Breakdown

"Attention: Passengers in cars with doors that won't open. Please proceed to the next car."

I looked up from my book and peered into the car ahead. I saw people moving toward us. I looked behind and saw the same thing. We were in the middle of at least three cars with doors that wouldn't open.

People started streaming into the car from both directions. Those from the car behind, the last car, announced "You have to go the other way."

"But the doors won't open there, either," protested passengers.

"But you can't get out that way."

People turned and headed back toward the front of the train. Briefly, I considered following them. It wasn't my stop but it was the second time the doors failed to open in the course of one trip.

Suddenly, the doors opened. Surprisingly enough, people boarded and I retained my seat.

It was my first metro ride in a while. My first commute at least after a long weekend, a ride to work in the morning, a drive to work the preceding Friday. I didn't expect a smooth ride, but I did expect to be let off the train.

Back in Rosslyn, the doors didn't open but the conductor made no announcement. People just rode to Foggy Bottom and ran across the platform to try to catch a train in the opposite direction. I was not sure they all made it – that train had beat us there.

At L'Enfant, the doors posed more of a problem. Transfer point to Yellow and Green Line trains, upper level, meant that a lot more people were changing trains. Though, I couldn't say if that were the issue or it was just that fewer doors opened. We waited at least 15 minutes for people to exit and enter the train, backing up Blue and Orange.

"Attention: Passengers. Four cars on this train are experiencing problems with the doors," the conductor announced just one stop later, Federal Center SW. "We need to take this train out of service. All passengers must exit the train."

I thought about a walk home, a stop for a pint at one of my favorite bars, but it was hot and the walk uphill. I joined the throngs on the platform, those pouring out from functioning and malfunctioning cars. We crowded near the edge as we watched the train pull away "No Passengers" illuminated where it once read "Orange."

I looked at the board and considered the walk once again. The lights at our feet started flashing: A new train arriving. We pressed forward as one, all eager to find space on the train and coming from already crowded cars.

I found space somewhat near the doors. I stepped back as the train intoned but couldn't quite move to the center of the car, a space already occupied.

At Capitol South, I had to step off the train to make room for those leaving, step back on, one more stop.

Finally, I made it home or to Eastern Market. I pulled out my book, walked toward the exit and said a silent prayer of thanks for normal commutes most days. Even with the train breaking down, I knew I'd prefer it to later in the week when I'd drive from my house and dogsitting gig.

The joys of metropolitan living.


Tag: Washington DC Metro Commuting

Headboard lights

It wasn't on my list of places to see, this one-bedroom plus den. It was a little more than I wanted to pay, but it was the right neighborhood (Capitol Hill) and smack dab between the two I'd requested. The realtor took me in anyway.

"Why don't we just look at it?" he asked. So, we did.

Love at first sight.

From the black and white tiled floors to the afternoon sun streaming through the bedroom window and doors, from the fireplace to the walk-in closet, I was smitten. I think I submitted an application that afternoon. I paid the deposit a few days later.

I didn't think about storage. I didn't think about utilities. I didn't think about the lack of laundry. Honestly, I didn't think about anything other than my complete and utter adoration, my gut instinct and fate intervened by dropping the rent $100 a month before I signed the lease.

I left my big, shared house in the suburbs and found my way into the city.

Moving proved a little more stressful than I would have liked, but that's what they say, the infamous they who know everything: Moving ranks right up there in stress. It took the movers, three of them, an extra hour to get the couch inside. (It will go with the apartment.) The desk and the treadmill, neither of which I use or can remove, took almost as long.

I realized, shortly, that I had exactly one corner in the entire apartment and few unbroken walls. I sketched and planned and pondered for days and finally found a way to make everything fit. I moved the glassware to the living room, the treadmill to the closet and I donated quite a bit of that which I just didn't need.

The last hiccough, though, it took a while to fix. My bed fit snugly between the wall and closet. No room for a nightstand, no room for a lamp and I like to read at night.

For a few months, I used the closet light and left the door open, but when winter hit, I realized the error of my ways. A strong draft billowed from the open closet door. I struggled between the comfort of reading at night and being able to feel my toes, being able to get out of bed in the morning without seeing my breath in the morning air.

Finally, with yuletide cheer, as I put away the Christmas decorations, I experienced a light bulb moment. Christmas lights on my headboard. Strangely enough, they give out quite a bit of light, there's a plug behind the bed and my headboard's perfect for stringing lights.

I have to admit that it seems a little embarrassing, the whorehouse chic of headboard holiday lights but I am getting over it. Besides, I can read at night. And I do love my apartment.


Tag: Lights Reading Capitol Hill Washington DC

Big weekends = lame posts

Life. It gets in the way of good writing. Of course, without it, I would have nothing to say. I am still recovering from Saturday, which included a little recovery from Friday.

A missed connection left me in a bar by myself Friday night. Fortunately, I know must of the bartenders and the bouncer seems to like me, so I was a little of a loser than I might have otherwise felt. Then, again, I tend to talk to people. By the end of the night, I had moved to another bar with a friend and his girlfriend and I didn’t get home until close to three, with tentative plans to see them again the next night.

