Ladies room?

Scenario: I have almost two hours before my flight to Georgia (at Reagan National) boards, thanks to my obsessive need to account for almost any traffic or metro incident that MIGHT occur on my way to the airport.

Luckily, I have a husband who travels frequently, and thus we have a membership to the Delta Crown lounge place, or whatever it’s called. I also haven’t eaten, so the free snack mix is quite appealing. I settle down with a big bottle of water and a small paper cup of snack mix. I contemplate how rude/inappropriate it would be to just ask for a big cup for the mix, so I won’t feel stupid going back for more every ten minutes. But I already feel stupid enough since, while trying to check my voicemail, and balance the cup of mix and bottle of water, I managed to turn my cell phone into a projectile device, and it lands a surprising 20 feet away, despite the fact that it was balanced between my ear and shoulder. No snack mix spilled. I have my priorities.

So I settle down in a little corner, feeling a bit out of place, since I do not: A. have a suit on, B. have an earpiece for my cell phone into which I am arguing about today’s __________ (fill in the blank with very important terms, such as: meeting, stock prices, financial reports, presentation, etc), and/or C. do not have a laptop that represents the very core of my being, my sole reason for living. I’m not even reading a newspaper, or other important looking periodical. Nope, I’m reading the new book, Citizen Girl, by the two women who wrote Nanny Diaries (side note: I finished in one day, and it’s a very amusing take on employment in NYC). I even changed out of my work clothes into jeans. And I’m female. So basically, my point is: I’m completely out of place in this “club”. But I’m holding my own. It’s my opinion that a large percentage of “fitting in” is acting. So I turn on the “I’ve been coming to these places forever” attitude. And it seems to work. Until I have to go to the bathroom.

Now, normally this is not a difficult or intimidating process. And it didn’t start out to be this particular time. I had scoped out the bathroom location earlier, so I walk over, and enter the ladies room. There’s a nice little “vanity area”, and three stalls. A suitcase is in front of the first, and someone is in the stall. So I walk to third stall, leaving the middle stall empty. As I am, ummm..., taking care of things, the bathroom door opens and someone else walks in, and into the middle stall. I catch a glimpse of the shoes. I think to myself, “Those are really ugly shoes for a woman…almost like a man’s loafer. Wait, why is that lady standing facing the toilet, and how is she peeing like that? Ummm…okay, that’s not a lady. That’s a MAN.” By now I am completely done with my own business, but I am absolutely frozen in the situation. Did I somehow walk into the wrong bathroom? And if so, is there ANY possible way to get out of this unnoticed? Nope, because the person in the first stall is out there at the sinks. I can’t see through the cracks to tell if it’s a man or woman. But I am positive that the person in the stall next to me is a man. I can see the top of his head. And I just don’t think a woman can pee standing and facing the toilet. So I wait. Now the man is flushing. I decide to wait it out and listen to the interaction when he leaves. He walks out of the stall, and straight out of the bathroom (the lack of hand washing is momentarily forgotten/excused), with no interaction with the other person whatsoever. Crap. Now I’m still stuck in here, and the other person, who may or may not be a man, is still hanging out doing God-knows-what out there. But the person is moving around, and the shoes have a distinct “heel” noise, that I decide sounds like a woman’s shoe. And I take this moment to remember that I did not see any urinals when I entered. So I suck it up, and walk out. Now, this isn’t the most feminine of all women, but if “she” is at the vanity fixing “her” makeup, I am going to assume that I am, in fact, in the right bathroom. I wash my hands, and try to make eye contact with the woman, so we can share a “isn’t it funny/odd that a man just pee’d in the ladies room” look. But I get nothing. So I walk out.

But now I’m confused. The doors for the ladies and men’s rooms aren’t even close to each other (and I was definitely in the right one), and they have the pictures describing the triangle-shaped dress that all women obviously wear. So, did this guy just not look? Is he really drunk? And when he walked out of the stall, did he not notice there was a woman standing there? Or was he too embarrassed to acknowledge the situation?  Given that I, myself, had momentarily thought I was in the same situation, I’m not sure what I would have done.

I do know one thing though. I can stop ACTING like I belong in this place, because I obviously belong WAY more than the guy who uses the ladies room. Unless that’s an accepted practice of which I am not aware. In order to avoid the situation completely, I resolve to not use the bathroom again. I can use the “ordinary peoples” bathroom in the terminal. At least THEY know how to tell the difference between the men’s and ladies bathrooms.

Wonderland

I’ve been kind of quiet recently. We all have. The Brokekid’s in South America, WideLeftOfCenter and Kris in Georgia, and me? Well, I’m just lazy.

Actually, I was out of town last weekend, and I don’t even know how to write about it. I have so much to say and not the right words. Life’s like that sometimes.

I went to… Neverland. Oz. Fantasy Island. Home. I’m not sure how to classify it. Last weekend, I went to visit my best friends from college – Stacy and Dan.

Dan used to work as a bouncer in my favorite bar. In those days, $10 from the ATM would buy me drinks all night and leave me with change for the walk home, and Dan’s roommate Tate always used to invite me to afterhours. Sometimes, I’d say yes, and I’d find my way to their claustrophobic, fire hazardous apartment without any windows over a telemarketing front downtown. (This was before the one-bedroom without a door shared by Dan, Tate and Monk, and occasionally, Stacy.)

One time, early January, Dan showed up with a girl. A really cute girl with huge dark eyes, curly brown hair and spunk. She really had spirit. I talked to her a bit that night but really got to know her several weeks later when I found her in the bathroom of our dive bar, sitting in a chair, with her feet in the sink trying to recover from a January night in sandals.

She’s the only friend to visit the whole time I lived in Colorado. I knew her family and she knew mine. We shared holidays, secrets, jokes and handwritten letters in the day of email.

I read at their wedding, the wedding of this frozen-footed girl and the bouncer at my bar.

