sure. I had visions of some poor guy clutching his heart and writhing around in the middle of the car somewhere underground. But how would we, the Metro riders who see oddities every time we get on the train, know the difference between a random crazy and someone in real distress?

The possibilities for what might cause the Sick Passenger offload/delay are really endless. For instance, maybe SP has ebola or a similar life threatening, highly contagious disease requiring immediate attention from medical personal. Can't you just envision a scene like something out of Outbreak, with big yellow biohazard suits? It's not so farfetched, really. There have been times when I wished I had a biohazard suit while riding the train. Offloading the train and evacuating passengers would actually make sense in this instance . . . but I had yet to hear about such a scene, or even see pictures of it on the news, so we figured this probably wasn't the case either.

More importantly, why, if you were feeling sick, would you even attempt to get on Metro (something sure to make you sicker)? Think about it . . . if you were feeling a little barfy, would the first thing you think to do be get on a hot, sticky, smelly, crowded Metro train? Feeling a little numbness in your left arm and some shortness of breath? How about a ride to Metro Center! Sweating, achy, feverish? It might just be the lack of AC on the train . . . or it could be a fever. Why not take a ride on the Red Line and find out? Deep in the throes of the mother of all hangovers? The Orange Line'll cure what ails ya.

I really can't begin to speculate what might motivate a sick someone to get on the train, but what I can say is that there are all kinds of people with all kinds of weird ailments and oddities in the Metro system every day. It's the way the people in our city get around, even when they're not feeling so great. But, if I may, could we please, in the interest of speeding things up, try and use a little common sense in the future? If you're presenting with dry mouth, fever, nausea, and the shakes, take a cab.

Hog Calling

2010-07-20T02:47:00.000+01:00

Today's Washington Post had an great article about a public transportation phenomenon that we all know and loathe: the seat hog. These delightful individuals "place purses, briefcases, feet or wet umbrellas on seats next to them in jammed trains" and buses, I might add. Their sense of entitlement knows no bounds. I mean, sure, your backpack is really tired after a long day of hauling around your stuff, and that old lady standing in the aisle is probably going to die soon anyway, so go ahead, take that extra seat.

The Post article also alludes to the fact that civility has gone the way of the air conditioned Metro car. As George Costanza would say, "We're living in a society!" So why aren't we acting like it? I'll be the first to admit that I'd rather not sit squished up against another rider, particularly in these 90+ degree days. But odds are pretty good that it's not fun for them either. What's the solution? We've got to call people on it. You can do it with a smile, a polite word. Or, if that doesn't work, why not stoop to ridiculous and give a little call of "Sooooeeeey!" I bet that'd get the asses (or hogs, as it were) out of their seats. And if you do use the hog call to get a seat, please get video.

The article also pointed out that some people are a little to timid to say, "Excuse me, can I sit there?" This fascinates me. As a city girl through and through, I can't imagine standing idly by, swaying in the aisle while there's an empty seat. Sure, you might get the stinkeye from the guy who has to move his newspaper or the lady who's purse was having a rest, but who cares? You're not there to make friends . . . you're there to get from point A to point B. It's public transportation . . . that seat is every bit as much yours as it is anyone else's. Are these the same people who wait quietly behind the people who stand on the left of the escalator, hoping that maybe they'll get a clue by osmosis and move to the right? To those timid few, I say buck up! Grow a pair . . . and if that doesn't work, there's always the hog call method of seat selection.

Quake Quazy

2010-07-16T21:48:00.000+01:00

We had an earthquake in D.C. today (well, Rockville, actually, but I sure felt it at my house). Before you get all, "This is just a hiccup to Californians" on me, let's stop and think for a minute. I've lived here the bulk of my 30+ years and I've never felt an earthquake. It was the highest "magnitude" (what ever happened to the Richter Scale?) quake since they started measuring them in 1979. And earthquakes just don't happen here. This is news.

I was shaken awake at 5:04 a.m. I don't know why or how I knew, but I was certain it was an earthquake. Then I remembered that earthquakes just don't happen here and thought I was probably crazy. I waited to hear if there were sirens (there weren't) or if I could hear any movement from any of my neighbors (I couldn't) so I did what any rational person would do . . . I checked Twitter. And thankfully, my tweeps let me know that I was not crazy, that they had been shaken too. Then I turned on the news and the real fun began.

Channel 7's resident nutbag, Traffic Lady Lisa Baden was reporting that she had, "at least 50 calls already this morning about a possible earthquake!" This caused mild mannered Alison Starling and Weather Dude Adam Caskey to practically plotz. Within minutes, they had confirmation from the U.S. Geological Survey that there had, in fact, been a magnitude (their word, not mine) 3.6 earthquake this morning, and identifying the "epicenter" (again, their word) of the quake as 10 miles north of Rockville (that's Germantown to you). You would have thought it was the Big One and we were all about to fall into the ocean. I awaited warnings of "aftershocks" and evacuations. They never came. My friend the Policy Lawyer even joked on her Facebook page that "the tsunami warning has been lifted."

