WashingTina

Wonderful Husband sometimes has a twisted view of things. Recently, we had a conversation about the Metro ride from Arlington into D.C. This is a route I used to take every day that entails crossing the Potomac. I was talking about looking down at the river, when WH says, "You shouldn't look down." I couldn't figure out why not, so I asked. Wonderful Husband: You may see a body and then you're involved. WashingTina: How am I involved? WH: Well, if there's a body floating in the water, then you have to call the police and they want to know why, of all the people on the train, you were the only one who noticed the body. Then you have to go down to the station and tell them what you saw. And you can't ignore it, because your conscience is going to haunt you. So just don't look down because then you'll be involved. WT: Oh, okay. WH: It's the same reason why you don't look in a dark alley. WT: Why not? I don't understand. WH: Because you may

I don't know why I was surprised to see her, sitting like a giant fur-covered mountain on this evening's rush hour bus. I guess maybe I thought she ceased to exist after I escaped her fuzzy largeness the last time. (Do we all do this . . . live so in the moment that once someone is out of our sight, they leave our consciousness, ceasing to exist?) You know who I'm talking about . . . the mangy Fur Coat Lady . It wasn't even her lumpen wooliness that first caught my attention. It was that smell. Have you ever been so moved by a familiar smell that you were transported back to the place and time where you first smelled it? That's what happened here (and yes, this was the most dominant smell on the already aromatic bus). The smell hit me and I raised my head from my magazine to see her, in all her mangy glory. I had a flashback to the first time I saw her, smashed between her and the end seat, her special smell filling my nostrils. There she was again. Only t

Have you ever felt like your life is one big Saturday Night Live sketch? I have. Regularly. In case it hasn't been made clear in this space thus far, things seem to happen to me that just don't happen to anyone else. I mean, you can't make this stuff up. Tonight, my cosmic comedy writers were up to their usual tricks again. As if it wasn't bad enough to share my underpants with all of Adams Morgan this summer, I took it to another delightful level this evening. But let's set the stage before I get to the punchline. I went to yoga after work today, so after class, on my way home, I had my giant pink handbag full of goodies: yoga mat, magazine (bus reading), Blackberry, work clothes, work shoes (ironically, no wallet -- I managed to leave that at work) . . . you get the picture. Just as I started my walk, the freezing rain we had been warned about all day began to fall. I dug deep in the bag for my umbrella as I continued to walk up 18th Street toward home. I manage

Just one year ago, D.C. was flooded by eager and excited Americans (and others, too, I suppose) ready to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama. It was certainly an exciting time, but it was also one that many of us approached with great trepidation. Our city is not known for being well run (Marion Barry, anyone?), so as we prepared for the onslaught of the millions predicted, there was definitely a potentail disaster brewing. For those of us who live here, it's hard enough to navigate the city during crowded summer months full of tourists, especially on narrow city sidewalks and Metro escalators during rush hour. What would happen when the eyes of the nation, maybe the world, were upon us? Could we handle the onslaught of millions of people? Would we perform, or end up with egg on our faces? The weekend approached and the city filled, hotels full to capacity. What I remember from that weekend, and inauguration day in particular, was an electric excitement in the city. People wer

This evening while I was on the bus home, this lady tripped up the stairs, nearly taking out her front teeth (no blood, thankfully), eliciting a laugh from one not-so-subtle rider. I'll admit it, I felt a little conflicted about whether to laugh or cringe. I mean, she did look really ridiculous, bags splayed out up the steps, feet sticking out the door. But then I remembered the myriad embarassments I've suffered in public. I mean, who hasn't been splayed out on the bus steps (or other steps, or a sidewalk, or subway grate, or cobblestoned street) at least once in their life? One of my worst happened last summer. I was wearing one of my favorite suits, a cute black and white polka dot skirt with a short swingy jacket. Eight in the morning is not my magic hour . . . in fact I'm not a morning person at all . . . so I wasn't really all there. I had been standing on the bus stop for at least ten minutes, engrossed in my Blackberry, when I felt a tap on my shoulde