Saturday came and went in a blur of activity. Volunteering, shopping, brunch, graduation, reception, cooking, barbecue and meeting up with said friend sans girlfriend plus a bevy of beautiful boys. The concentration of hotness left me a little overwhelmed and lowered my defenses. I kept up with the boys as they celebrated Munster’s victory and claim of the Heineken Cup (the European Rugby Cup).

Sunday, well, Sunday I rested. A lot. I got up, went to brunch with Jamy and came back to stake my spot on the couch, moving only once or twice between brunch and sleep (as in going to bed for the night, not the intermittent napping that made up my afternoon).

I did learn a couple of things this weekend:

• Many late nights and early mornings make me dread writing (breathing, moving, etc.)
• I overcommit.
• I like overcommitting.
• I need to stop hanging out with bartenders…
• I need to stop eating brunch at bars.

We soon discovered that the Sunday morning crew consisted of the Saturday evening shift covering for the vacationing regulars.

“I think the bartender’s still intoxicated from last night, the other server left at five this morning and I left at two,” our waitress said after informing us that she couldn’t serve Diet Coke and before telling us that they’d run out of pancakes and hash browns.

I ordered my omelet with (uncooked) fries. Actually, I left out the uncooked bit but that’s how they arrived. I snagged catsup from the table next to us, uncertain of when we’d see the server again. She did come back. To clear the plates and much, much later to deliver the bill. At some point, she replaced Jamy’s water, which had come in a cracked glass.

Honestly, it was kind of fun – good company, interesting experience and I enjoyed the omelet, despite the missing mozzarella and additional mushrooms. It provided solid nourishment for holding the couch in place.

Now, I just need to make it through the week. I think I committed to going out tomorrow night.


Tag: Weekend Brunch

The sleep of the just

I have never much thought about it – sleeping the sleep of the just. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I don’t. The book I am reading, though, The Monkey Wrench Gang, it has the phrase running through my head. A number of chapters have ended that way: Sleeping the sleep of the just. The just plain tired. The just plain satisfied. The just whatever. It makes me think.

I have trouble sleeping. It is not a new problem but the book, the phrase has me thinking about it. Why the trouble? Why don’t I sleep the sleep of the just? I am just plain tired.

My grandfather used to ask about my sleep. I can almost see him now, sitting in that burnt orange chair, where the hall opened up into the family room. Almost every morning of my visits, I stumbled out of one of the guest rooms.

“Morning, Grandpa.”

“Good morning, kiddo,” he rumbled in that deep Grandpa voice. “How did you sleep? Did you sleep the sleep of the just with nary a thought of the unjust?”

I nodded and smiled, rubbing sleep from my eyes and tripping off toward the bathroom. I never really thought about it. Did I sleep the sleep of the just? With nary a thought of the unjust?

More often than not, I spent half the night reading, falling asleep under the light. I do not remember how I slept or how much I slept. I remember being tired but I was always tired. Was it thoughts of the unjust that tormented my sleeping soul?

Thoughts racing through my head kept me awake at night before I taught myself a trick: the Gettysburg Address. I memorized it for Miss Conway’s sophomore English class. I remember it well enough that it requires little thought while using enough brainpower to drown out the rest, the thoughts and the voices, the guilt and the fear.

Last night, I think the phrase itself kept me awake, though. Well, that, and the neighbors chatting in their kitchen. Directly over my bedroom. In the middle of the night.

I thought about the book and the sometimes-blurry line between right and wrong. I thought about my friends, about the events that define and change relationships. I thought about the woman I have become. I thought about my grandpa, gone almost three years. I wondered what he would think of me now.

Rolling over, I unplugged the Christmas lights. I punched the pillow a time or two and closed my eyes, praying to sleep the sleep of the just.

Tag: Sleep

One headlight

“You’re the only person I know who could go, how long, without a headlight,” Ella mentioned in our morning meeting after passing my brother a replacement light.

“I know,” I replied. “It’s been, like, two months now.”

Two months with my car in perpetual padiddle. Scary stuff. Dangerous, even, if I were driving at night, but I’m not.

Since discovering the loss of the passenger side headlight, I have ceased and desisted with the nighttime driving. Two months. No night driving. No driving in the rain, at dusk, in the early morning. Two months.

When Ella mentioned the headlight, my client turned to me and said, “I didn’t even know you had a car.”

I do own a car. I have the title to prove it and loads of happy memories. I remember driving off the lot in my brand new Jeep Wrangler: 6 miles on the odometer, a videotape on offroading and instructions on how to drop the roof. Within an hour of getting her home, the top was down, the radio up and I headed out to rack my first hundred miles driving around Northern Virginia and DC with my roommate.

I love my car but I tend to neglect her. I don’t drive her much and I go two months without replacing a headlight, without really needing to replace a headlight. For weeks I’ve been walking around singing “One Headlight” by The Wallflowers.

Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me and Cinderella
We put it all together
We can drive it home
With one headlight

My sister bought replacement bulbs two or three weeks ago but left them at home. In West Virginia. She offered to mail them but I was sure I’d hit an auto parts store before they’d arrive. I was wrong.

