Sprung

Cherry blossoms and 70-degree days, spring has sprung in our nation’s capital and I am miserable.

This afternoon, the day of the peak, the day when 70-percent of the blossoms bloomed proudly under a clear blue sky, trembled softly in a gentle breeze, reflected in the Tidal Basin, the Potomac, and various reflecting pools, I found myself traveling down Independence trying to get to training on time.

Traffic backed up toward the Roosevelt Bridge, crawling inch by miserable inch along Ohio Drive SW, past the Lincoln Memorial, along the Potomac toward the flowering beauties. Lights changed from red to green and back again while I gazed out the window. My driver, my friend, my coworker smoked guiltily through the open window as we watched minutes churn through the idling engine.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I shouted at women in suits and men in shirts and ties crossing the street in front of the car. The window was open; they might have heard me. I hoped they did. “Cross at the light!”

The driver slipped lower in her seat, dragging on the cigarette, smoking just two weeks after attempting to quit.

At one of the endless string of lights, a mass of women in skirts and heels, unschooled children and men in shorts, all carrying cameras, walked in front of the car, half of them staring through the window as if we had suddenly sprouted snowy white blooms and gnarled branches.

“Yeah, I’m wearing a winter coat,” I muttered. “Get over it. Take a picture. Get away from the car!” And still they stared.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the office, 15 minutes late for the hour-long session, and at least 10 minutes away from entering the classroom, the driver looked at me.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re already late,” I replied. “I don’t know. Go home?”

“Home?” she asked.

“Yeah. No. The office. Home. It’s all the same anymore.”

We turned around and made our way back through the flower-struck crowd. I muttered the whole way. By the time I got back to the office, I started sneezing. My nose and my throat ached in allergy-induced misery and I simply wanted to crawl under my desk and sleep.

I love the blossoms. Last year, I wandered about with my camera and my tripod shooting shots of white flowers against the midnight sky. I wandered around the Capitol, the Jefferson, the tidal basin awed by the quiet beauty.

For several weeks, during the season of growth, of beauty, of rebirth, I also popped allergy meds like it was my job and avoided downtown like the plague. I can only take so much spring in my step and spring in my life. My body’s stuck in winter.

I am slower to bloom than the flashy flowers along the basin, but I’ll get there. I think I'll start by packing up the winter coat (or at least putting it out of sight for a while) and hoping that spring is here to stay.


Tag: Spring Washington DC Cherry Blossoms Allergies

Ding, ding

I heard a bell behind me and moved to the right, stepping neatly behind my friend Meghan.

Ding, ding.

I always wanted a bell on the handlebar of my pink bike, the one with the banana seat. I think I got a horn once, but nobody attached it for me. It disappeared eventually, lost in a mess of childhood confusion.

Ding, ding.

A young boy on a bike pedaled up next to us. Helmeted and padded, he rode slowly on the cobblestones, barely breaking past us. He stopped at the corner, his little brother wobbling up behind him.

We stopped at the corner, too, Meghan and I, looked both ways and crossed against the light, setting a terrible example for the boys on bikes. A few minutes later, we heard it again.

Ding, ding.

“Say ‘On the left,’” a voice called from behind.

“Mah-ahm” cried the boy on the bike, embarrassment seeping from both syllables of the generally single-syllabled word.

Ding, ding.

I moved to the right, behind Meghan again, watching her bobbing ponytail as we edged down the sidewalk.

“Say ‘On the left,’” called the voice as first one, then another young boy passed. A couple of seconds later Mah-ahm passed on a razor, pushing off with her high-heeled foot. “Clear.”

The boys kept pedaling; their mother a few feet behind on her scooter, rolling down the cobbled sidewalks. Tailored pants, highlighted hair, silk scarf billowing in the breeze. A bag from the local organic store hanging from the handle bar.

Ding, ding.


Tag: Bicycles Kids Capitol Hill

Brunch with a side of jazz

“Where do you want to go?” I asked my friend Meghan, stopping in front of Ellington’s on Eighth. “This is a jazz café. They’ve got a buffet and a brunch menu. There’s a Cuban place over there. Creole down the street. A few pubs...”

“Typical breakfast fair?” Meghan supplied. I nodded. “This is fine.”

It was spontaneous consumption, a brunch sparked by a morning run in the District and a desire to reconnect. We walked into the club, past the people sipping mimosas at the table in the window, past the threadbare, comfy chairs, past the baby grand and toward the bar. The waiters smiled as we walked up.

“You’re right on time,” said a man in brightly colored shirt, grinning broadly and showing us to a wobbly table near the fireplace in the tiny, crowded dining room. He handed us menus, lit the candle on our table and backed away smiling. Meghan looked at her menu.

“I’ve, um, been here recently,” I said. Three times in the past four weeks, to be exact. Sunday brunch at Ellington’s. Mimosas, eggs Florentine and jazz music.

It started by accident, looking for a place with salads on a Sunday morning. Deep-fried, fatty goodness? No problem. Syrup flows through the streets of Southeast. Potatoes hash. Eggs practically devil themselves in glee, but leafy greens are hard to find.

Since that fateful Sunday, I have been back. I keep going back. I have become a regular at a jazz café and I love it - from the fireplace to the patio, from the waiter who barely speaks a word of English the bluesy jazz singer up front. The place feels like a favorite pair of jeans, well-worn, faded and frayed at the seams, but the perfect fit.

Meghan glanced around at a sea of champagne flutes.

“A mimosa would be nice,” she mused.

“You get one free with your breakfast,” I replied. “Or a bellini or coffee… You don’t want coffee do you?”

We ordered our drinks and moved to the buffet, piling our plates with breakfasty goodness. We returned to our table by the fireplace, our pitcher of water, and a leisurely chat over champagne and fruit, eggs, cheese and honey-glazed veggies. In the room next door, a player tickled the ivories on the baby grand, a trumpet resounded, and soul-filled sadness filled the air.

Next week, I’ll be back.


Tag: Brunch Jazz Ellington's on Eighth

A secret

I have a secret. It’s kind of embarrassing but I think it’s about time that I get it out.

I don’t know how to run.

I understand the logistics of propelling my body forward in motion and time. Pick up the speed, pump the arms, move from walking to running. Get someplace fast. I get it. I just don’t really get it.

I have run before – I played soccer as a kid, basketball at the Y, kickball in gym class. We used to run laps around the cafeteria/gymnasium once a week in elementary school, past Mr. Eckerd with those sexy gray polyester shorts, balding pate and his whistle.

Then, again, maybe I didn’t really run. I was terrible at soccer and could shoot but not really run down the court. One of my mom’s favorite stories is how she taught me to “say no” if somebody asked me to do something I didn’t want to do. A week or two later, she got a call from Washington Elementary. I said no to gym class.

I didn’t completely forego exercise. I walked everywhere and rode my pink bike with the banana seat until it was stolen. I grew up a swimmer, taking lessons throughout childhood, lifeguarding as a teen. Even today, I swim fairly regularly. I swim for exercise. I swim to relax. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Quiet. Calm. Paced. It works for me, but I don’t always have the option.

Good lap pools are few and far between. Even at the pool, I struggle to find an uncrowded lane. I watch from the edge of the pool waiting for space, cold and vulnerable without my contacts, half-naked and damp. I swim during preset hours, outside of lessons, outside of swim team, while there’s a lifeguard on duty.