Dan, Dan, the bouncer man, is a wonderful person. He’s also Catholic. Very, very Catholic. Stacy converted before the wedding and six years after their union they share three kids. And with his five siblings, his parents have 23 grandchildren. They are in their 50s and their youngest is a senior in high school.

Every time I visit, I am… amazed. At the love and the kindness and the sheer wonder of it all. Dan’s sister has eight kids. Eight. She drives a full-size conversion van just to get them to and from school every day.

I have never wanted that life.

I can’t say that I necessarily chose the life I have. I didn’t really decided to have a career – I didn’t have many other options. I might have stuck with my college boyfriend but he was the only reason to stay in Ohio and I didn’t think we’d make it. I think I was right. Nevertheless, I didn’t chose career over family; I just followed the path in front of me.

I have loved every second of it.

Nevertheless, I feel a tinge when I visit Dan and Stacy. I love them. I love their children and their family. I love the life that they lead. I envy them.

I understand that I can choose to form family, but frankly, it wouldn’t be the same.

Whenever I visit, it’s a party because life there is full of people and full of fun. They don’t travel like I do, but I wouldn’t have the support network that they have. We show up at Dan’s parents and there are at least a dozen kids running around with dogs and toys and the biggest grins you’ve ever seen. Dads are in the driveway drinking American beers from cans and moms are in kitchen drinking margaritas.

Twenty-year-olds hang with 50-year-olds, 70-year-olds, teenagers and babies on the knee.

We went to a high school football game, Dan's brother's, and I knew half of the people in the stands. They were related to many of them, friends with the others. We went to church and the odds were the same.

It’s not my world and it’s not my life, but I love it. I’ll keep going back. They make room for the girl they call “Washington DC” and, well, I don’t just make room for them. Everybody needs a little Wonderland and someplace that feels like home.

Tag: Friends Wonderland Family

Best friends forever

It’s not a message. It’s not a sign. It’s a song and it’s stuck in my head. For the second week in a row.

You’re my best friend. And I love you. God bless Weezer.

I don’t know why this is stuck in my head. Who knows how songs get stuck. I’m convinced that it’s due, in part, to only hearing, well, parts of the song: beginning, middle, whatever, without the end. No end, no resolution. It just keeps hanging, it just keeps playing through your head.

After a point, though, it’s more than just an unfinished song.

I have been thinking about best friends lately. I went to see one of mine over the weekend: Stacy, my best friend from college.

I’ve realized that all of my friends have qualifiers: my best friend from college, my best friend from home, my best friend from work, whatever. There are so many of them that the term “best” has lost its meaning.

When you think about, it seems that it should mean that they run faster, jump higher, smell sweeter or make you do the same. Maybe the smartest or the oldest or the closest. Something makes them better than any other friend.

The word best implies one.

Maybe I focus a little too much on words (I used to copy edit in a former life) but it seems like there isn’t the right word for friends who are more than friends without being best. How is it that there are so many different words for snow and love and the color red but a friend is just a friend unless he’s the best?

My relationships with people are as different as they are. They’ve held my hand when I cried and my hair when I puked. We have laughed and talked and sat silent together. The silences actually make us stronger together.

I love my friends.

I just wish there was a word that demonstrated how important they are to me. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m the only one who needs to know. And them. Maybe I just need to keep showing them that they are important to me, that they are the best.


Tag: Friendship Best friends

His Holiness the Dalai Lama

I thought with my $40 ticket and all, that I would be closer to the floor. When I purchased my ticket, there were four prices and the ticket I purchased was the second most expensive. I leaned over to the lady sitting next to me and said, "I wonder where the $20 ticketers sit?"

She said, "When I told my girlfriend where my seat was, she told me I was sitting in the Himalayas."

That was pretty funny, we were very high up. "I guess I can't complain though, it is the Dalai Lama," I chuckle.

I was able to finish the article in Esquire that I started about Bill Clinton and his third term as president of the world before Mary Beth so and so came out to give a brief introduction for His Holiness the Dalai Lama. She spoke briefly and then introduced Democratic Leader of the House, Nancy Pelosi, who would be giving the official introduction for the Dalai Lama. He is a big fan of hers and she him.

Ms. Pelosi spoke a few moments of his achievements, his tribulations and his continual dedication to Buddhism and a free Tibet. What I didn't know and Nancy was kind enough to tell us, was that it was the Dalai Lama's 70th birthday today. And with that, the Dalai Lama strode onto the platform, showing a bit of his 70 years, and took center stage.

There was a very brief ceremony where followers of the Dalai Lama, from regions close to Tibet, came up on stage with (I don't really know what they are called) scarves, and he took these scarves and placed them around the necks of these individuals. These followers came from places like Mongolia, China, Nepal and parts of the former Soviet Union. It was very touching.

The podium with which the introductions were given was quickly removed and two seats and a small table were brought out so that the Dalai Lama and his interpreter could sit. The Dalai Lama quickly begain speaking, thanking everyone for coming, thank Nancy Pelosi and Mary Beth so and so for their introductions and thanking the organizers for all their work. The interpreter had to listen and allow for all these gratitude’s to sink in before he could translate. He was a very sharp and very quick interpreter. I liked him. The funny thing was that the Dalai Lama spoke English rather well but would intersperse...um...Tibetan? in with his English. The interpreter had to be on his toes or he would miss, but he never did.

The Dalai Lama is a rather jovial fellow. As he was making himself comfortable in his chair, he began to fiddle with his shoes. I thought he was pulling up his socks, but then I though maybe he didn't wear socks, he was actually removing his shoes. He then sat cross legged in his chair and the crowd was quick with a giggle.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama touched on many things but two caught my attention, I'll paraphrase:

...being asked which religion is best is really a meaningless when out of context. I'll give you an example. If someone asked you which medicine was best, that really doesn't mean anything. It really depends upon the ailment, then you can decide...

I thought that was great. Religion, unlike many in the Christian right in this country believe, is different for different people. It's appropriate for whom it's appropriate for. The other let gem:

...I read a scientific study that linked the part of the brain the deals with empathy and compassion with the same part that controls motor function. This makes sense, you see suffering and feel compassion and feel you need to take action...