My brother borrowed the car for a run to our local Laundromat. He kept her for the next night’s appointment somewhere in Maryland. I told him he needed to replace the headlights or at least the one. I stopped and picked up two on the way home from work.

I asked the man behind the counter for help. I didn’t have the book. I couldn’t remember the exact number I needed. He handed me two boxes, which I carried home. One of which I carried back to work in the morning to pass to my brother.

“You’ll need a star-shaped screwdriver,” I said.

“What shaped? Pear shaped?”

“Star shaped? Yellow stars? Pink hearts. Purple horseshoes. Stars. Star-shaped.” [For the record, the stars are not yellow. The stars are orange; the moons are yellow.]

“Oh, okay.”

An afternoon call prior to installation confirmed the presence of a star-shaped screwdriver. I conveyed directions for installing the light and my brother set to work. About 30 minutes later, my phone buzzed.

“I don’t think it’s the right light.”

“But I asked the guy at the store,” I said.

“But it’s not the right light,” he replied. “The one I removed, it’s like you could stick in the wall. It’s got three things at the end. The one from the box only has two.”

“But I asked the guy at the store.”

“But it’s not the right light.”

“Could you look at the light and see what number I’m supposed to get?”

We had a wonderfully inane, circular conversation about the number on the box, the number on the bulb removed from the car and the number on the bulb from the box. After about 20 minutes, we resolved that the numbers did not match. He was right. I had the wrong bulb.

One more night without a light. Maybe another week. Another month. Poor neglected car.


Tag: Driving Headlights

Sensible shoes

I am wearing big girl shoes today and they are cute. I almost want to sit in my office and look at my feet. The rain in Spain may stay mainly on the plains but the rain in Boston was all over the map. Shopping proved a dry and warm, if somewhat expensive, venture and just a few days later, here I am, sitting in my office, looking at one of my four new pairs of shoes.

They are lovely.

Of course, they are also scary. I tend to fall down when I wear big girl shoes. I am still recovering from lovely wedge-soled mules and a night a Local 16. Three weeks ago. I tumbled off them when I missed a step at the door.

“I’ll be fine,” I announced to the assemblage. “Just give me a sec.”

I was fine, am fine, but for a few bruises and a wicked scrape that made my 4-year-old niece wince. Recoverable. But darn if big shoes don’t scare me.

One would think that a professional, 30-year-old woman would be able to walk in heels by now. Of course, one would think that a professional, 30-year-old woman would be able to walk in sneakers, slippers, or barefoot as well, but I cannot. I am a klutz. With a capital utz. I fall down like it’s my job.

Unfortunately, it is not. My job, my real job, requires business savvy and some degree of professionalism, if not grace and aplomb. While I have the business side down pat (most days), I have to admit that sometimes I struggle to look the part. At least, my feet do.

I metro. I walk everywhere. I don’t want to wear big girl shoes on the daily commute. They hurt my feet, and I cannot wrap my mind around the idea that I need to suck it up and dress to impress. Not my feet.

Most mornings as I get ready for work, I slip a pair of pretty shoes into my bag for the office. I keep an emergency pair of heels under the desk. Sometimes I wear them – the shoes from the bag or the shoes under the desk. Sometimes I don’t. I have been known to walk around the office all day in tailored trousers, a button-down blouse and duck shoes. Water-resistant, flannel-lined duck shoes. I fall in them, too.

Every morning when I am getting ready for work, I slip into sensible shoes or at least comfortable shoes. Every morning when I am getting ready for work, I think of an account I read from September 11, an account of a New Yorker who ended up walking miles in heels, her feet ravaged and bleeding. She wrote that she only buys, she only wears sensible shoes these days.

I won’t go that far. Of my four pairs of Boston shoes, only one might be considered semi-sensible and that is a bit of a stretch at wedge-soled sandals. The other three? Not even close. But they sure are pretty. And the shoes do make the outfit. I look almost professional today.

Next, I just need to learn how to walk.


Tag: Shoes Work Professionalism

Failure to communicate

I have been bad about writing. I have been offline. I had a decent reason over the weekend – I was on vacation! (Hurray for vacation!)

Of course, I had my computer with me and wrote a couple of posts about the trip. I have not posted them because I did not want to pay the $10 daily fee for internet access. I could not scam a WiFi signal and something happened to my laptop, which is now making a really annoying whirring/clicking noise and seems to have forgotten how to connect to a LAN through any means other than the aforementioned WiFi.

Unfortunately, it is a work computer and it really needs to connect to the LAN via traditional means. Soon. In the meantime, I am using my desktop at work and limiting my extra-curricular writing. It is kind of liberating, this enforced silence. Nevertheless, I have a phrase running through my head, a quote I cannot seem to shake.

“What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”

Of course, it is completely out of context. I am not Paul Newman or working on a chain gang. I am not about to eat the mother lode of hardboiled eggs.

But what we have here? It is definitely a failure to communicate.

You would think I’d get used to it. My last three relationships have ended based on communication issues.