Over the years, I have tried to pick up running. Running for exercise. Running for fun. I have a treadmill in my apartment, my second or third in the past eight years. I have worn them out, called the companies, ordered replacement parts, broken bits and pieces and belts walking mile after mile after mile.

I just can’t seem to run.

A couple of years ago, my doctor diagnosed my asthma. The doctor before him had hinted at it, given my history of allergies and chronic bronchitis, but nobody told me I had asthma until I stopped breathing and started wheezing one uncomfortable Sunday afternoon. (That's what I get for dusting.)

26 years old and I found out that I’d had asthma most of my life. I didn’t like running because I stopped breathing and started wheezing whenever I ran. I figured that I just didn’t know how to breathe right, that I was doing something wrong; I didn't know that my body couldn't handle it. The doctor gave me an inhaler, told me I could run whenever I wanted and I realized that I didn’t want. I didn’t know how to run.

How do you breathe while running? What do you do with your arms? Is there good posture? Better form?

My knees are crap. So are my ankles. And I have arthritis in my hips. I don’t know if I’d run if I could, but I admire people who run for exercise, enjoyment, stress release. Anywhere in the world, at any point, a runner can just take off, pound the pavement, and get something for his efforts. I admire that.

I envy runners.

I am so embarrassed.


Tag: Running Exercise Asthma

Charlie's angels

Saturday morning dawned cloudy and cool. Rolling over beneath my red flannel sheets, I looked at the clock. The numbers blurred into a red haze through the gauze curtain and my uncorrected vision. Yawning, I stretched, threw aside the covers and crawled out of bed, padding down the hall to the living room, turning on the TV and the computer and curling up on the couch.

Some time passed before I heard the neighbors scratching the floor upstairs, dragging a vacuum across my ceiling. I pulled myself upright. Went to the bathroom and put in my contacts. When I got back to the living room, I finally looked at the clock, convinced it would read some midmorning figure.

7:39 and wide awake. I sat down at the computer and sent a couple of messages, surfed the net, caught up on blogs. I tried to get into the Today show. I read a little of my book and grew antsy. Tired of waiting.

8:47 and ready to start the day. I pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and my favorite orange hoodie sweater. I grabbed my book. I grabbed my phone and the silver cigarette case that serves as a wallet and I walked over to Eastern Market for bluebucks at the Market Lunch.

Outside the redbrick building, I wound my way through vendors setting up tables, setting out framed photographs, jewelry, vegetables. A man with a cane held the door for me and joined me at the back of the line. I opened my book and started to read.

“That’s a good idea,” the man said. “Bringing a book or patience. Gotta have patience for this line. I hoped to get in and get out. I didn’t know if they’d serve me today. I don’t know if they will. I’ll try to get through the line.”

I put my book in my bag and looked at him, really looked at him. He held a crisp five and a one-dollar bill in his hand, grasping the head of his cane with the other. His eyes were hidden by blue-framed sunglasses with silver spider webbing. His hair was hidden by a knit cap. I assumed he was homeless. I didn’t know.

“The line’s not too bad today. It’s early yet,” I said.

“I have been here with the line going out the back door and around the building,” he said. I nodded; I’ve seen the same.

“Give it an hour, I bet it will get bad,” I replied.

We talked for a while. At times, I had trouble understanding him but I tried. He was nice. I think he told me about a recent doctor’s appointment. I definitely got the next part.

“I didn’t have any cavities!” he announced, opening his mouth and showing me his bare gums. I laughed. There wasn't a tooth in his head.

“I just went to the dentist, too. No cavities for me, but I do have a mouth full of metal.”

“Appearances are important. I don’t smile or laugh a lot,” he said. “Nobody knows that all my teeth are gone.”

He smiled and laughed the whole time we talked. He told me that he wanted an omelet, toast and grits with milk and coffee. He liked his grits with sugar and butter, but he would take them cheesy like I like them.

“You’re making me hungry!” cried the woman behind us in line. She asked about my book, Magical Thinking, and asked if I’d read Running with Scissors and Dry. She asked if I liked David Sedaris as well. The man offered to move, but we went back to talking about food.

By the time we got to the counter, he changed his order. He changed it again and again, standing in line, reading the board. A man got between him and the board once, throwing out his trash.

“Excuse me,” my new friend said. “I am trying to read the board. I am trying to decide.” He started singing a random, wordless tune. The man with the tray stared at him, glanced at me, and backed away.

“Hey, Charlie,” said the woman behind the counter, one of the cooks.

“I am getting food today,” he muttered. “I thought I was going to be blackballed. No way I was going to stand in line and not get food.”

“Hey, Charlie,” said the woman taking orders. He ordered a crabcake and toast, grits and potatoes, a large coffee.

We moved down to angry woman, the one who gives you food. No talking. She would yell at me. She did yell at Charlie when he turned to me, as I walked away.

“I’ll have to make a plan to see you every Saturday!”

I smiled and found a spot at the counter. Trapped between two groups, I cut into my bluebucks, not very hungry but eating the buttery blueberry buckwheat goodness. I looked down the counter and saw Charlie find a spot. A few spots opened around him and the woman behind us in line sat down next to him.

I walked over before I left and tapped his shoulder.

“Have a great weekend.”

He turned and flashed a great gummy smile.

“Charlie’s angels!” he cried, motioning to the woman from line: “Mandy.” He motioned to me.

“Kristin.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie’s angels,” he beamed. I think we made his day. “Give me the thumb.”

He held his fist up, thumb out. I did the same and he pressed his thumb against mine, grinning broadly. When I walked out, the sun had broken through the clouds. Another beautiful day in DC.


Tag: Eastern Market Market Lunch Washington DC

Tag along

Tag: A game in which one player pursues the others until he or she is able to touch one of them, who then in turn becomes the pursuer.

I have been tagged by one Drunken Chud. Shhhhh. It’s a sex tag. Now, I can understand why he’d want to know a bit of my... history. We’re getting married, you know. He proposed via comments (the magic that is blogging). Maybe someday we'll even meet.

Honestly, I am tempted to answer, but we run family-friendly blog. My grandma bookmarked the site and if she ever figured out how to access her bookmarks, my writing would kill her. The news of my sex life would bring her back from the grave to clean the floor with her favorite granddaughter.

I am her favorite - I play Boggle with her. Sometimes, I even let her win. Actually, she’s great competition; she spends weeks practicing prior to my visit. Playing by herself. Working the crossword. Unjumbling words. The woman preps and sometimes, well, sometimes she kicks my ass.

Most of the time, though, I win. That’s why she likes me. I don’t treat her like an invalid, imbecile or a little old lady. I treat her like a friend. I swear in front of her. I tease her. I told her I was Jewish at my grandfather’s funeral. (She’s a strict, Missouri Synod Lutheran and she was not amused. I had, however, taken a spirituality test and my thoughts and beliefs are clearly aligned with at least three forms of Judaism as well as Bahá'í Faith and the Quakers. I neglected to mention that I am most closely aligned to liberal Christian Protestants. Why rock the boat?)

After my grandfather died, life changed for Grandma Mavis. Her kids started painting the walls and she decided that she never really liked beige. I don’t know if she likes the colors they’ve picked, but she seems happier. The orange sofa in the study and the olive green one in the living room disappeared. Replaced by deep dark blue, rich cranberry, colors from something more recent than 1975.