This is so true, which made Peace Corps a natural extension of the way I feel about suffering. You see suffering, you act to change it.

Being within the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama was an honor and quite humbling...but...unfortunately the audio and the acoustics of the MCI did nothing to augment the experience. I struggled for over an hour to hear and understand the Dalai Lama, even closing my eyes as to not be distracted. It was a chore to discern his messages and I eventually decided to head home, I think I had gotten what I had came there for. What that is I don't know, but it was worth it.

Tag: Dalai Lama | Tibet | Free Tibet

An OCD Marriage

My previous blog regarding my personal experience and history with OCD turned out to be more serious than I had intended. My original intention was to write an amusing ditty of what happens when two people with mild OCD meet, fall in love, and marry, despite massive obstacles such as: not getting the mail immediately, skipping a workout, and other similar horrifying experiences.

Okay, it’s not really that big of a deal. But there have been some amusing moments when we just have laugh at ourselves, or each other. In a perfect OCD marriage (I don’t even know what that means); maybe both partners would obsess over the same things. But not us. Nope, we obsess over completely different, and sometimes opposite things. For example, I do not handle spur of the moment changes in my daily schedule well, especially if it means I don’t get to work out. My husband, on the other hand, loves to get these last minute social summons, and frequently attends them, albeit without me. We’ve come to an acceptable agreement that we both can live with: he goes to these events, and I stay home (or whatever my original schedule called for), and neither gets angry or upset at the other. It has actually worked quite nicely thus far, in our almost 3 years together.  

Another example: mail. I could go days without getting the mail (and often do, when my husband travels), despite the fact that I walk past our mailbox at least twice a day. It’s not a matter of energy; I just don’t think or care that much about it. My husband, on the other hand, will check the mail immediately upon his arrival, sometimes at the expense of greeting me, his lovely wife. The good news about your spouse suffering from OCD is that he/she doesn’t take offense to these kinds of things, which might, to non-OCD sufferers, seem like a terrible slight.

When we returned from our over 3 week wedding/honeymoon event last month, one of the first things he did was sort through the mail (although, since we had another OCD friend house-sitting, it was neatly sorted into his, hers, magazines, and junk piles, much to his dismay and disappointment). One of the first things I did? You guessed it, went to the gym. Now, to both of our credits, despite our gym/mail compulsions, we did manage to clean up the massive flooding that had occurred while we were gone before allowing ourselves the luxury of indulging in our respect compulsive activities. Don’t think for a minute that both of us weren’t calculating in our heads how long it would be before we could indulge, we just didn’t say it out loud. Because letting your carpet continue to mold while you open the mail or workout would just be crazy.

Tag: Obsessive | OCD | marriage

Jones Soda Holiday Pack

Update: So, I had the last three bottle of Jones Soda out of the Thanksgiving Pack. On Tuesday I had the Turkey & Gravy, Wednesday I drank the Wild Herb Stuffing Soda, and Thursday I drank the Cranberry Sauce Soda. So how were they? The Turkey and Gravy didn't really taste like anything, I mean nothing at all. It was very bland and tasted remotely like broth. Not disgusting, but very bland.

The Wild Herb Stuffing Soda? It tasted just like Stovetop Stuffing. It was sweet and kind of tasty, in a weird "I'm drinking Stovetop Stuffing Soda" sort of way. I didn't finish it.

I did finish the Cranberry Sauce Soda. It was actually pretty tasty. I don't think that I would pick it first if I was thirsty and saw a soda machine at Target, but I might pick it 3rd.

Overall, not sure how I feel about these but it was an interesting endeavor in flavor exploration. Some thoughts on possible soda flavors in the future:

• BBQ Chicken


• Spaghetti Dinner


• Mac and Cheese


• Chocolate Ice Cream


• Peanut Butter and Jelly


• French Fries and Ketchup

---

My sister and I went to Target and on the way out I saw the Jones Soda Holiday Pack. I have heard of this in the past and was curious to see what these concoctions tasted like. So I plunked down the $10 for the box of 5 and brought them home. Now if you don't know about Jones Soda and these creations, they are known for being innovative in a market pretty well tapped out on the creative side. They made different flavors of soda that taste like, well, Thanksgiving dinner.

So what are these flavors?

• Brussels Sprout with Prosciutto


• Cranberry Sauce


• Turkey & Gravy


• Wild Herb Stuffing


• Pumpkin Pie


• Also included: Serving spoon, moistened towelette, and wine list.

So, you want to know what they taste like? Well, since I bought them yesterday, I had one when I got home and one just a few minutes ago.

Yesterday evening I had the Pumpkin Pie. You would think this might be a bit tastier than say the Wild Herb Stuffing. Well, you may be right, I haven't had the Wild Herb Stuffing yet but I can tell you the Pumpkin Pie Soda is not a treat. It does taste like pumpkin pie, vaguely. In the way the grape soda tastes like grapes but only disgusting. It tasted more like burnt pumpkin pie and if you drank this in a blind taste test, you would spit it out the milli-second it passed your lips. Needless to say, I didn't finish it.

What did I drink today? I had Brussels Sprout with Prosciutto Soda. You know that smell that comes from old moldy bread that's been sitting around too long, well, if you could bottle that up and sell it, that's what Brussels Sprout with Prosciutto Soda tastes like. It's disgusting. I can still taste it on my tongue. And I ate a real dinner already. I am traumatized. I can't tell you if it tastes like real Brussels Sprouts or not because I am so traumatized by the flavor of this I can't remember what much tastes like anymore. I may need to go into therapy.

Ok, so two down and three more to go. I'll let you know what the last three taste like as I drink them. I'm banking on the Cranberry Sauce Soda to be somewhat palatable, the other two though I'm not holding my breath for.

You want to order this stuff? Be my guest.