Boy #1: “When you called the other night? I couldn’t talk because I was at dinner with my ex-girlfriend.”
Kristin: “Oh.”
Boy #1: “We’re getting back together.”
Kristin: “Oh.”

Seemed clear to me, but he kept showing up at my door, drunk, in the middle of the night. I put him in the guest bed. He tried to kiss me; I pushed him away. Night after drunken night. Eventually he texted me "I'll stop bothering you." He said he could see it in my eyes, I didn't care about him. I called him an ass and said he was leaving because I wouldn’t sleep with him.

One night, he showed up sober.

Boy #1: “Did you call the other night?”
Kristin: “I don’t think so.”
Boy #1: “I got a call and thought it might be you.”
Kristin: “Was it my number?”
Boy #1: “I don’t know. I thought it was you… I just wanted to apologize for the way I treated you.”
Kristin: “Whatever” followed weeks later by a drunken “I don’t think I called but I wanted to let you know I deleted you.”

That went well.

Boy #2 just stopped talking to me, after eight months of dating. He stopped calling, and he stopped answering. I left a message trying to sort out whether or not we were done. (Honestly, I just wanted him to say that he missed me, that he wanted to work things out.) He called back to apologize for being a bad friend. Friend. He said it twice in the same sentence. I text messaged him a response ending with “That doesn’t make you a bad friend. That makes you a bad person.”

Strangely enough, I never heard from Boy #2 again.

Then, Boy #3 and another breakdown in communication. I loved Boy #3. Honestly, I loved Boy #2, too, but Boy #3 and I were friends first. When we became more than friends we did not talk about it. (Why communicate?) Eventually, I realized that I wanted more. More definition, more structure, more of him. I started acting weird and things got a little rocky. Then I did something stupid. By the time we talked, by the time we tried to communicate, it was over. The relationship, the friendship, everything.

“What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”

It is bringing me down at work. My computer will not talk to the client’s server. I tried to pull a single report for five hours. One report. Five hours. Head. Banging. On. Desk.

Of course, there are a number of other people capable of pulling the report. After seven days, a slew of email messages and at least three phone calls, I returned to trying to do it myself. We all seemed to be talking but nobody said much. A definite breakdown in communication.

What is a girl to do? I suppose I will just keep staying late, writing after hours. I will keep dating, trying to talk things out. When I screwed things up with Boy #3, I did call. When he didn’t respond, I found him. We talked. And work? I will get the data one way or another. All I can do is try and I am getting better at it. Communication.


Tag: Communication Relationships Work

Milk and cookies

Sunday night, after two and a half days of being cold and wet and miserable, I wanted room service. I wanted hot chocolate. I wanted a golden apple tart with ice cream. I wanted cookies warm from the oven. I wanted a chocolate chip cookie/ice cream sandwich.

I wasn’t even hungry. My belly was full of warm salady goodness (grilled cabbage, radicchio and endive, grilled pear and walnuts, gorgonzola and balsamic vinaigrette). I just wanted something sweet. Something filling. Something delivered to my room.

I am not a room service kind of girl. I don’t see a problem with it, but I don’t do it. I like leaving the room. I like seeing the city. I even like hanging out in hotel restaurants and bars. I’m a people person. I go a little crazy in my room but I was cold and tired, damp and achy. I wanted a treat.

I started looking through the menu after getting back from the restaurant. I flipped through the pages and decided, somewhat, on the sweet tooth section of the kids’ menu. I passed the menu to Kayla and decided to wait it out, to let my stomach settle.

“The concierge can arrange for medical services in our room,” Kayla announced at one point.

“I was hoping for dental work in the room.”

The Sopranos started. I typed a little. Watched a little. Pretended that I wasn’t thinking about sugar, just sugar, for the entire hour. I made a pot of tea. Given that I drink it plain and it was a pot of English breakfast tea, it did nothing to cut the craving for sweetness and would probably keep me up half the night.

“The airport’s only three miles from our hotel,” Kayla announced. Kayla read from the description in the guest services directory. “Poor concierge. We’re supposed to call him for everything.”

Her phone buzzed and she went returned to text messaging.

Big Love started. An hour left to order from the kids’ menu. I watched a little. I typed a little. I thought about ice cream with my stomach still full from grilled salady goodness. I flipped through the guest services directory and the room service menu for the sixtieth, seventieth time in the past two hours.

I made a decision and rolled off the bed.

“Okay. I’m ordering something,” I shoved the menu in Kayla’s face. “What do you want?”

We decided on “an assortment of cookies” and a glass of milk. Skim. An order placed and a 20 minute wait. We watched. I typed. She texted, scanned the directory.

“It’s cheaper if you get cookies and milk for breakfast than if you get toast,” Kayla noted. “They’re really not really into promoting personal health are they?”

“Oh, I’ll get it,” Kayla said, hobbling toward the door. “Foot’s asleep. Foot’s asleep.”

“Can I come in?” and “Where do you want them – on the desk?” and “Sign here” and “Be careful; they’re very hot. They just came out of the oven.”

“Can you call it an assortment of cookies when you get three of the same kind?” I asked. Kayla shook her head.