A couple of years ago, Grandma Mavis stopped eating real meals and started eating candy because that’s what she likes. She seems to be doing okay, though, and other than me, nobody tells her stop. She’s pushing 80. She lived with her husband, my grandfather for 56 years. She raised five kids, got her degree in her 50s and is finally figuring out how she likes her eggs.

I’m pretty sure she’d scramble my eggs if I answered the questions…

How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.

What is the strangest place you've had sex?

Who would you consider switching teams for?

Do you prefer to give or receive?

One night stands. What's the protocol…stay the night or get the hell outta there?

Favourite body part/parts of the opposite sex?

Quickie or long and slow?

Noisy or quiet?

Ideal amount of sex per week?

What's your number one sexual turn off?

Number one arousal trigger?

What constitutes bad sex?

Celebrity you would love to shag right now?

Define sexy?

The best sex you ever had.


I swear I don’t understand the questions, Grandma. Cross my heart (and uncross my fingers).


Tag: Tag Family Grandma

Tuesday mornings

I have a meeting every Tuesday, 9 a.m. Same bat time. Same bat channel. Same flipping conversation. Every single Tuesday, and it’s finally starting to get interesting. You see, we’re running out of chairs.

A woman recently joined our group from another team. The other contractors have brought in back-ups, as have I. And the girl on maternity leave? She came back yesterday.

It’s not just the growing group. It’s the chairs: comfy, ergonomic, rolly chairs. They’re the nicest chairs in the building and people keep stealing them. We’re down to five rolly chairs and a single stacking chair with worn and faded padding.

This morning we were fine. My trusty office sidekick? Still in Florida. And a couple of the other contractors bailed but it was close, the new guy came in last and got the stacking chair, sitting a little lower than the rest and completely immobile. I was late. Fortunately, I snuck in under the wire to snag the last rolly.

Next week? We will definitely not have enough chairs. I plan to get there early, but I’m pretty sure I could take someone down if I have to. The new mom. The guy with the suit. Whatever. I could take them.

Note: I have no idea why nobody’s replacing the chairs or why we don’t move to the larger conference room next door, but we don’t. Instead, every single Tuesday at 9 a.m. we run out of chairs.

Yeah. This is my Tuesday. Does anyone wonder why I go out on Tuesday nights?


Tag: Work Office Meeting

What's shakin'?

Today is one of those days. Not even mean reds. Just. Plain. Bad.

Today is a day that I understand the commercial for one of those career websites, the one with the parrot squawking, “I can’t take it anymore” and “Not another day.”

I can’t take it anymore.

Not another day.

My trusty office sidekick finds herself soaking up the rays in sunny Florida while I hold down a fort that seems to be shifting, growing, shrinking and throwing fruit flies at me. Damn fruit flies.

In a shocking turn of events, I have been asked to do something that I don’t know how to do based on data that does not exist and submit my results by this afternoon. I got the request on Friday and the due date today.

As an added pleasure, people’s bonuses will be tied to the targets set by my model. The model that doesn’t exist. A model that was tasked to someone else four weeks ago, by the way.

Did I mention the shaking?

I have a slew of nervous disorders that poke up their miserable heads every once in a while. Twitching, vomiting, headaches. I’ve gone through them all. Today: Shaking and nausea. Tomorrow: Cloudy with a chance of meatballs. In between, I will go to bed and pray that I will not wake up.

And tomorrow, I will awaken. In a few days, the sidekick will return. I will have figured out how to make something from nothing and life will go on.

For now, though, I just want the shaking to stop. And maybe somebody could smite the fruit flies.


Tag: Stress Work

March Madness

“Basketball’s not life, Ings.”

“Uh, huh. Basketball is life. I don’t understand.”

It all started with a phone call. Nems reached over and paused the game. It wasn’t the game we were watching. Mason and North Carolina were still at the half, but basketball is basketball and we wouldn’t miss a minute of play.

“Are we pausing life?” Ings asked.

A case of march madness.

I’m not a big basketball fan but I can follow the game. I spent three years with my high school team, sitting on the bench for every JV and varsity game, handing out water and towels, ice bags and Band-Aids and taping up knees and ankles and any other bit that went out of place.

Looking back, I don’t know why I did it. I was never a basketball fan but the boys were cute. Besides, I got a (bus) ride to every game, I didn’t pay for tickets, and basketball games were the place to be. Anybody who was anybody in the high school scene was there.

Popular girls cheered. Popular boys played. A year after graduation, one of the players knocked up one of the cheerleaders. They got married. He’s coaching college ball now and she just finished her degree. After eleven years and two kids. In those days, though, everything seemed perfect: The boys with the baggy shorts, the girls with the pom-poms.

Talented juniors and enthusiastic seniors played in the pep band. Students sat in the same section, shouting over Louie Louie, the Hey song, the fight song. Freshmen girls giggled and walked out to the concession stand for Blowpops and full-caloried sodas sold by the Key Clubbers working the stand. Junior high kids and less popular high schoolers were relegated to the visitors’ side.

And I sat on the bench with the team, handing out towels and water, ice bags and Band-Aids and taping up knees and ankles and any other bit that went out of place.

After the regional championship, I joined the tall sweaty boys midcourt, posing for a picture in my pegged jeans and baggy Bobcat T-shirt. I am sure the picture hangs in the high school lobby, a new school I have never seen.

I went to State with the boys, staying three nights in Columbus. The only girl allowed to stay – even the cheerleaders went home. I just sat around and played euchre with the boys, fought off advances and midnight calls and babysitting the coaches’ boys. We lost in a heart-wrenching, last-second call. We drowned the loss in alfredo sauce at the Olive Garden and a viewing of White Men Can’t Jump.

For three years, basketball was life. Maybe Ings was right.


Tag: Basketball

Cinnamon Toast

When the phone rang this morning, I considered ignoring it. I wasn’t exactly in the position to talk. I wasn’t exactly in the position to pick up, but I thought it might be my sister. I shuffled an armload of spices and picked up the phone. It was definitely not my sister.

It all started with the toast. I haven’t been grocery shopping in ages. I actually don’t remember the last trip. I think it might have been a week or two before my mother’s visit in February. It preceded the great refrigerator purge after an unfortunate door handle incident and whenever it was, it was too long ago. I am down to a single loaf of bread in the freezer, some butter, some pasta, a cup of rice and about 17 cans of beans.

Toast. Toast would curb my hunger. Delicious, buttery, cinnamon goodness would be just the thing. I toasted and buttered my bread. I opened the cupboard to grab the cinnamon sugar and stopped. No cinnamon sugar. Huh. I pulled out jars of spice and honey. I pulled out the vinegar. The beans. The rice. Still no cinnamon sugar. I thought back to the last time I had seen it.

“Ah, fudge,” I thought. “I gave it to Mom.”

It could be anywhere. I am finding things from when Mom helped me by organizing the cupboards. When I moved in. 20 months ago. I only have four and a half cupboards and they are not very big.

I gave up and started pulling everything from the food cupboard, piling it on the counter. Unfortunately, I have even less counter space than cupboard space and I found myself clutching an armload of jars and canisters and a packet of airplane pretzels. Thinking it was my sister, I answered and found myself entrenched in a 15-minute conversation about my health.