Tag: Soda | Thanksgiving | Holiday | JonesSoda

OCD: The E! True Hollywood Story

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or as it’s known to its friends, OCD, has become a more common place term these days. It’s kind of the newer, hipper, dare I say it, trendier, Attention Deficit Disorder. I mean, come on, ADD is so 1990’s.

Now, I feel like I am able to accurately represent OCD, because I, like millions of others, actually have the disorder, albeit a milder case than the hand-washing, light-switch flipping affliction that most people might associate with OCD. My particular affliction arose from, what else, the OTHER trendy disorder of the 1990’s: the eating disorder. Again, my case was less severe than full-blown anorexia or bulimia. Instead, I simply exercised like a mad demon, and failed to eat enough to sustain my body in a healthy manor, but JUST enough to prevent serious damage from occurring. After some therapy, I was finally convinced that medication might not be as scary as I seemed to think. I thought it would destroy all of my carefully constructed self-control (which “allowed” me to go without pizza – of any kind – for over 2 years), and turn me into a crazy food…um…eater.

It took my stepfather promising me that if I ever barricaded myself in a room with a dozen doughnuts, he would “talk me down”, to convince me to give the meds a try. Best decision of my life. A low dose of Zoloft, an anti-depressant also used for people with mild OCD, completely changed my life. I could actually go out to eat in a restaurant without adding an additional hour to my daily workout. Even better, I could SKIP a workout, and not “feel” my body turning to fat. My life ceased to revolve around food and exercise, and I realized that were actually people out there who managed to function when they ate out or missed workouts. Better yet, I could envision myself becoming one of them.

I can’t honestly say that the meds eliminated the OCD. Four years later, I’m still on a low dose of Zoloft, and still exhibit mild OCD in certain situations. I still work out more than most people, on a consistent basis, and I probably always will. I don’t like my daily schedule to be change unexpectedly (i.e. don’t expect me to show up at last-minute happy hour, but don’t be insulted – it’s not you, it’s me). The difference is, I’ve learned how to live with it, and more importantly, know how to “cheat” it. For starters, I married a man who has also flirted with OCD, and thus, he understands me, as do most of my friends. I still don’t like my routine to be disrupted, but on occasion, I can be convinced to join in on some spur-of-the-moment plans, without any evil thoughts creeping into my head, threatening retribution because of my selfish, anti-workout ways.

Upon talking to a friend, I realized that a lot of people around me just think I’m very dedicated, and have a great metabolism…one of those “eats whatever she wants and doesn’t gain weight” types. Here’s the truth: I AM thin. I won’t say otherwise. It’s taken my body a long time to get back to what MIGHT be its “normal” size, and even longer for me to learn to love it, no matter what that size is. Over the years, I’ve lost a sense of what my actual body type is or should be. No clue. Maybe I’m at it. Maybe I’m not. I just don’t know. I am obsessed with not gaining weight, and the question I’ve been asking myself lately is: Was it worth it? Was it worth the years of unhappiness and distractions, missing out on what some say are the best years of your life, to FINALLY get to a place that, for all I know, I might have been at no matter what? My guess is that someone who has been or is overweight and struggled with weight loss might say yes, in a “grass is greener” approach. But as someone who’s dealt with it, and frankly, is a bit tired of dealing with it, I would lean towards no. The sad thing is, both of us have probably been thinking about for a better part of our lives, and neither will ever know the answer.

Tag: Obsessive | OCD | eating disorder

Help the kids get to Camp L.E.A.D.

This year Mike and Anita, two friends and volunteers Brokekid served with in Guyana, are holding a youth leadership camp called Camp L.E.A.D. (Leadership, Education and Development). This camp will be a follow up camp to the one that was held last year, 60 kids (30 male, 30 female) ages from 12 to 15 will be paticipating. The camp will cover how leadership can address various issues effecting youth in Guyana. We will cover issues such as HIV/AIDS, abuse and drugs/alcohol.

This camp will provide a wealth of experience and opportunity that these children might not have had otherwise. We hope that the children that attend will take away from this not only knowledge and experience but friendship, life lessons and opportunities. Reaching out to these kids and helping them by teaching valuable life lessons will be an opportunity they will likely never forget.

We need your help!

We need to raise $4,500 US by December 10th of this year. The camp will be held on December 13th - 17th so this is coming up quick. I am sorry for the late notice but this was suprising news to us as well. If you would like to donate $5, $20, $100, $500, or however much you can afford, it is greatly appreciated by us, the community and kids of Region 5 Guyana.

Please donate!

If you would like to help us out, please do. Click the link below to send money for this project. Thanks!



Tag: Guyana | Donate |
Tag: Guyana | Peace Corps

Airport ramblings... two

What you ask? Justin in another airport? "But he was just in Dulles yesterday, actually, less than 24 hours ago." You are correct. I was in Dulles, and now I am in Long Beach, after a successful day of meetings, getting ready to hop another jetBlue flight back to... well, Dulles. Here, less than 24 hours after arriving in California, I find myself leaving back for home. Let's count the hours...