“No. An assortment would be maybe one chocolate chip, one oatmeal raisin and,” Kayla shrugged, “maybe a peanut butter.”

“But they are hot and gooey and I’m pretty sure this one isn’t cooked all the way through.”

Yum. Room service.


Tag: Milk Cookies Room Service

Security

I did not notice anything amiss as I walked up to the Metro station. The Examiner guy was gone already. The Express guy handed me a paper and said, “Good morning, beautiful.” Two cops chatted casually to the left of the escalators.

I thought about the officers for a second: dark uniforms, the way the pants balloon a bit just above the booted ankles, hats, Kevlar.

“Nick the Cop wore Kevlar,” flitted across my mind. “I felt it when we hugged.”

Shaking my head, I shook the thought and buried my nose in my book, the Express tucked under my arm for later. I walked past the ticket kiosks, the ATM, and leaned over to run my SmarTrip over the reader.

“I’m not as late as I thought,” exclaimed a woman to someone or nobody in particular. “It’s only 8:15. I thought I was later!”

I glanced involuntarily at my watch, as I always do when someone gives the time. 8:15. Yep. I walked over the escalator and noted the crowd on the platform.

“Trains must be delayed,” I thought, making a brief wish for an uncrowded, not-too-late train. I looked at the crowd again and noted neon sashes over dark uniforms. Cops. Transit police. On my third take, I realized there were a lot of them.

I started counting pairs of officers. I stopped at 15. Plus three dogs. There were more (officers, not dogs) but my train came and I really could not justify waiting for the next one just so I could get an accurate count of cops on the platform.

My heart raced a little as I boarded the train, questioning the reason for more than 15 officers in my Metro station. It could not be good.

Officers boarded behind me, looking up and down the car before exiting. They did the same to the train that had just pulled up opposite mine. The three dogs, the officers, all that added security: It was a little nerve-wracking.

I got my desire; the train was not too crowded and not too late. I found a seat by the window and once my pulse slowed a little, I found myself pulled into my book. I looked up at a couple of stops, marking my progress. Closer to Virginia, at MacPherson Square or Farragut West, I noticed a few more officers outside my dirty window. Quickly, I returned to the book, wishing I had not looked.

The extra security? It made me nervous.

Tag: Security Washington DC Metro

If you’re happy and you know it...

“Are you okay,” Nems asked as he pulled up in front of my house the other night.

“Sure, I’m fine,” I answered, looking at my watch. Maybe a little sleepy. At midnight plus three (hours). Way past my bedtime for the second night in a row.

“Really?” he asked, looking at me earnestly. “Are you really okay? I’m worried about you.”

He took me by surprise. I blinked so hard I dislodged a contact, making the rest of the night a bit blurry and out of focus.

“I’m fine. Really. I mean, I haven’t been okay, but I’m fine now.”

The confusion stuck with me for the next few days. I felt bad about any outward expressions of my unfineness. Did I do something wrong? Was I bringing people down? I’d actually had a great night, loving life and laughing hard with friends, with a few strangers even.

Maybe he was looking back a little. I’ve been a little rocky over the past few months with a whole lot of drama upon which I don’t want to dwell and I really don’t want to dwell on drama.

I recently finished the book “Blink” by Malcolm Gladwell. The book concentrates on how we think without thinking, about choices that seem to be made in an instant—in the blink of an eye—that actually aren't as simple as they seem.

One of the points that seemed to stick with me was related to testing of thoughts on race and gender, areas in which bias is well-documented. Gut reactions. Some of the results were a little scary, if not unexpected, and they made me wonder how I would react. I kept reading.

Gladwell moved beyond the tests and results and started focusing on how to alter the results, to modify the way we react. If you expose yourself to minorities on a regular basis "and become comfortable with the best of their culture," Gladwell writes, your unconscious preferences will change. By looking at pictures and reading articles about positive role models, such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela, before taking the Implicit Association Test (IAT) actually changed people’s results.

Like I said, the point stuck with me. It’s with me today, weeks after shelving the book.

If we can change our impressions, if I can change my gut reaction based on pictures and articles, maybe I should spend more time in the presence of positive images.

While I was stressed, I found myself reading Atlas Shrugged and Slaughterhouse Five. I watched movies such as Hard Candy and The Beauty Academy of Kabul. Heavy stuff. I’m not saying that I needed something light, but, well, maybe I needed something light. Okay. Not light. I needed something that made me feel better about myself.

A week or so ago, I experienced a perfect day in DC. Brunch at Logan Tavern with a friend. Waiting for my Open Faced Portabella and Tofu Burrito, I chatted up a fabulously drunk older man with sunglasses and cigarettes. As he sipped his third Brandy Alexander, he told of a late night dinner party with friends, the brandy as medicine, his upcoming four hour nap. He dragged on an unknown brand of cigarettes and left before our food came, wanting to get on with his recovery and his nap, wanting to give us a smoke free meal.

Heading back to the Hill, we stopped by my house for a camera and headed toward the Mall to take part in the March to End Genocide. The sun shone brightly on the gathered crowd and we listened to notable speakers from every sector of society, from religion to entertainment, from politics to prose. We talked a little, listened a lot.