Apparently, I was randomly selected to participate in a survey for the DC Department of Health, yadda, yadda, yadda, in partnership with the Centers for Disease Control, blah, blah, blah. Would I answer a few questions? Did I want to know the web address?

Juggling cumin and coriander, marjoram and bay leaves, I declined the address and started answering questions regarding my health and my history. I answered questions regarding my salary and insurance coverage, my employment status, education level and singledom.

Sometime after the standard list of HIV questions and before “Have you ever been sexually assaulted?” I realized that I was giving a lot of information to a complete stranger, over the phone, without even having the number on caller ID. I didn’t give up anything terribly personal, nothing I wouldn’t share, nothing incriminating, nothing embarrassing, but I still worried about my gullible nature. It could have been anyone on the phone with a confident voice and preset list of questions.

I worried a second, shifted the phone to the other ear and kept answering questions. I kept working on the cupboard and found the cinnamon sugar. I answered the rest of the questions, hung up and ate my cold cinnamon toast.

They’re calling back in a couple of weeks to talk about my asthma.


Tag: Health Survey Toast

Like pulling teeth

“Are you sure you’ve been here before?” the dentist asked for the fourth time.

“Yes… It’s been a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“I don’t know. Two years? Maybe three?”

I hate going to the dentist. The sound of the drill, even the sound of the polishing thing, makes my skin crawl. The taste of latex, not knowing where to put my tongue, a vacuum sucking out every bloody drop of moisture. I can’t stand it, but after two years, maybe three, I’m lucky to have a tooth left in my head.

Growing up, every six months, we visited Dr. Mitchell in his simple little office on the beautiful wooded lot between the road and his house. Classical music wafted overhead and artwork, lovely original pieces, adorned the warm sandy walls. Reclining in the chair, tools and wires and drool hanging out of my mouth, I could look out and watch sunlight dancing between the leaves.

Dr. Mitchell employed two dental hygienists, who cleaned and polished teeth, filled the plastic bite guards with fluoride, and timed my slow, gagging reaction making sure my teeth soaked long enough in the bitter gel. He came in later, the man with gentle hands and a gentle voice poking at my gums and teeth.

Unfortunately, this peaceful place in the woods stemmed my hatred of all things dental. I managed to avoid braces with straight even teeth, but the sound of the drill consistently followed my appointments by about two weeks. I have enough metal in my mouth to set off detectors, multiple fillings in multiple teeth. If I were an actor, I could never do a period piece for fear of opening my mouth and displaying the flashy, 20th century molars.

I have soft teeth. I have TMJ (temporomandibular joint syndrome) and I clench my jaw, hallowing out my poor pearly whites. I have a bite guard, which I don’t use because a) it hurts, b) it makes me angry because the dentist who convinced me to buy it underestimated the cost by 200-percent and c) I tend to forget that I have it in, talk to people and slobber all over myself.

I did go semi-annually through college and for the two years after, when I lived in Colorado. Then, I quit my job and my measly insurance. My cobra plan didn’t include my choppers. I didn’t have proper, teeth-fixing coverage for a full year.

Eventually, I returned to the world of the health insurance plus vision and dental. I went to the dentist for a cleaning and a clean report. I followed up with another appointment and then, I don’t know. I forgot. I tried to forget. I couldn’t stand the sound of the drill. Or even that polishing wand. Shiver.

Then, I broke off a bit of my tooth. Flossing, I unloosed a chunk the size of sea salt. Interesting but not enough to get me to pick up the phone, until the dentist chastised the Brokekid and he chastised me. I called on Tuesday, got in Wednesday and faced the embarrassment of two, maybe three years of neglect.

“Your file is going to be in the back,” the dentist said. “I’m going to need you to fill out everything again. Are you sure you’ve been here before? That you’ve seen me? The bald headed one?”

I did. He’s the one who promoted green tea. He’s the one with a rather heavy hand with that little hook thing. I remembered his bald head.

I had forgotten the absurdity of the office, a ground floor space in a Ballston office building. The exam rooms consisted of three walls and a solid bank of windows. Ground floor. Street side. With my 11 a.m. appointment stretching ‘til 12:20, I found myself watching and watched by office workers heading to lunch.

I was glad I wore trousers that day as I reclined, feet toward the window, a paper bib chained around my neck, fingers and hooks in my mouth and a bespectacled bald pate gleaming in the light. I especially enjoyed the leaded apron and grimacing grin of dental X-rays. I’m sure I looked pretty. I’m sure people could see, because I could see in when I walked past, gawking at the man who preceded me in the chair.

Fortunately, aside from a little bleeding (he really is heavy handed with the scraper) and a lot of nervous laughter, there were no problems. Not with my gums, my teeth or even that little broken bit of enamel. No cavities. No frightening plaque build up or even more frightening bad breath. I survived. I scheduled another appointment for September. I plan to keep it but I hate going to the dentist.


Tag: Dentist Dental Teeth

Fly me a river

Prefer an aisle or exit row seat? Northwest Introduces Coach Choice Seating!

Northwest has begun saving some preferred seats (including aisle and exit row seats) in coach class until check-in, which is available 24 hours prior to departure. You can confirm these preferred seat assignments for only $15 per flight.

On your next trip, go to nwa.com® Manage My Reservations, nwa.com check-in® or a Northwest Self-service Check-in Kiosk at the airport to purchase your Coach Choice seats.

Coach Choice is a test product available anywhere in the U.S. Only 5% of seat assignments will be saved for Coach Choice so check in early for more choices.

Not 10 minutes after I read this email, did the Today show feature a story on the change – focusing primarily on Northwest but covering an industry trend toward la carte pricing for prime seat assignments, baggage handling and beverage services.

The piece featured a report from Reagan National Airport on Northwest’s plans as well as interviews with fliers who belittled the move and what seemed like ridicule from Matt and Katie back at in Studio 1B, Rockefeller Plaza.

I am a frequent flier. That is why I got the email. Every morning, I wade through a glut of airline announces from profusion of carriers. At last count, I think it was 16 distinct carriers (both domestic and international), but recent mergers might have cut the number a hair.

The point is that I fly. I love to fly and it shows. I have stopped searching, started traveling. Life is a journey, and I travel it well. Some people just know how to fly. Lower fares, fewer restrictions. All of that – I buy it. Lock, stock and barrel, and lately, I have been buying it at bargain basement prices. Even with the rising costs of fuel, ticket prices have continued to drop.

In the face massive debt, airlines have declared bankruptcy, withdrawn from major hubs, consolidated, merged and turned to partnerships and code sharing. Costs have been cut in terms of food and beverage services with free meals no more than a faded memory or the occasional perk on an international flight. Labor costs have been reduced through layoffs, salary cuts for pilots, attendants and maintenance technicians, and the eradication of pension plans.

And, yet, costs continue to rise and ticket prices drop.

Airlines cannot control the supply or price of fuel, and given the trend toward heavier passengers with heavier bags, the airlines need even more fuel to go the same distance. At a time when the oil companies report record profits to the tune of billions of dollars, airlines operate at a loss, a significant loss, a loss from which they might not recover, and people are complaining about paying an extra 15 bucks for more legroom.