Yesterday:
2.30p EST Justin at Dulles. Park, walk, security, walk.
3.00p EST: Justin near gate. Beers. Write a blog entry (see above).
4.00p EST: Meet people in bar, as I invited them to sit at my table because there was no other space for two people.
5.00p EST: Winding up my new friend conversations, trying to pay tab and make it to my gate.
5.20p EST: Walking the length of B terminal. Annoying people with Starbucks walking slowly. Announcement over the PA: "All passengers please report to gate 30 for immediate departure." That means me, I think...
5.55p EST: On flight. Taking off. Headed to Cali. Middle seat. Want to die. At least it's an exit row. That means suicide is only 24% likely within the first 2 hours of an almost 6 hour flight
8.05p PST: Touch down almost 30 minutes early. I would want to hug the pilot of not for 1) it being a landing akin to a 600 lb man gracefully sitting down on a chihuahua... while running. 2) Long Beach Airport was the place where that plane took off, and realizing that the landing gear was messed up, circled for 3 hours to "burn off fuel" (Isn't that shit expensive these days?) before making an eventual safe, if not somewhat sparky landing at LAX a few miles away. In the end: Landing rough. Woman next to me smelled. End of story.
8.15p PST: Call to talk to wife back in DC. End up talking to her friend (well, my friend, too-- at least I'd like to think). Agree to talk later.
8.45p PST: Checked into hotel. Talking with wife. Feeling like a ton of bricks dropped on my head from the exhaustion taking its toll. Eyes feel as if hot pokers were used to... well, poke... me in the eyes.
9:15p PST: In coworker Mikk's room putting the finishing touches on the presentation for the next day. He ordered pizza earlier. Realizing that jetBlue, after a long 5 hours or so, has only fed me blue potato chips and some crackers and cheese. Use pizza to stop stomach from digesting itself.
10:00p PST: Back in my own room, I settle down to the news, see the details behind Kaine's win (yay-- not that it affects me in the least of ways), and end up watching Tom Daschle on Bill Maher. Good stuff. Funny guy. Me likey.
11:00p PST: Wind down. Sleep.

Today
5.30a PST: That damn alarm. It's piercing my eardrums... which is my own fault, because I always fear that I'm going to sleep in on business trips.
5:40a PST: Take shower. I'm in a handicap room, so there's no actual tub, or even shower for that matter. There's just tile everywhere in the bathroom, and a shower curtain between the "shower" and the toilet. Take my shower. "Get out." Water everywhere. What'd they expect? Try to clean thing up with my towel, because whatever, the maids don't make enough money to clean up after me.
6.00a PST: Breakfast. I'm at a Residence Inn. Breakfast included. Eggs. Biscuit. Four pancakes that are roughly 2" across. Stomach... Feeling better...
6.15a PST: In car with Mikk.
6.30a PST: At jobsite. It's early. Mikk is talking to Wayne back in DC. I play solitaire on the Treo.
7.00a PST: Mikk of the phone, we roll into the main Visitor entrance.
7.30a PST: Meeting start. they go well. Life is good.
12:00p PST: I'm still talking. My stomach has started digesting itself again. At this rate, it's a wonder I'm still 10 pounds more that I want to be.
12.15p PST: Off to lunch with Mikk and a client. We roll to Long Beach, which isn't far from Huntington Beach. We go sushi. I get Salmon Teriyaki, and an order of California rolls.
1.00p PST: Back from lunch. Realize that I'm wearing some of my Japanese salad dressing on my white shirt. Bummer.
1.05p PST: Last meeting of the day. Mikk gets to talk. I sit and listen. Nothing too interesting, but valuable.
2.00p PST: Mikk and I say our thanks and goodbyes, and head out the door so as he can take me to the airport.
2.15p PST: I check in, nab another middle exit row. Score?! Not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. Find bar upstairs. Literally. Building is built in the 40's. Right near the beginning of commercial aviation. It's old school. In the best way. Four airlines, lots of outdoors, very quaint... which is funny, because jetBlue's comparatively large A320s dwarf the building.
2.25p PST: While having beer at bar, I write blog posting, ponder meaning of life.
2.30p PST: Bar has five taps. Everyhing's out, except for one. MGD. I think that I'm glad that it's at least Miller, because if Coors was the only option, I would have rather had nothing.
2.45p PST: Group of 7 business people come in, grab table, and proceed to booze it up. I'm hoping that they're not on my flight, because they're ordering shots, and then lots and lots of liquor. It's going to be interesting, ladies and gentlemen.
3.00p PST: And now we're real time. So best get on living, or get up dying.

Word.




Tag: Agendas

Thoughts from an airport lounge... take 1

Toughts from an Airport Lounge

There's a plant in the corner. It's wilting just a bit, as if it was perhaps watered several days ago, and has just missed being noticed by whoever was responsible for it. I am half tempted to dump the glass of water I ordered several minutes ago into it. Sadly, however, my waiter never actually brought the glass as I requested. Nonetheless, it's a plain plant, a peace lilly I believe. It has a regular black pot, and perhaps is fourteen inches tall. Right across from it is it's cousin, at least that's what I imagine their relationship to be. The cousin appears to be quite strong: well watered, perky, and otherwise exuding the essence of life. I do hope the wilting plant the best. I studied so much biology for such a long time that I have come to have a great and all-encompassing respect for life. I feel a ping of remorse for each ant in my kitchen that I killed. I viewed the herbal-based spray as genocide for the few ants that were exposed to it, but as a saviour, as it would surely keep countless others away. Nevertheless, I have a plant similar to this one. It's name is Horatio. All of my plants must be named.

Actually, many of the worldly posessions are named-- at least the ones that I interact with most frequently... my Mac? Nacho. My Machine at home? Queso. My cell phones? Champagne and The Continental. My pepper plant? Julio de Segundo. Once, while on a business trip, my co-worker who I had tasked to water my plant neglected to do so. Horatio was almost killed, but I nursed him back to health. As if to thank me, he flowered the most brilliant and numerous buds. I'd starve him for water more often, but I just cannot stand to see his broad leafs droop. Julio, however, was not so lucky. He died a slow and painfully dry death. Unloved, he could do nothing but turn all brown, if not for his deep red chilies dangling from desiccated, brittle stems. I could almost hear his last words... Porque, Justino, Porque? I must admit that I shed a tear or three. I saved several of the peppers, which I later cracked open, yielding the seeds which would eventually become Julio de Segundo. I'll admit that I cried a bit when he died. I was even skeptical that I'd be able to nurse horatio back to health. Alas, a little diffused sunlight, some sprite, and lots of water was just the ticket.

This is the respect that I have for life. This is why I attempt to step around ant hills; why I pick up worms and toss them into the grass so they don't get stepped on or dry out; why I once cried for an hour when I hit a squirrel while driving.

It's just a way of life.

Tag: Life

Rewrite

It is funny – the things you focus on after the fact. I lamented the loss of feeling in my toes, the pushing and shoving, the music, but I completely neglected the button downs with jeans. (I think the Gap threw up all over the men at the Clarendon Grill.)