After the march, we headed toward Chinatown. We shopped a little, Ann Taylor Loft, Urban Outfitter, before heading into Gallery Place to see Akeelah and the Bee. With a bag of popcorn and big soda pops, we sat in the dark, quiet theater and watched the movie that's been compared to 'The Karate Kid' meets 'Finding Forrester'. I cried a little. I didn't do the breath catching thing, but I did cry. I’m okay with that. It was a good movie and honestly, it made me feel good about myself and about life.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to focus on more positive images. I’m not about to teen angst or bubble gum pop but there’s something to be said for comedy such as Pillow Talk or watching The Soup. The book I’m reading gives me hope, as does the volunteering, to which I’ve recommitted. I’ve joined a church. I’ve spent time with my family. The friends I see make me feel good about myself. They worry about me and let me know they love me, that they are there for me.

When Nems dropped me off on Saturday night, when he looked me in the eye and told me he was worried, all I could do was shrug.

“I’m fine. I swear,” I said. “I haven’t been okay for a while but I am now. I am working on it.”

I opened the door and leaned back in to say goodnight.

“Thank you.”



Tag: Outlook Blink Malcolm Gladwell Happiness

Happy birthday

“It’s my birthday, can you spare some change?”

I saw the sign on my way to the Metro elevator. The woman sitting on a stack of crates near the curb looked up and smiled as I passed.

“I don’t have anything right now, but I’ll be back” I said. “Happy birthday.”

She smiled and thanked me. I walked over to the elevator, pushed the down button and hugged myself against the cold, freezing in the drizzle without a jacket or sweater on the 50-degree day. I knew I had money in my purse but I also knew I was coming back. At that point, I just wanted to get warm.

The funny thing is that she probably wanted the same thing. To get warm.

I don’t know anything about this woman, the woman sitting on crates asking for money on her birthday. I’ve seen her before, probably twice a week for the better part of the past four years. I see her almost every time I go to the client site. Summer or winter, rain or shine, she sits by the Metro elevator asking, “Can you spare anything?”

She’s fairly unassuming. If I didn’t know what she was asking, if I weren’t listening, I probably wouldn’t hear her. I would walk past keeping my eyes on the sidewalk, on the street, unfocused. But I do listen. I do hear her. When I wished her a happy birthday, I meant it.

She used to make me angry, this woman sitting there all day, every day asking for money. It wasn’t just that she asked for money but that she asked me for my money as I was walked to work. I had to go and sit through another meeting or training or sit behind a computer pulling data for any of endless number of reports. I worked for my money. I regularly work to the point of making myself sick.

At some point, my anger dissipated. I realized that she did work for her money. You could not pay me enough to sit on a street corner and ask for money and honestly, that’s not how it works. Granted, some panhandlers have nicer cell phones and more expensive shoes than I but it’s not generally considered a profitable career. Besides, with the spoils comes the pain: humiliation, shame, contempt. Or so I imagine.

Walking past this woman, two or three times a week for the past four years, I’ve often wondered about her. She doesn’t appear to be homeless. She doesn’t have much in the way of belongings. She’s always fresh-faced and in clean clothes. Quiet. Smiling. She spends some afternoons with the men across the walk, the ones who sleep on the steamy grates over the Metro, talking and laughing, but most of the time she sits on her crates, under the tree, next to the Metro elevator.

“Can you spare anything?”

Sometimes, I can. Sometimes, I can’t. Either way, she always smiles and wishes me a good day.

Today, when I came back from my office, when I came back to the client site, I saw the woman, the smile, the sign. She had a cake on the crate beside her, the cardboard drooping in the drizzle. I reached into my purse and pulled out a couple of dollars. I knew it wasn’t much but it was something.

“Happy birthday.”


Tag: Washington DC Birthday Begging Panhandling

A Beacon in the night

We had picked the Beacon for the rooftop bar, unaware until we arrived that the roof bar is only open Wednesday through Friday. We were a little disappointed as we surveyed the empty bar but rather enjoyed the company we kept, not needing anyone else.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Glasses of wine poured for those of us not on call and beer for a couple of the men. We pulled up stools at any empty table, one of the many empty tables, and caught each other up on events of recent weeks and months: work and home, wedding plans and gas prices.

The choice of the Beacon proved inspired as the quiet bar filled around 10 o’clock. Scores of men filled the bar, swirling around us in animated pairs and groups, laughing and talking and drinking red wine. We all turned at the sharp whistle from the bar.

“Guys!” shouted a man standing on a stool. “The men from San Francisco would like to thank our DC hosts. I think you all know what we’re going to sing.”

Those of us at the table exchanged a look and shrugged. We didn’t know what they were going to sing. We didn’t know that the night would include singing. A happy little surprise at the Beacon. The man on the stool pulled a pitch pipe from his pocket and made a sound.

“We cannot hear it,” shouted a man from the back. The man on the stool blew into the pipe again, hit a wrong note and earned some laughter from the crowd. He found the right note.