Honestly, I am impressed that by the move to a la carte pricing. They could have just increased fares across the board, but instead, they are asking passengers to pay for what they get. Sure, I want a cheap seat as much as the next person, but I don’t think it’s my right to demand the airline to operate at a loss.

Air travel is not a right. It is a privilege. It is a luxury. Airline carriers are businesses. Theoretically, for profit. Give them a break.

[Stepping down from soapbox now]


Tag: Northwest Airlines Flying Oil Airlines

Sorry about the double posting. I had already written one, but then I got a little irked by current events.

One, two, three, breathe

I made it to the pool last night. Lap swim for Kristin!

After standing at the edge of the packed pool two nights ago, trying to figure out where I fit, I decided to go a little later. Tuesday night means water aerobics at the Rumsey natatorium, short lanes and big waves until 7:30.

I sat at the edge of the pool, watching and waiting as short lanes switched to long. Sitting there, with teens waiting for lessons, a man waiting to teach, I watched a man struggle to pull a lane divider to the shallow end.

“Look - he’s helping,” said one of the teens, gesturing with his chin.

“That’s what I pay people for,” said the man. “Hey, that’s what I pay you for!”

“He’s doing fine. Look he’s got his head up.”

“That’s what worries me,” said the man. “Hey, that’s what I pay you for!”

The lifeguards at the deep end didn’t seem to hear. Nobody moved. We all watched the man struggle several more minutes. Eventually, a few more swimmers grabbed dividers and pulled. I walked around the edge of the pool and offered to help.

“Will you take the last one?” rumbled a man in a grizzly, old man voice. Pointing, he said, “The end’s out there.”

I nodded, suctioned goggles to my face and dove into the water. After breaking the surface, I cut through the water. I picked up the end, tucked it under my arm and made for the shallow end. Within a couple of strokes, instinct took over and my body figured out how to move forward with only one arm.

“I haven’t done this in years,” I thought. “Ten? Twelve? I’m getting to old for this.”

I felt good, though, and not too “too old” by the time I secured the end. For my efforts, I earned a whole lane to myself for the first 12 laps. Other swimmers safe from me. Me safe from worry.

As I swam, I watched the lifeguard lessons and thought of my own instruction 13 years ago. I couldn’t do it again. Not now. Not in this shape. Did I really pull a linebacker 20 lengths of the pool? Flip him over my shoulder after a fake attack from behind? His hands on my breasts provided some motivation. I kicked him, too, for good measure.

“Damn Jeff,” I thought. “I think he went to my church.”

Pulling myself out of the pool, about three laps after my knees started aching, 20 laps in and about 20 laps shy of doing any good, I thought of lifeguarding at a summer camp. Note to self: Canoeing and dysentery do not go a pleasant trip make. On the last night, horsing around, a couple of guys tossed Jen N. into the deep end. Fighting, twisting, she hit her head on the side. Concussion. Torn neck muscles. She missed a semester of school and stopped talking to the rest of us.

In the locker room, dressing, I remembered years of lessons. Watching Smurfs in between the classes I took and the classes I helped teach. Ninety minutes of Smurfs on Saturday morning; though I only caught a little. I was younger than the beginners in the classes I “taught.”

On the walk home, I flashed back to wet-headed waits for Mom, my sister trying to get away from me, me failing to take the hint. I remembered underwear rolled up in my towel before class and swimsuit after. The Saturdays I forgot my underwear were bad but not as bad as the embarrassment of carrying a bra in the towel, too, years earlier than any of my friends.

A million thoughts ran through my head. A million thoughts run through my head every time I swim. Between “One, two, three, breathe” and “Flip turn? No flip turn? Flip turn?” I think of boiled eggs and lifeguarding lessons. I think of work and home and boys. I think of headaches and heating bills. I think of goggles suctioned to my face and baggy Speedos not suctioned to anything. I think. That’s all that really matters.

I think.


Tag: Swimming Lifeguarding Washington DC

Lame duck

I tried to go swimming last night. Try being the key word, as my foot failed to touch chlorinated water, my eyes remained unred, my nose unrunny and my hair unstripped.

“It’s getting crowded,” said the woman/girl at the locker next next to mine as she wrapped herself in a towel and wormed out of her skirted suit.

“Crowded? Really?” I asked. “That’s unfortunate.”

“I think it’s the weather. Everybody’s getting all...” jazz hands. She kept her elbows pressed tight, pinning the towel in place.

“I think it’s supposed to get colder tomorrow,” I replied, pulling my contacts out and slipping them into solution. I screwed the caps tight and grabbed my goggles, heading toward the showers.

“That’s a good thing,” she said, her voice muffled by the shirt pulled over her head. I didn’t really know what she meant, but I don’t understand a lot of people.

I activated the stream, leaning over and waving my hand in front of the sensor, waiting for it to warm a bit. I drenched my hair and watched streams of dark red form on my chest, hips and side before twisting, leaning, and arching trying to even it out a bit.

Looking down, I walked gingerly across the wet tile. (One of these days, I am going to slip, bang my head and roll into the kiddy pool, drowning in a lukewarm cesspool of chlorine, baby piss and snot.) I walked to the edge of the big pool, the shallow end, and looked up.

Fudge. Skirt girl was right. It was crowded.

I squinted, trying to read the signs at the end of the lanes. I couldn’t see a thing, but thought I saw the word “Fast” opposite me. I looked down at the water. A speed swimmer. Stroke, stroke, stroke, flip. Stroke, stroke, stroke, flip. (I don’t think he inhaled the entire length of the pool.) The second swimmer, an adolescent flutter-kicking slowly with a kickboard. Not a good rotation to join. Outpaced by one, outpacing the other.

(For the record, I’m a medium swimmer. Fast for the first few laps. Medium in the middle. Slow for the last five. That’s when I know to stop. I often wonder if I shouldn’t switch lanes a couple of times to keep up with the signs, but I don’t. Nobody seems to pay them much mind.)

In the lane next to “Fast,” three swimmers passed each other in an endless loop of varying speeds. I couldn’t quite gather the gumption to make a fourth. Pass, passed, slap, pass, turn. Passed, pass, passed, kick, turn with apologies muttered underwater.

The three lanes to the right were filled with yellow-capped heads, timed and measured by a man with a whistle. He kept blowing the whistle and screaming. Either practice ran late or lessons have started, which aren’t on my schedule from Christmas.

The rest of the pool was filled with screaming teens, preteens and kids with noodles and balls, flailing arms and legs, and I know I saw at least one butterfly stroke.

I stood at the edge of the pool, damp and indecisive, squinting for at least 20 minutes. I might have stood another 20 if not for the sudden realization that three teenage boys sat in the booth behind me, subject to my damp, swimsuited derriere and dimpled thighs.

Honestly, I didn’t care so much about the view from behind, as how I might have appeared on a psychological level.

“What’s that wet woman doing? Standing there with goggles on her head and fingers in her mouth?” (I’m a chronic nailbiter) and “Can’t she move already? She’s blocking the view.”

Eventually, I walked back to the locker room, stripping the band from my hair and shaking it out. Damp. Disappointed. Frustrated.

I swim to relax. To float and crawl and think. I knew that stressing about sharing a lane with two or three others, worrying about kicking or hitting someone else (which happens more than I like to admit) wouldn’t help. I packed up and headed home.