I forgot about the homeless man giving directions to the car in front of me, causing us to miss the light. He came up and asked for money. I lied and said I didn’t have any and he asked for Kayla instead.

“You are so beautiful… to me,” he crooned, strumming tunelessly along with his two-string guitar. I turned off the music to silence the competition. “Can’t you see? You're everything I hoped for. You're everything I need.”

“She is beautiful, you know?” he said, nodding toward Kayla. I agreed and handed him a dollar. “Can’t I come with you? I just want to take a shower at your place.”

The light changed; I rolled up the window and drove away.

Near the Carpool, a cop sat through a green light, blocking our lane and then turned right on red from the left turn lane, pulling over a minivan. It was one of several cop cars we saw all of them with unfortunate drivers in their sights and lights. It seemed as if someone had given the call for all cops to pull someone over on the count of three.

“Lights. Sirens. Action!”

We got rock star parking. We crammed into a cab, ESC on Rodney’s lap giving directions (about a mile and two-tenths) to the Grill. We waited in line, freezing and grooving to the band inside. (Yes, I said grooving.) Berk gave us a shout and a wave as he drove past “looking for parking.” We didn’t see him again.

After the band, the drinks, the lights coming on announcing last call, we cabbed back to the Carpool so I could put my sober butt back in the driver’s seat. Some jerks asked for fire as we were getting in the cab – I ran over and handed him matches, but they still called us “fat” and I am pretty sure they didn’t mean “phat.” (It is funny how easily strangers fling insults, how quickly they know what buttons to push – fat covers pretty much every woman’s insecurities.)

So many things happened, so many stories. It’s funny what I, what we put in writing. I focused on one very small part of a very long night. I suppose we all do in our blogs, in the stories that we tell our friends and family. Even a more complete, more “factual” listing of the events only include the details I remember, my version of the night.

It is kind of fun to edit yourself, to determine how people see you. It is just too bad we don’t have spell check and backspace and cut and paste in our daily lives. Of course, lack of control gives us stories, surprises, life.

Tag: Blogging Carpool Clarendon Grill Editing

6 Comments:
At 12:29 PM, Kayla said...
How did I miss those guys slinging the fat slur?! Who yells that anyway?! "You're fat!" It makes me want to yell my comeback from 8th grade (when people used to tell me I was fat all the time) "I may be fat, but you are ugly.. at least I can go on a diet". (yeah, they could care less what I yelled back - I was fat and had a fullet, but come on... it made me feel better) I am glad I was in an alcohol induced state - cause I would have said some not too pleasant things (and as I recall, those boys were barely a step above trolls).

And, we know we are PHAT not fat anyway. Assholes.


At 12:41 PM, I-66 said...
reminds me of college (back in my smoking days) when I'd take one single solitary cig for the walk across campus... and on the way over someone would pass me and this exchange would occur:

idiot: "ay, can I bum a [any synonym for cigarette]
me: nah, I only got one
idiot: [while walking away]you lyin...

right... nevermind that this is precisely why I'd only take one because everyone was trying to bum - handful of "gimme" and mouthful of "much obliged" - but seriously, you wanna search me and see whether I'm telling the truth?


At 6:15 PM, Berk said...
I really wanted to pop into the grill and have one last drink, but 1) there was a line and it didn't look like it was moving very fast, and 2) the lot behind the grill was full. Given the fact that I was really tired and didn't feel like waiting in line (who waits in line anymore anyway?) I bailed and pretty much went home and straight to bed.

Kristin, better luck next time when you try to steal my money or my watch. ;-)


At 5:58 AM, Chairborne Stranger said...
Kristin, the pain in your feet is worth it-sacrifice yourself for the killer silver wedges!


At 9:42 AM, Kristin said...
Much like I-66, we weren't lying about not having fire. I was the only one with matches and I handed 'em over. Come on, people. Why insult someone who does you a favor?!

We are definitely phat, not fat. Stupid boys.

No judgment on Berk, however, our male contributor. I can understand not waiting in line. It was long. But we did have fun. And the band rocked like it was 1985. As for the money and the watch, well, the girls have a mind of their own.

And shoes, I'm wearing high-heeled boots this morning; I apparently didn't learn my lesson. Who needs a rewrite? I should probably just live and learn.


At 9:15 AM, Johnny said...
youre supposed to save matches for the hot boys.

Girls' night out

The Girls with Drinks are going out.

All across the city, into the ‘burbs even, the Girls with Drinks (plus Berk) are getting ready to go out. Not all of the girls are heading out – there are a lot of us and the chance of us all getting together for anything less than a Neiman Marcus closeout sale are slim.

But tonight, Kayla made plans, made decisions and made some calls, er, emails and we’re going out.

I am sure that “getting around” as my college friend Stacy would say, is different for every one of us. I took a nap. An allergy/asthma attack last night kicked my butt and I feel a little like I have been punched in the throat. Eventually, though, I got up, gave myself a pedi and slipped into some killer silver wedges.

I might doubt the choice in trousers – the purple seems a little Barney-esque. And the shirt might a little low cut for an autumn night at the Carpool. Honestly, I would rather wear a turtleneck but I think it would a little tight on my neck. No problem of that in this shirt.

Somewhere Berk’s probably drinking a beer, not thinking about whether or not his shirt is too low cut or whether he should bring another pair of shoes in case he needs to Metro/walk home.

I would bet money that Kayla’s blow dryer is running and ESC is on her way out the door. Or she will be in an hour. We’re going to be late, running on “Kayla Standard Time” and Bray will be okay with it.

Some of the other girls might come later. Who knows? All I know is that we’re going to have fun tonight and stories to tell tomorrow. Always stories.

Okay. I lied. Kayla just called and we’re ahead of schedule. You never know what’s going to happen. As for me, I am on my way out the door.