“Just sing where you’re standing,” he called and voices rose around us.

“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”

It was beautiful.

We soon discovered that the men from San Francisco were members of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, in town to join Potomac Fever of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington DC in a concert Saturday night.

They treated us to a second song, later in evening. Equally beautiful, perfectly pitched and rising up from around us. Surround sound at its finest.

As we were leaving, we decided that Kris would pick all future bars, with the help of Malcolm, of course. They had picked the date and time. They picked the location. Unwittingly, they picked the entertainment. It was a good night.


Tag: Beacon Bar San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus

A Good Book

“That must be a good book.”

Putting my finger in to mark the page, I looked up at the man who’d just boarded the elevator.

“It is. It’s a really good book.”

With a glance down at the cover and a glance at the man (tall, scruffy, blue eyes), I decided on conversation. I smiled. I gestured with the book, my finger still marking the page, flashing the cover, the title, the Milagro Beanfield War. “They made a movie of it in the early ‘90s. I saw it ages ago but recently ran across the book and decided to give it a try. It’s so much better than the movie.”

“I just finished The Da Vinci Code,” he offered up as we hit the lobby.

“I think I’m the only person in America who hasn’t read it,” I admitted. “I did read Angels and Demons, though.”

“I finally gave in,” he said. “It really was a page turner.”

We chatted a little while, walking out of the building and into the bright sun.

“Have a good one,” I called, walking across the street and heading toward the metro. He turned left and headed down the sidewalk wishing me a good night.

Apparently, we work in the same building, for the same agency. I’d never seen him before and really don’t expect to see him again. Ever. It was a nice chat, though, and his eyes were the exact same shade as the DC sky this afternoon.

Just two days ago, a friend mentioned that I didn’t seem to have any problems meeting men in bars. I responded that I didn’t have much trouble meeting men anywhere – in bars, at grocery stores, in the elevator at work – and it’s true. Even with book in hand and nose in book, people (not just men) talk to me.

I suppose it is a little weird to read on the elevator – antisocial, at least – and I do it all the time. I always have a book in my bag. I read on the metro, in the elevator, on the walk home.

Without fail, whenever I wish that somebody would pay me to read, I find myself on the metro back and forth between meetings. Today, case in point, I found myself on the metro at least five times for a half hour each time, reading.

Leaving the metro elevator on my way to one of my meetings this afternoon, I ran into a coworker. She, of course, asked about the book in which I was buried.

“It’s really good,” I said, somewhat lamely. I tried to get into the plot. “It’s the story of a community of poor Mexican American farmers in New Mexico. Generation after generation, they keep getting poorer and they’re losing their property and their livelihood to a huge conglomerate. Until, one day, a troublemaker decides to illegally water his bean field and the whole town gets behind him.”

“It sounds depressing,” my coworker stated. “I guess it would make you feel better about yourself. At least your life isn’t that bad.”

I knew then that I had done a very poor job of describing the book. It’s funny and irreverent. Poignant. Wonderful. I don’t feel bad at all reading the book but rather, a little bit hopeful. I couldn’t wait to get back into the story.

But reading in the elevator? It is a little weird. Definitely antisocial. At least once a month, somebody mentions it.

There must be something about a girl with a book, a girl not staring at the doors, the buttons, the numbers flashing near the ceiling. There must be something about a girl wrapped up in a world unto herself that makes people say:

“It must be a good book.”


Tag: Reading Books Milagro Beanfield War

I feel icky

I awoke this morning with a sore throat and a hacking cough. Actually, I awoke at one o’clock this morning with a sore throat and a hacking cough. I would have taken medicine at that point, but the 24-hour meds are pretty explicit about not doubling up. It had been only 12 hours since my last dose.

So, without medicine, I walked around my apartment whining a bit before crawling back into bed, pulling about seven pillows behind me and falling asleep in a sitting position for the second time in so many nights.

When I awoke again, five hours later, I felt perfectly wretched. Runny nose. Sore throat. Cough. I felt like my head had been wrapped in cotton. All I wanted to do was curl up under my covers and sleep ‘til Friday. Instead, I dragged myself to the shower, got dressed and left for work because that’s what I do when I’m sick: Go to work. Pretend like nothing’s wrong. Besides, it’s just allergies.

I’ve suffered from allergies my whole life. Indoor, outdoor, upside down. I’m allergic to dogs and cats, trees and grass. Dust gave me my first serious, diagnosed asthma attack and I’ve gotten hives from everything from eyebrow waxing to my lab coat at work. The lab coat sent me to the hospital. Twice.

Allergies.

From about age 8 through my freshman year in college, I got allergy shots. A shot a week for three weeks followed by a shot every three weeks. A missed shot or a new vial and back to every week. Fortunately, I have since outgrown both a fear of needles and my allergy to mosquitoes. Seriously. I’m great on camping trips.

Many of the other allergies have faded as well, but as a child, I was miserable. A snot nosed punk. Literally. Great dark circles around my eyes. Sneezing. Itchy eyes. Pretty early on my mom stopped asking how I felt in the mornings

“I’ve got a sore throat,” I whined almost daily - awake, dressed and ready for school but pained.