My neighbor is learning to play the trumpet. And I use the word "learning" loosely. After having listened to him play for the past three days, it's quite clear that he hasn't quite learned it -- though he does play with gusto. Living in a communal setting (as most city dwellers do), such as a condo or apartment, affords all kinds of opportunities to get to know your neighbors that you just don't get in a detached suburban house. For instance, I know that my next door neighbor (the same trumpet playing one) snores . . . a lot. WH has thus dubbed him the Grizzly Bear. On top of that, from time to time, usually on Sundays, he plays soft rock hits from the 70s and 80s and sings loudly. Journey is one of his favorites. When it gets to a particularly rockin' part of the song, GB yells, "Whooo!" repeatedly. It's incredibly entertaining. The trumpet playing is not. It sounds like someone's killing a flock of Canada geese. But Grizzly Bear is not the

D.C. is a small town. Sure, we're the capital city, but with a population of just about 600,000 in the district proper, it's not such a big pond. And with all small towns, you run into the people you know at every turn. It's practically impossible to remain anonymous -- just ask any scandalized politician. Nothing's a secret in this town. But aside from politicians, who can't hide anywhere, us regular folk can't either -- and that's not such a bad thing. Yesterday morning, on my way to work, I was crossing the street and ran into my friend Kevin, who works a couple of blocks away. In fact, I've run into him several times near the office. Another morning, a couple of months ago, I got on a crowded morning bus only to see Andy, with whom I went to high school. In fact, I often run into people on the bus. At least twice, I've gotten on the bus, practically oblivious, only to walk right past my sister sitting in the front section. This is the beauty and

I'm going to veer a little off topic (Washington) for a bit tonight. Like much of the world, I've been so moved by the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti that I want to do something to help. The images are gut wrenching, the devastation debilitating. Today on my Facebook page, I asked all my friends to post a Haiku for Haiti . . . and for every haiku posted, I'd donate $1 to the relief efforts. They responded with gusto -- at last count there were 50 haiku (and a total raised of $400) -- and several friends even said they'd match whatever the final number was. Not only was it something kind of fun, but also made me feel like I was at least doing something. My friends rose to the occasion with generosity that wasn't necessarily unexpected, but heartwarming never the less. I want to share some of the haiku here in the hopes that maybe it will inspire others to give. Obama now speaks: "losses are nothing less than devastating." sad. -Francisco Haiti needs o

D.C. has had several instances of "cuddlers" recently. These creepy souls break into women's homes, get into bed with them, and "cuddle" with them. Scary! Perhaps the worst part is that the media has dubbed this misguided fellow the "Georgetown Cuddler." Isn't that cute? Can't you just imagine some sweet, chubby toddler in a bunny costume snuggling up to you as you browse the racks of Intermix? Or maybe one of those giant-headed Presidents that run around at the Nationals games -- Teddy Roosevelt, most likely -- sidling up to you while waiting on the bus stop and giving you a little, nonthreatening, patriotic squeeze? Certainly not a raving lunatic who crawls into your bed at night after having broken into your house. I lamented this name on my Facebook page earlier this week, to which a number of male friends volunteered alternative monikers. Chris offered "something Germanic," and came up with "SleazeballGroper." While Dar

Today's bus ride home was one of those particularly grating ones. I was lucky enough to find myself seated next to and in front of the most annoying breed of bus passenger: The Loud Cell Phone Talker. LCPT has no sense of personal space, audio or otherwise. They share all manner of life details with anyone and everyone lucky enough to be seated in their vicinity. LCPT#1 was having a conversation that started with using miles to book a flight ("I'm totally not willing to pay more than $40 to get to Charlotte"), and went on to discuss her sister's dead iPhone ("Apple can't even help her. It just DIED!") and wound up with her friend, Derrick, who is "on the front lines and sh*t, in Kabul or something." I know that LCPT#1's sister's phone is still under warranty with Best Buy, so there is some hope. I know that American Airlines and its partner carriers are very strict about how they redeem miles. And I know that Derrick is a prolific e