Tag: Drinks Carpool

Elevator etiquette

Metro elevators scare me. Not in a general way or even a claustrophobic way, per se. I just get nervous when 12 full-grown adults cram into an elevator with me. I worry about what I would do if the elevator stopped running halfway down. Metro elevators are not known for reliability and making space for one, two, or five extra people could make a difference in a glass-walled cage halfway between the street and hell.

I am not a particularly nervous person, but I do have my quirks. Generally, I wait for the next run when it looks too crowded, which means that I end up in an equally crowded car, pressed against the back with my book in my face and a stranger on my toes.

Maybe I should take the escalator, but I know the fear is somewhat irrational and the elevator really is the quickest and easiest way to get from the Metro to my office and back again. And so, I take it. Several times a day.

The other night, my brother and I actually Metroed home together. We work together and live pretty close to each other, but we seem to be on a different schedule. I come in earlier. He leaves earlier. I work at home some evenings and weekends… Wait. This sucks.

Anyway, the stars aligned and we found ourselves waiting together for the next Metro elevator unwilling to pack our grown up bodies into the clown car of a Metro elevator with a dozen friends by proxy.

Down and back up at a crawl and we stepped on. Followed by a dozen new friends. (I really do try to limit my elevator experiences to eleven. It makes sense inside my head – they have similar sounds, prefixes, etc.) People were all kinds of grumpy, too, pressed up against each other, breathing each other’s air, brushing each other’s hair out of their eyes. Silently, down we rode.

“Mezzanine level,” announced the lovely disembodied elevator voice. I call her Sue. “Please exit the car.”

The doors generally open at this point, and we waited. And waited. And went back up to the street level where a new group had formed.

“Street level - Please exit the car,” Sue announced. The crowd outside the doors stepped aside, a bit disappointed because a full car generally means you just missed a train. Shock and disbelief quickly replaced the disappointment and expectation when the doors closed again and we rode back down.

I saw red-lipsticked corners twitching as the woman in front of me glanced around. The short, balding guy with a comb over snickered. Suddenly, the tension broke and everyone was laughing.

The next morning, my word of the day email arrived with the definition of mores, a word I remember from Sociology 101.

mores \MOR-ayz; -eez\, plural noun:
1. The fixed customs of a particular group that are morally binding upon all members of the group.
2. Moral attitudes.
3. Customs; habits; ways.

In sociology, we had to go out and break social mores: walk through campus holding hands with a couple of friends; forget the “bless you” when someone sneezed; ask someone for their seat on the Metro or bus, despite empty seats; ride an elevator facing the back or the side or standing immediately next to someone in an otherwise empty elevator.

This day after the scenic Metro lift ride, I found myself back in an elevator. (I am in them a lot.) When it emptied at the cafeteria level, I found myself next to the only other rider. I stepped aside. He laughed. I stepped back and said, “I don’t think I’m supposed to stand this close to you.”

We started talking and walked out of the building together, across the street, down the steps.

“I am really not following you,” he said. We were just walking in the same direction. It just seemed odd – talking to someone on the elevator, walking out of the building and exchanging more the platitudes. I don’t even know the social mores that we broke or even bent; it just felt a little strange. And nice.

It was nice to talk to someone, to share a laugh on an elevator and enjoy a little company on the short walk to the Metro.


Tag: Metro Mores Etiquette

The King

Halloween confounds me. Mayhap because feeding pure sugar and empty calories to children whose obesity rates are skyrocketing seems ridiculous, but more likely, this feeling is a result of my childhood fear of people in masks. I’d love to have a reasonable excuse for not liking the holiday, but alas, I’m just downright scared.

When I was 5, my mom and stepdad took my brother and I to Disney world, a virtual convention of masked creatures. Maybe not such a good idea, in retrospect. In Epcot, I ran away when some “thing” when an oversized President’s head approached us (and by “approach” I mean, he probably came within 50 feet). At my 7th birthday party, held at Roller Country USA, when ET skated out onto the rink, I disappeared. I was located in a bathroom stall clinging to the base of the toilet. Over the years, though, the fear seemed to taper off. Maybe I didn’t LOVE masks, but I also didn’t completely freak out, either.

This year, however, has been particularly disturbing. My fear has apparently escalated in recent times to the point where walking home from the metro to my house (a mere 2 ½ blocks) at 6:30pm on Halloween Monday gave me pause. The reason, you ask?

The King.

The one from the Burger King commercials. I know numerous individuals who agree that he is disturbing/weird/freaky, etc. I, however, have much stronger opinions. He truly frightens me. In a “Shit-hurry-up-and-change-the-channel-when-you-hear-the-Burger-King-commericial-music” kind of way. It sends me into a panic. Most people probably don’t even know that there is specific music that plays during those commercials, but I have it ingrained in my head, and know just from hearing that I should not look at the TV.

I can’t really explain the “why” (which many people have asked). My husband thinks I might need therapy. Because now, I am scared of ALL things in masks/costumes (clarification: the costume has to involve ADULTS with complete covering of the face. If I can see the person’s face, painted or not, I’m okay). For example, at a Nats game with my dad and a friend, I saw the somewhat non-intimidating Screech (Nats mascot) approaching our seats, and freaked out. The words “don’t make eye contact, or else he’ll come over” actually came out of my mouth. It’s like I lost all common sense. Screech was invented mainly to entertain children at the game, and he does not typically approach adults and harass them. I know this. But in that exact second, it seemed like a plausible scenario.

A friend, who is aware of my King fear, sent me a link to a Halloween costume site. Luckily, I figured out from his message that the King would be on the site, and I didn’t actually click on the link. Seriously, I refused to go to a website that had a PICTURE of the King. Turns out it was a pretty popular costume this year, as the site had sold out of the costume (so I hear, I never actually went to the site). Thus, I decided that I simply could not go out, answer the door, or even have the blinds open on Halloween. The aforementioned walk from the metro was stressful enough. You know, staying alert for any surprise King attacks and all.

Vigilance is key.