I will try again tonight. I could still use a float, a crawl and a think. Besides, it’s colder today. Maybe some people will stay in and if I think about it, I will ask for a new schedule.

Note: I cannot complain all that much. As a resident of DC, I have free access to the William H. Rumsey Aquatic Center and it’s only four blocks from my house. I can keep trying. For more information on facilities and fees, check out the Washington Post’s guide to Sports and Recreation.

Tag: Swimming Exercise Washington DC

Stroller war

I don’t know what to do. I think I am about to engage in not-so-friendly fire with the neighbors upstairs.

A week ago, baby neighbor turned one. He’s almost got his feet under him; he’s been skimming for months. Soon, he’ll be running. Upstairs. Over my head. But that’s okay. He’s cute.

There is one thing, though, that bothers me and it’s not his fault. It’s his stroller.

I live in the basement. An English basement. Only semi-subterranean, but I am the lady under the stairs. Bugada-bugada. (Should the family stay for a few more years, I’m sure the tot will adore me or run in fear – or an even scarier thought, make us both run in fear, as he starts to peak in bedroom windows.)

I am the lady under the stairs, their stairs, the stairs to their front door. A cement path runs next to the steps, leading to my own. It is the only place the path leads, and I feel the space is mine. I want it. I need it. I don’t have a lot of space.

I share my world under the stairs with garbage and recycling bins. With a babe in nappies, the neighbors tend to take out the trash in a timely manner, whether or not it is garbage day and whether or not there is room in the bin. It’s not all that pleasant, but honestly, I don’t know where else the trash would go.

The path, though. The path is mine.

Unfortunately, the neighbors don’t agree. The stroller war really started late last summer but it didn’t get bad until fall, when the neighbors hired a nanny. I came home from work to find a stroller blocking the path and it didn’t matter what time I came home. The stroller stayed put until long after sunset.

For the first few months, I skirted around it, moving it to drag the bins out to the curb then moving it back. Over the next few months, I started finding it outside my front door, under the steps and out of the sun, snow and rain.

When it returned to the path, I stopped skirting and started moving. I put it in front of the steps. (They are wide. It didn’t block them.) I would come out later and find it back on the path. The path to war.

Last week, it was a jogging stroller the size of Montana (or at least as wide as the path). I had guests tiptoeing through the ivy.

Yesterday, after the first stroller move of the day (at 8 a.m.), the stroller returned to block the path in a whole new way. Sideways.

I fear things are about to get bad in this stroller war, and I am going to lose.

I live downstairs. Subject to the pitter-patter of tiny little feet and tiny little lungs and tiny little toys. Subject to the stomping, shuffling and clickety clack of grown up feet. Subject to the washer and dryer. Subject to the dishwasher. Subject to diaper-filled trash.

So far, with the exception of guests and parties, the neighbors have been relatively quiet. I fear the wrath of parents spurned.

I need to get over it. Let it block the path. Accept that the space is not my own. That or come up with a really good game plan.


Tag: Neighbors Stroller Washington DC English Basement

In my flip flops

After a weekend of glorious days, warm, 60s, spring like, almost summery, days, I know that I am not ready for summer.

I wore flip flops all summer, boots all winter and some combination of strangely ugly yet comfortable shoes in the seasons in between. With surprisingly warm weather this weekend, I stepped into flip flops for the first time since September. My feet were woefully unprepared.

Clipped and stripped of polish, my nails still needed help. I needed a pedicure; professional or personal didn’t matter. Power sanding would have helped.

Aside from appearances, my feet hurt. They grew unaccustomed to the strip of leather or plastic or nylon between the first two toes as well as walking for miles on quarter inch soles.

My feet were not alone in the lack of readiness. The blinding pallor of my legs might have resulted in accidents on Pennsylvania Avenue and at least two children hid in horror as I passed the park.

I hadn’t washed my car in at least eight months (more likely 10) and touching the roof in such a state frightened me, much less wrestling it down for extra sunshine and the windblown factor. I would end up dirtier than the car.

Nevertheless the warm weather came and I loved every second of it, walking miles in my flip flops, wearing skirts and fluttery shirts, mussing my hair in the wind. Hair by Jeep suits me just fine.

The warm weather pulled me outside, pushed me on senseless errands to feel the sun on my face, the breeze on my back and girlish giddiness. Besides, it got me to wash the car and paint my nails. Maybe I’ll be better prepared by the time spring comes to stay.


Tag: Washington DC Spring Summer

This Divided State

I belong to a family of strong convictions and ungoverned tongues. My brother stops talking to me about once every three weeks, and we’re the most like-minded of the bunch. Everybody else keeps talking and avoiding the contentious issues as our opinions are as different as night and day.

A couple of weeks ago, my brother brought over a DVD from his NetFlix queue. A documentary - his genre of choice. (I tend to stick with foreign and independent films, flicks from the 40s and 50s and light-hearted romantic romps from the 60s but I am flexible. Mom will watch just about anything. She’s averaged a trip to the theater once a week since she was 12.)

That day, a Sunday two weeks ago, BrokeKid chose the movie and he picked This Divided State.

The documentary focused on controversy at Utah Valley State College after student body representatives invited filmmaker Michael Moore to speak on campus (two weeks before the Presidential election).

Elements of religion and freedom of speech came into play as students and community members filed petitions, grievances and lawsuits trying to revoke the decision, citing a misuse of funds. Death threats. Bribery. Sean Hannity. No punches were pulled.

The film provided a well-balanced view of events, focusing on personal accounts of several key players while keeping sight of the issues at large.

Sitting on the couch, balancing my computer, typing and trying to maintain my WiFi signal, I distracted myself from the movie, but that didn’t last long. I started the day angry and stressed, tired and worried – overcome with events and work and familial obligation – but 20 minutes into the film I actually set the computer aside and focused, eager to see the story unfold.

I also found myself screaming at the television, yelling not at the film or director Steven Greenstreet, but rather at the situation, at the violation of first amendment rights, at the lengths to which people went.

My mother, sitting at the other end of the political spectrum and the other end of the couch, watched with equal interest; though, she did flip through a magazine at one point and left the room at another, angry with some of the words and actions. (She’s less likely to scream at inanimate objects than I am.)

The BrokeKid, documentary connoisseur, sat in the chair in the corner quiet as always. He seemed to enjoy it more than some, less than others.

For me, though, I found the film fast-paced and honest, with a more than a touch of drama. It made me yell. It made me think. It pulled me out of my funk and into the story. All qualities I enjoy in a film.


Tag: This Divided State Utah Documentary

Street Sense

Leaving the Metro last night, tired, hungry and much later than I expected, I wavered at the top of the escalator – right and home or left and Yes! Organic Market? I ran out of soup for lunch and though I had some at home, it was only enough for two days. I would have to stop eventually.

Left. Yes! Food. Home.

I walked to the corner, crossed the street and waited for the light.

“Get your new edition of Street Sense, the newspaper by and for homeless people,” sang a familiar voice behind me. People walked past, heads down, pretending not to see or hear.

I turned and smiled. I had seen this man dozens of times over the past year and a half on the Hill. Every time I saw him, he made me smile. Last night was no exception.

“Did you see me on the news yesterday?” he asked as I fished a dollar out of the depths of my bag. “I was on News Channel 4. They even featured me in the advertisement all day.”