D.C. recently enacted a law that says if you get a plastic grocery bag with your purchase, you have to pay a $.05 bag tax for it. It's not a debilitating charge, and it's supposed to help keep the Anacostia River clean (for anyone who's ever seen the Anacostia, there are bigger problems than plastic bags, but that's apparently not the point). The Mayor and City Council, in their infinite wisdom, think this five-cent fix will solve the myriad problems in the river. But what will it do for (or to) the rest of us? As a city dweller, I've long carried the recyclable bags that are sold just about everywhere (they're easier to carry when walking several blocks with groceries). This has, of course, resulted in occasional ribbing from my friendly checkout worker, when using a Whole Foods bag at Safeway, "What, our bags aren't good enough?" But a bigger issue is what on earth WH and I are going to use to line our bathroom trashcan with from now on? A

The mightiest oak in the forest is just a little nut that held its ground. The best part of getting Chinese food is, undoubtedly, the fortune cookie. A little nugget of wisdom to close out your meal -- a mental digestif (not to mention the lottery numbers and the "learn Chinese" word). After a delivery meal from one of our favorite places, Meiwah, Wonderful Husband and I opened our fortune cookies. And mine called me a nut. I'll admit it, I can be a little nuts from time to time. Who isn't? Once, I refused to go out on a second date with a guy because of the way he drank out of a glass (Of course, I didn't tell him that. That would've just been cruel). Another time, when visiting New York and meeting a friend in front of Radio City Music Hall, I told my cab driver I was auditioning to be a Rockette. It didn't hurt anyone and probably made his day. Besides, he didn't know that I can barely tell my right from my left and am several inches shy of the requ

Life in my house tends to be pretty hilarious. This is due to the fact that my Wonderful Husband (WH) is a laugh riot. Take for instance a conversation we had last night. He came home and asked me, deadpan, what I would think of a career as an Air Marshal. WH has never expressed any interest in Homeland Security (other than speaking with general derision when going through airport screening), so this struck me as amusing. Turns out CNN had run a story about the need for Air Marshals in the D.C. area, and WH was wondering what that might entail. Our conversation went something like this: Wonderful Husband : Do you think they get to sit on the aisle? Or maybe they get to sit in first class. WashingTina: I don't know. WH: I think they probably get to sit on the aisle. The airlines are too cheap to let them fly first class. But I bet they used to get to fly first class. WT: Hmm, I don't know. WH: I think with the size of the "new Americans," they have to put them in the a

The bus fun continued this morning. An extra crowded rush hour bus boasted a special passenger -- the drunken bus rider. Let me just pause here to say that the bus often boasts a wide variety of characters, each more special than the next. But honestly, the rush hour bus is generally full of the working wounded, commuting to work. So the drunken passenger, while not an oddity on the urban bus, is like a white tiger on a rush hour ride. Anyway, this morning's drunkard was basically harmless, save for his loudly slurred phone conversation, "Ah shaid I'm gonna be there shoon. I'm jusht riding thish bush. I'm gonna be there shoon." But it reminded me of another harmless (seemingly) drunkard I saw on the Metro one morning. For the uninitiated, it's unlawful to eat or drink on Metro . . . this includes bottled water. A few years back, some kid was actually arrested for eating a Snickers (or something) on an escalator going into the station. But I digres

Rode the bus to work today. Nothing unusual about that. I ride the bus every day. At least once a week I have some sort of adventure on the bus. I suspect I'm not alone . . . there are always other people on the bus with me when these "adventures" happen, and yet somehow the stuff actually only happens TO me. For instance, yesterday, on my way home a "full figured gal" in a rather mangy fur coat sat next to me. The coat (or the woman, I'm not really sure) smelled. Bad. I felt a little like Daddy Warbucks in Annie -- my fellow 80s girls will remember this -- when Annie and Sandy are first at his mansion and he arrives, booming at his assistant, "Why do I smell a wet dog?!" Only it wasn't quite a wet dog. It was more like a wet dog, rolled in tobacco, bathed in mothballs, spritzed with a cologne of National Zoo Elephant House. Of course, Mothball Annie sits down next to me, and by next to me, I mean 43 percent on my seat and 100 percent on her se