Tag: Burger King
Halloween
Masks

Empty candy coffers

I spoke too soon. I jinxed myself and lamented the fact that I had yet to see a trick-or-treater. (Actually, I did see one. I nabbed him off of my neighbors' stairs and gave him half a bag of candy.) I had been waiting almost two hours, hearing heavy, candy-hungry footsteps on the stairs upstairs yet no knocks on my own door.

Then, the doors of hell burst loose. At least, that's what it felt like. I think the kids must have been trucked in from another neighborhood because suddenly, hundreds of costumed goblins, gremlins and ghouls descended upon my block, swarming the street, screaming in fear, delight, sugar. I didn't recognize a single soul this all soul's eve.

Suddenly, the knock, glorious knock, for which I had been waiting. I answered the door and doled out candy. Dots and Milk Duds and full-size Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I think a single family knocked out my four-, er, three-bag (after a week of nibbling) supply. Kids in costumes, teens with garbage bags and pillowcases, an older woman hiding her face but unable to disguise her gravelly smoker's voice and aging hands: Door, curb, back for more.

An endless rotation up and down my steps and the candy was gone. Just gone.

I could hear the hundreds of kids outside and I considered my options. Giving away the candy I'd brought back from Germany, which would last about three seconds and confuse the heck out of a lot of people. Giving away foreign and domestic coins. Hiding.

I went with hiding.

I had two choices - hide in the back of the house with the lights turned off or go to a bar. I went to a bar. Monday night football seemed a slightly better option to cowering in my bedroom. Besides, if I hid in the bedroom, I would fall asleep and even with only four hours last night, I could not face an 8:15 bedtime.

I weaved through princesses and pirates, lions and cops and superheroes chewing and crying and screaming "trick or treat" as they walked down the sidewalk. I heard their voices echoing through the streets.

"She gave me money!" one child shouted in glee. "She gave me money! She gave me money! She gave me money!"

"She gave you what?" asked the mother in surprise.

"Money! She gave me money!"

That so could have been me. Instead, I stepped up to the downstairs bar at Pourhouse, ordered a Hefeweizen and watched the preamble to Monday night football. I nursed my beer an hour or so, gathered my black purse, orange sweater and orange jacket for a stroll through the candy-wrapper-strewn streets.

A lion slept, his face pressed against a butterfly's shoulder. An entire swarm of bumblebees buzzed across the street. A cow sat on his (I know, gender issues, right?) steps sorting candy and awaiting stragglers with his calf.

Slowly, limping slightly from lingering aches, I made my way home. I caught a little bit of Medium, the only metaphysical non-crap show I could find, and crawled into bed to sleep through the witching hour.


Tag: Halloween Candy

Happy Halloween

Waiting takes forever.

Here I sit, at my computer, just waiting for a knock. The outside light is on, the candy by the door. I’m wearing my new black velvet trousers and a black T with a small, sparkly jack-o-lantern. I am ready.

I have been ready for an hour. No knock yet.

It’s not like I don’t have anything to do – I’m obviously online. I am also eating a healthy dinner (pasta and vegetables) after my lunch of salad, candy, and cupcake. Breakfast consisted of cake.

Man, I love Halloween.

Everything turns upside down. Kids walk around the streets in the dark, knocking on doors, taking candy from strangers. It’s okay, though, because they’re pretending to be someone else.

Despite the free-for-all that is Halloween, I have rules about the holiday. Okay, so, I have rules about everything, some more faithfully followed than others, but I always adhere to rule number one about Halloween. Don’t date a guy you meet on Halloween.

Think about it. Is he in costume or a really bad dresser? Even if he’s in a great costume, you will forever look at him and think “Huh. Ed Grimley.” Great costume but who wants to walk down the aisle thinking, “I should have bought him a triangle.” Besides, you don’t know how he dresses in real life. I dated a kickballer named Tex. I only saw him in uniform until our first date. I figured out real fast why he was named Tex. Huh.

This year, no parties for me, though, and no fear of mistakenly falling for Mr. Clean instead of Mr. Right. I was invited to a party Friday, but my friends are hot and I didn’t want to feel bad about myself. On Saturday, I hit a bar, but didn’t dress up. I am a purist. I only dress up for bars on Halloween. None of this October 29 in costume crap for me.

A friend of mine recently asked if we could hit some of the DC “hotspots” looking for fodder – bars for me, boys for her. I agreed with one basic question, “Can I dress up as a superhero?”

I figured it would be okay. Everybody else dresses up and pretends to be something that they’re not. I’d just be a little more obvious. Or maybe I wouldn’t. I am not so sure that people would notice.

As I type, I am losing my train of thought. I swear that I can hear people on the steps outside, going upstairs. They are hitting my neighbors in the “grown up” part of the house, but my semi-subterranean door remains unknocked. I surf the channels looking for a good Halloween hit – the Great Pumpkin, Halloween, Scary movie, but see only SpongeBob, Phil of the Future, Scary Godmother – not even a special 7th Heaven.

I think I need to don the superhero costume and hit a bar. Anybody want some candy?

Tag: Halloween

7 Comments:
At 10:16 PM, I-66 said...
I want candy!


At 3:48 PM, Kristin said...
I actually got slammed with trick-or-treaters about an hour after I wrote this. I basically ran out of candy and had to hide.


At 4:52 PM, Sharkbait said...
Ha go figure-isn't that how it always goes! That happened to me last year, almost went to bed and then answered the door in my PJs. You cannot let the kids go without!

At least you were prepared and the candy ran out, now you don't have to finish it off!


At 11:43 PM, DCLastCall said...
Which superhero?

DcLc


At 9:25 AM, Johnny said...
candy makes u randy.


At 1:36 PM, Chairborne Stranger said...
Which bar? I need a drink.


At 3:48 PM, Kristin said...
Still trying to figure everything out. I didn't actually wear a costume to the Pourhouse, but I'm working on it. The superhero identity, at least. Fortunately, without leftover candy, I shouldn't turn into the 500-pound Woman or anything.