“Really? That’s awesome. I’ll have to try to find it,” I replied, handing over my cash and taking my paper. We chatted about trying to find it; the man with the papers had just gotten Internet access. The light changed, and I crossed the street, making a mental note to look it up when I got home.

I walked into the pricey store, tucking the paper in my bag. I wandered around picking up a dozen noodly soup packets for lunch, a box of cereal and a burrito for a man standing outside the store who’d begged for food. I considered an 18-dollar candle but thought twice, given the whole poverty thing with Street Sense and the man outside the door, hoping for food.

I almost forgot about the paper in my bag. Almost. But sitting at my computer, struggling to find the words I needed for an email, for a presentation and for my blog, I remembered my friend with Street Sense and I started to look.

Searching the News 4 website, I couldn’t find mention of the paper or any sort of feature; though, I found the name of a company to contact looking for stories.

I Googled the paper and found the website. I found his picture. I found his name. Conrad.

I found a story about him in the Washington Post. I discovered that he teaches chess at the District's Southeast Neighborhood Library. I discovered his last name.

Over the course of the next two hours, I continued to search for details of Conrad’s life. Conrad Cheek Jr. I couldn’t find the piece from NBC 4, but I discovered a lot more about a man who makes me smile, week after week.

The next time I see him, I’ll have to tell him that. Introduce myself. Buy a copy of Street Sense.


Tag: Washington DC Street Sense Homeless

In the mood for a movie

I have a bad habit. Actually, I have a lot of bad habits from jaywalking to (occasional) social smoking, from arrogance to not cleaning the floors often enough, but the bad habit in question, the one on my mind has to do with movies. I watch movies that radically swing my mood.

For example, last night, mere hours after discovering the disappearance of Stan (the lump in my breast), I watched Hotel Rwanda. My sense of celebration gave way to tears as I found myself sobbing in the middle of my living room, doing that little hiccup-gasp-gasp-gasp thing.

On the best of days, I am not a pretty crier and I do not enjoy it. When I cry, children point and run in fear. My pale, splotchy face finds relief in my angry, rose-colored nose and red-rimmed eyes, and I am an open-mouth crier, keening in despair. With snot streaming down my face as freely as tears, it is a condition I try to avoid.

So, why, on a day of good news, of celebration, would I choose to reduce myself to this state by watching a heart-wrenching, politically-charged docudrama about genocide?

The film earned critical-acclaim and credit from the Academy, in the form of three nominations (best actor, supporting actress and original screenplay). Rotten Tomatoes gave it a freshness rating of 91-percent, based on 170 reviews. That translated to roughly 155 positive reviews with phrases such as “emotional impact,” “openness and depth,” and “hypnotic, harrowing and heart wrenching.”

The reviews included one from David Denby of the New Yorker, “I can hardly think of another movie in which sheer intelligence and decency have been made to seem so attractive or effective." And Robert Denerstein of the Denver Rocky Mountain News called it “A story so powerful it can't help but speak to both the heart and the conscience.”

Of course, most people know that. I am probably the last person in America to watch it, the last person to whom it appeals, anyway. I have wanted to watch it for more than a year. I have spent the better part of that time fighting the urge to curl into the fetal position in reaction to the stress of work and family and health, not really in the mood for a movie.

During that time, I also lost my window of opportunity. I missed the film in the theater. I considered Blockbuster, but rental returns and I do not agree. I did not know if I could bear to watch it repeatedly, so I didn’t want to buy it. Eventually, though, the film made its way to the Showtime and I set up the DVR. The first recording failed due to some sort of technical difficulty. (A thunderstorm in Albuquerque must have interfered with my signal.) I tried again.

And finally, after seven weeks of worry, I found out that I was okay, that the lump in my breast had disappeared. For the first time, I found myself happy enough to watch the “hypnotic, harrowing and heart wrenching” film. For the first time in seven weeks, I cried.

Stay tuned for stories of Syriana and documentary This Divided State.

Tag: Movies Hotel Rwanda

I am fine

First things first, I saw a surgeon today. I am fine. I am so fine that the surgeon could not find the lump detected by my OB/GYN or the radiologist or anyone else who has had his hands or eyes or thoughts on my breasts in the past seven weeks. It was gone. Just... gone.

This morning at work, I was a mess – dropping things, walking into walls, walking into doors, walking into filing cabinets, not concentrating, which is really unfortunate because I found out that I had to lead an afternoon meeting and brief 30 or 40 executives tomorrow morning on a training program I don’t know, but that’s neither here nor there. I was a mess.

I should have taken a personal day, a mental health day, a vacation day, anything, but I didn’t. I couldn't. There is too much to do. I tried to concentrate and I did get some work done, but the highlight of the morning was walking to CVS with a pink-eyed coworker in search of relief. (I didn’t buy anything but the one-woman boycott doesn’t prevent me from entering the store.)

Eventually, I left, borrowing pinkie’s car and heading over to the Virginia Hospital Center to see a surgeon. The route seemed more familiar than ever after a slate of visits in the past two months. I parked in the green lot, remembering to lock the car with one of those new-fangled, beeper things. (I drive a Jeep. I can unzip the windows. Car technology is beyond me.)

I looked uncertainly at a hall of doors, of medical offices, of hopes and fears and staunch resolutions. I opened a door on the left and walked into a bright, open space. Filling out form after form after form, I realized how much I hate my handwriting when I go for ALL CAPS. I realized that I’d written the wrong date five times and the right social security number, four.

A woman with a strawberry scarf tied around her hairless head stood at the desk. A man across the room sat waiting for someone and watching Tony Danza make a fool of himself on morning TV.

Another man walked in, wearing an untucked shirt, a shirt much too big for his frame. Something bulbous, purple and massive dangled below the hem of his shirt. I couldn’t stop staring as he leaned over the desk checking in; I sighed a silent prayer of thanks when my name was called.

As I followed the woman with a clipboard and a ponytail back to examine room 4, she chatted politely. I responded inanely. In the room, she asked a few questions about my history, my family’s history of disease, my body’s history of abnormalities. She pulled out a short sleeved, cropped paper vest for me to wear.

“It opens in the front,” she said, handing me something the size and weight of a paper towel. “Undress from the waist up. The doctor will be here in a minute.”

I put my shirt, my sweater and bra on the hook behind the door. I climbed up on the table and hugged the paper to my chest, shivering slightly. I tried to read my book. I read the same page at least three times before giving up.

The doctor knocked and entered. She introduced herself, shook my hand and looked me straight in the eye before handling my breasts, these alien beings that have dominated my thoughts and been the focus of so much worry. She asked questions. She talked as she tapped and patted and prodded.

“I can’t even give a diagnosis,” she said. “I can’t find anything.”

No cysts, clogged ducts or fibrous tissue. No cancer. Just a little thickness, but my breasts are young and dense, thickness to be expected.

The surgeon hadn’t expected to find anything, given the mammogram, and the examination lived down to her expectations. She smiled and left. That was it.

Seven weeks of worrying.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of insurance dollars, on exams, tests, labs, time.

Six hours off work.

Two weeks without caffeine or chocolate.

Seven weeks without sleep.

And I am fine.


Tag: Health Cancer Breast Cancer Worry

Under where?