“You have a sore throat every morning. It’s just allergies,” she’d respond without looking at me. “If you don’t leave now, you’re going to be late.”

Most of the time, she was right. It was just allergies. Horribly aggravating allergies. I’ve lost more than my fair share of contacts due to itchy eyes and the sore throats? The bane of my existence. I almost welcomed a diagnosis of strep, a “legitimate” reason to feel bad. There was no staying home unless I was contagious, no matter how wretched I felt.

I still follow that principle. When a sore throat woke me last Wednesday, in the middle of the night, I took some meds and went back to bed. I got up feeling horrible and went to work. I’ve gone to work every day since, as the symptoms have reduced me to tears. Literally.

On Saturday, I crawled into my sister’s bed before her daughter’s birthday party. My younger niece, a 4-year-old, tucked me in with her blanket and her bear, watching over my troubled sleep and hushing my sister when she came to wake me.

My voice? It’s almost gone now. I walk around the office fighting the urge to break out in my own raspy-voiced rendition of “Smelly Cat.” Strangers comment on my sexy voice; coworkers back away and ask if I’m sick.

This morning, I realized that my allergies have morphed into bronchitis. I can barely talk and coughing just plain hurts. Nevertheless, I know I won’t stop working. I’m not contagious. It’s just allergies.

Tag: Allergies Bronchitis

Rally to Stop Genocide

My friend Simon continues to tell me his favorite joke. I have heard it at least dozen times in the past three years.

“How many protesters does it take to change a light bulb?” he asks with his lilting Irish accent. I can almost see him now – the upturned corners of his mouth in an impish grin, a sparkle in his eyes. Every time, I roll my eyes and motion for him to go on. “None. Protest never changes anything.”

If I saw him tonight, I know he would say it again. Especially tonight. I spent my afternoon at a rally on the National Mall. The Rally to Stop Genocide.

Honestly, I don’t understand the situation myself. Not well. I don’t pay nearly enough attention to the world news. (A situation I’ve moved to rectify by re-subscribing to The Economist.) But basically, people are dying in Darfur. A lot of people.

Three years ago, open warfare erupted in Darfur when two rebel groups attacked the military installations. In response, militias received government support to remove the people considered disloyal to the Sudanese government. Over the past three years, this “removal” has lead to the displacement of 2.5 million people and the death of 400,000 people.

Frankly, this is about as much information as I had going into the rally. I’m not a huge political activist. I’ve been to a few rallies. I know a little about what’s going on in the world, but honestly, I feel like a big fat fake. A selfish loser. I’ve spent that past month or so wrapped up in my own problems – boys and work, allergies and friends. People are dying in Darfur and I sit on my computer whining about my pitiful life.

That doesn’t mean I don’t try. Every once in a while, I can pull my head from the sand and try to do something to make the world a little better. Today was one of those days.

Kayla had asked me a week or so ago if I wanted to go to a march. She said she was going with a group from work. I said yes. And promptly forgot. She told me that George Clooney would be there. I said sure. And promptly forgot. Eventually, I saw something on the web, on television, somewhere and I called Kayla to ask if we were going to march for Darfur. The work group had fallen apart but she was still up for it and we went.

The day dawned clear and bright, cool but sunny. We met for brunch and headed back toward my house on Capitol Hill for a camera. We walked through the tree-lined streets toward the mall, skirting Eastern Market, passing the Capitol. We passed families, parents, children with signs and we talked about the differences in demographics between one rally and another.

“There are a lot of my people here,” she said. I looked around, a little confused. I swear I thought she said, “There are a lot of white people here" and there were. Then, she continued and cleared up any confusion. “If anybody’s against genocide, it’s the Jews.”

I nodded. I did see an awful lot of yarmulkes, t-shirts proclaiming Jewish Seminarians for Justice and signs for Yeshiva University students. Then, again, there were a lot of people there in general.

We stood toward the edge of the crowd, listening to speakers from all points along the political spectrum from the Reverend Al Sharpton to George Clooney, from former NBA star Manute Bol to U.S. Representative Nancy Pelosi. Rabbis and reverends, politicians and entertainers. Honestly, the list was so long, so impressive that I could not begin to do the speakers justice.

And so, I stood and listened. Details of the atrocities in Sudan. Promises for change. I watched the stage and I watched crowd. Babies slept in the arms of the mothers or nestled against their fathers. A horseback police officer writing a ticket. The Yeshiva University girls, with covered heads and long skirts, flirting with boys in yarmulkes. The men and women rushing toward the JumboTrons with cameras flashing when the Clooney men took the stage.

I read the signs sprinkled throughout the crowd. Let’s talk about the women. Stop State Sponsored Rape and Murder. Genocide is uncool. If not now, when?

Good question. If not now, when? Honestly, if not us, who? I don’t know how to save the world. I don’t know if attending a rally makes a difference. Signing a petition. Donating money. I don’t know what will end the violence in Sudan. All I know is that I need to pull my head from the sand and try to make a difference. The sooner, the better.


Tag: Rally Darfur Genocide Washington DC