At that point, they started taking calls from local "witnesses" to get their experiences. For some reason, all of the callers were from West Virginia [insert joke here]. I am still sort of confused as to why this was (and how did they get the number for Channel 7 anyway?). The first guy talked about how his whole trailer (of course) shook during the quake. Always astute Alison asked, "Did you think it was an earthquake?" And Trailer Man said he didn't. And the calls kept coming in. They all said basically the same thing . . . they were awakened by shaking and didn't know what it was. One lady even commented that her dog didn't know what it was either. I hope someone filled him in.

I realize that I said earlier that, yes, this is news, however it did not merit extending the newscast (as Channel 7 did, interrupting my beloved Good Morning America). I mean, sure, some of us felt it, others of us slept through it. It merited a mention on the morning news, and I'll even agree the "breaking news" banner across the screen. Heck, I even think it merited water cooler chit chat and happy hour banter, but the extensive coverage paid to a natural disaster of this magnitude (my word) was way out of proportion.

Once I had confirmed it was a quake and I wasn't in fact quazy, er, crazy, I was content watching the news for a bit and was ready to go back to sleep. It was kind of cool, and I was glad I had woken up for it and that it wasn't more serious than it was. But the way this morning's seismic event (also their words) was exaggerated, I was preparing for the inevitable telethon. So if you hear of anyone planning one, will you please let Larry King know that I'm ready to tell my story?

Umbrella Karma

2010-07-10T21:38:00.004+01:00

This morning's rain had me thinking about an umbrella. This is a phenomenon of which we are all aware, yet rarely pay attention to. Most of us have lost an umbrella at least once (and probably more than) in our lives. But I'd be willing to bet we've all also "found" an umbrella at least once, too. And my educated guess is that there are very few of us who have actually purchased an umbrella (more than once, anyway).

WH and I went down the street to Circa to watch the World Cup game and have a little lunch (fantastic roast beef sandwich, by the way). I toted an umbrella with me, unsure if the day's weather would hold or not. We were walking back home under the partly cloudy sky as I realized that I had left my umbrella next to my chair. I chalked it up to that grand phenomenon, releasing it into the world secure in the knowledge that one would come back to me at some point.

I have no qualms about picking up an umbrella from the bar at the end of the night when the pile by the door is larger than the number of the people. Someone else has released his umbrella to the greater good. I once picked up a hot pink umbrella after a football game in high school that lasted me through college. Another time I had this polka dotted umbrella that I literally could not lose. It kept coming back to me like an umbrella-boomerang.

I mentioned this to WH this afternoon as we were walking home and he said this:

WH: Stealing is wrong, unless it's an umbrella.

WT: I agree.

WH: What would Jesus do? He would take one with him on the way out. Trust me. Washing that hair is a bitch.

WT: Really.

WH: I mean, you've seen the pictures of Jesus...that hair is not easy to take care of. And come to think about it, it's not just Jesus' way, it's the Buddhist way too.

WT: Oh.

WH: It's karma. You leave your umbrella in a cab, you leave it in a restaurant and somebody else will take it. It's only karma that you're in a restaurant, you take an umbrella. You find an umbrella in the cab, you take it with you. It's umbrella karma. So however you look at it, you must take an umbrella.

I think WH is right. You wouldn't leave your purse, wallet, or cell phone behind for the next person, but how heartbroken are you when you leave an umbrella behind? My guess is not very, simply because you've lost and gained enough times for it to even out. And that's really all we can hope for in life (and umbrellas): to break even.

WashingTina

Baby Love

To Infinity and Beyond . . .

The Nose Knows

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 2)

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 1)

There She Is . . .

Two for the Road

Let's Not and Say We Did

That's All, She Wrote

Wise Crackers

Crime Doesn't Pay

Reflections on a Decade

Recess

Local Celebrity Swag-ger

Fucking Spongebob

Pen and Paper

Boldly Go Where No Ham Has Gone Before

Rain of Shame

To Catch a Mockingbird

A Case of Mistaken Identity

You Give Me Fever

As Simple As Black and White?

Independence Day

Not-So-Fine Dining

I Really Stepped In It

Let's Be Reasonable

To Tweet, Or Not To Tweet

It's A Small World

Search and Recovery

Code Orange

Remembering A Hero

Flashed in Flash

Here's the Kicker

Pointe of Contention

Bittersweet Stink-phony

Yes, and . . .

A Blogiversary

The Chosen One

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

The Boob Tube

Resolutions and Reflections

The Good, the Bad, and the Merry

After the Wedding

Unicorn vs. Hamster

Meet the Parents

Christmas Traditions

Happy Thanksgiving!

Seven Minutes in Heaven . . . With the TSA

Little Mary Sunshine

Plastic Bag Pariah

Baby Boomless

One of These Things is Not Like the Others

Reflections on Turning 30 . . . Something

I Voted!

Get Rich Quick

The Witching Hour

A Semi-Private Room

Stink Bug Mafia

A Force of Nature

Metro-types

Do You *Believe* in Life After Cher?

A Strange Bedfellow

Zombie Apocalypse

The Tortured Artist

The Seven CVS of the Apocalypse

A Dark and Smelly Night

Trendy Tricked Out Trucks

Listen to Your Inner Voice

Crisis Communications

Midday Misadventures

The REAL Real Housewives of D.C.

Let's Go Surfing Now . . .

The Question is . . .

Long May You Run

Symptom Symphony

Hog Calling

Quake Quazy

Umbrella Karma

Do You Believe in Life After Cher?