This morning, stuck in my regular rut of indecision, I stared at the closet, trying to figure out what to wear.

After about five minutes of staring blankly at racks of clothes, I reached into the laundry basket and tugged out my favorite pair of black trousers. Sniff. Smoky. Shrug. I pulled a shirt from a hanger, a sweater from the shelf and headed into the bathroom to shower.

I don’t always wear dirty clothes and the clothes in the basket are not necessarily dirty. I toss everything in the basket - even after a single trip around the block. I wash my clothes a lot. All of them. And I have a lot of clothes. People stare at me at the Laundromat, but that’s another story.

The black trousers were worn once. I pulled them on, finished dressing and headed out toward the metro and work in my usual morning daze.

Some time midmorning, I headed to the bathroom as girls with water are wont to do. I finished. I flushed. I pulled up my trousers, patted down my shirt and found a lump, something hanging from the back of my waistband.

I tugged. I kept tugging. Underwear pulled free (and not the pair I was wearing).

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with these?” I thought as I looked around the stall, furtively looking for witnesses, willing to bribe, threaten or kill for silence. Alone. (Of course.)

I thought for a second. I didn’t have pockets and I didn’t want to carry a pair of dirty underwear back into the office. I considered putting them on over my current pair, but if that didn’t lead to dreaded VPL (visible panty line), I didn’t know what would. Eventually, I just shoved them back down my pants, left the stall and washed my hands.

Back in our space, I walked quickly to my office praying, “Don’t fall out. Don’t fall out. Don’t work your way back down my pants.”

I made it to my desk safely, extracted the unmentionables and shoved them in my messenger bag, embarrassed and alone in my office. Nobody saw. Nobody knew until, well, now.


Tag: Washington DC Work Underwear

Things I could do without for March 7th, 2006

The List

• South Dakota


• H&R Block


• Sean Hannity


• Washington, DC taxes


• Cold weather


• Global Warming


• Firefox crashing on me every 20 minutes


• Cancer causing benzene in soda


• Katherine Harris


• Kirby Puckett dying


• Fox News

Case of the Mondays

Sitting on the Orange Line train yesterday morning, I struggled to keep my eyes open and my head from doing that nod, bob, jerk, drop thing. Too many late nights, too many nights in a row. I couldn’t help it. Concerts, family, book clubs, Oscar party. Life just wouldn’t wait, but neither would work.

I don’t remember the walk to the metro. I don’t remember much of the ride. I do remember when the lights when out.

“Attention passengers on the train, we will be moving momentarily,” announced the conductor man.

Fortunately, we were stuck at Metro Center in the dark. Doors open. Unfortunately, that meant that people continued to board the train.

“Attention passengers on the train, the line has lost power. We will be moving momentarily.”

A Metro man walking along the track at my right elbow made me jump in the seat.

“Fudge,” I thought. “I hope we don’t start moving. We’ll kill that man. Drag him down the track a while. Seriously disrupt traffic, and isn’t that scary, electrocutionary rail on that side of the train? He is so going to die.”

That opened my eyes. For a while, at least.

“Attention passengers on the train, we will be moving momentarily,” announced the conductor.

I thought about what I would do if the train didn’t start running. They wouldn’t tell us to disembark and wait for the next train. If this one didn’t move, there wouldn’t be a next one. Too far to walk. Too close to the middle of town to want to cab. Besides, I had a meeting downtown in about an hour.

“Attention passengers on the train, we will be moving momentarily,” boomed the voice from in front.

Eventually, he was right. After 20 minutes or so of sitting in the dark, we did move. We kept moving.

I ran into my brother on the Metro elevator. He’d been on the same train, stuck for a while, trying to get to work.

I crawled into my office, propped myself up at the desk and struggled to keep my eyes open and my head from doing that nod, bob, jerk, drop thing. It was long morning.


Tag: Metro Monday Washington DC

Can I borrow a cup of sugar?

I share a house with a family upstairs. The landlord lives two doors down and pays little mind to our living situation. I’ve seen her once in the past year – she brought an appraiser to the house and for 24 hours, I worried about being turned out on my ear, my rear or any of a sundry of other body parts. Fortunately, she just wanted to reappraise the house as she had updated it recently.

Unfortunately, she did not focus on soundproofing. I can hear my neighbors upstairs – a young couple with a baby. I can hear every step they take, every toy dropped, every dish clattered in the sink. I hear chairs being dragged from the table. I can hear most conversations and every toilet flushed, hand washed and shower run. I hear the dishwasher and the washing machine filling, draining, vibrating throughout the night above my bed.

I get up when they get up, every morning between six and seven, including weekends. Especially weekends. No matter what time I go to bed.

In addition to the noise, I have the distinct pleasure of garbage and recycling bins directly outside my front door, underneath the neighbors’ steps. Out of sight, out of mind.

Yesterday, I hit the ultimate in shared housing bliss. I hit the jackpot, the mother lode. My neighbors had guests. Lots of them.

Given that it was the middle of the day, they probably didn’t think to let me know. Given that they don’t realize how the sound carries, they never think to let me know.

Somebody came with a jogging stroller, positioning conveniently across the entrance to my house. I moved it to the side and someone moved it back. There’s often a stroller blocking the entrance to the house, but not generally one the size of Montana.

Conversations. The pitter-patter of dozens of tiny little feet. Chairs grazing the floor. Music. Some sort of syncopated tapping to Islands in the Sun. And the stomping. Always stomping.

I don’t think it’s intentional. I don’t think it’s malicious. When I asked the neighbors to stop running the dishwasher in the middle of the night (after sleepily kicking a hole in my wall), they obliged.

I’ve mentioned the conversations, the footsteps, the noise, but I don’t think that they realized the extent that sound carries. Or they just don’t care.


Tag: Neighbors Washington DC

Rubber ducky

In the interest of maintaining my peace of mind, I have learned how to bathe.

I am a showerer by nature and a quick one at that. Shampoo. Again. Conditioner. Soap. Shower gel. Shave. Shower gel. Face wash. Rinse (hair and face). Off and towel dry. I’ve got my method down. Lately, though, I find myself craving the tub, wanting to slow down and relax.

Given my addiction to the Body Shop, it ought not surprise that I have a plethora of perfectly packaged, superbly scented bath products. Shower gels, of course. And those for the bath. Bubble bath. Milk. Oil. Bombs from Lush. Until four weeks ago, though, they lay dusty and desolate in the drawer. I had taken only one bath in the past year and a half.

I do things fast. I live fast. I work fast. I bathe fast. Nevertheless, I am stressed and I need to slow down. I need to soak. I need to float.

Folding myself into the tub that first night, with my neck at a completely unnatural, utterly uncomfortable angle and freezing throughout, I realized that a) my tub was made for little people (I could sit with my feet flat against one end, knees bent, back against the other) and b) I needed to work it out.

Take two included a couple of candles, turning off the light and connected fan. That helped, but the water soon ran cold.

Take three included a boiling kettle of water.

Take four included music from the living room.

Somewhere along the line, I learned how to fold my body into the tub. I couldn’t make the tub any bigger, my body any smaller. I just learned how to fit.

I learned a lot of things. I learned to slow down. I learned to keep warm. I learned to relax.

Besides, I smell like Lush after a good bath. That's hot.


Tag: Bathing Relaxation Stress