Camel wrestling

Catching an early flight from Istanbul to Izmir, we plan to pick up a rental car and explore the area, spending the night in Selçuk.

Selçuk is a small town in on the Aegean coast, northeast of Ephesus. Its name comes from the Seljuk Turks who settled in the region by the 12th century.

According to Wikipedia, Selçuk is known for its closeness to the ancient Ephesus, House of the Virgin Mary and Seljukian works of art. The 6th century basilica of St. John the Apostle, which, some claim, is built on the site of the Apostle's tomb, is also inside the town.

The annual camel wrestling competition takes place in Selçuk in the Winter, at the site of the ancient stadium at Ephesus.

Camel wrestling? Camel wrestling?! And we're going to miss it? I'm so disappointed. Guess I'll have to plan a return trip in January.

Blue Mosque

(photo by Eldan)

The Sultan Ahmet Mosque (Blue Mosque) was built in the seventeenth century by by architect Sedefkar Mehmet Agha.

Note to self... When a hotel claims to be 50 meters from the Blue Mosque, it very well might be 50 meters from the Blue Mosque, which is theoretically awesome. Very accessible, great views, incredibly loud at 5:30 in the morning with the first call to prayer... I could see a whirling dervish from my room last night and hear live music from the restaurant across the street. Early this morning, I was awakened by a voice booming from loud speakers a distance of about 50 meters and carrying across the city.

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night

Every gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople
So if you've a date in Constantinople
She'll be waiting in Istanbul

Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way

So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks

Istanbul (Istanbul)
Istanbul (Istanbul)

Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way

Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks

So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks

Istanbul

Update: Whether you call it Istanbul or Constantinople, the city is amazing. Hugely walkable and full of a mind-boggling amount of history. Seriously. Mind boggling. I have to go and decompress. And get some raki. Or some food.

Another world

Istanbul will seem that much more exotic without sleep...

I had trouble when thinking about the trip - I couldn't figure out if Istanbul was in Europe or Asia. As it turns out, it extends both on the European (Thrace) and on the Asian (Anatolia) side of the Bosphorus, and is thereby the only metropolis in the world which is situated on two continents. Cool, huh?

Update: We're in Istanbul. Cheryl and I flew together; Sara came later. We walked around Sultanahmet and got to know a bit of the area, visited the (incredible) blue mosque. Made a friend from DC. He lives about a block from Sara. He seems nice but that might be the raki...

Night flight

We’re leaving tonight. I’m writing up some posts, my itinerary in advance to keep the blog alive. The Brokekid and/or Kris plan to help out and post daily if anyone’s desperate to hear about my vacation plans.

As for me, I’m not sure about a lot of things – accessibility to internet access. I’ve decided to leave my laptop at home and I’ve never really been any place like Turkey. I don’t know if there are internet cafes on every corner or hard to find. I don’t know if I’ll understand the keyboard – I’ve had problems in France, Germany and Italy with key placement.

I’m a little uncertain about the trip – it’s one of the longer ones I’ve taken and the dynamic is a bit off. We had one minor blowup earlier due to some miscommunication. Cheryl and I have traveled together extensively. She knows I’m cranky when I’m tired; I know she’s grumpy when she’s hungry. (It’s a good thing we waited until after Ramadan, a month of fasting.) This is our first major trip with Sara, though. It should be interesting…

We leave this afternoon – an overnight flight to Switzerland and then on to Istanbul. Thank goodness for Economy Plus and five extra inches of legroom.

Update: No Economy Plus for me. Second to last row, next to a sprawling man from Cameroon. I did get/buy some red wine and watched some movies (The Lake House and A Scanner Darkly - there were better movies and worse, but I'd seen the better and couldn't stomach the worse.) I also slept. Mmm... sleep. Mouth open, upright, fearing I'd drool, talk or lean on the man from Cameroon.

Packing fiasco

Long story short: I’m packed and ready to go.

Short story long: I went to the emergency room last night.

Sometime late afternoon, I realized that the three little bumps I’d discovered Wednesday night, low on my back, had multiplied into a couple dozen painful blisters. I headed into the bathroom and looked in the full-length mirror. Definitely a couple dozen angry red blisters.

I returned to the office for a bit of an office poll and self-diagnosis, my panic growing as I contemplated an international trip with a painful rash spreading across my back. Someone suggested shingles; I knew this version of dormant chicken pox could be activated by stress, but I didn’t know how it looked. I googled images of shingles.

“Oh, fudge…”

I called my doctor and the phone rang, endlessly. The clock ticked toward three-thirty, four. I took an informal office poll.

“I think I have shingles… My doctor won’t answer… I’m leaving the country tomorrow… I still have to pack.”

My boss positively refused to google images, seeing my back was enough, but she told me to leave, to go to urgent care, but there isn’t urgent care in the District of Columbia. The phone continued to ring (endlessly) in my doctor’s office. A coworker called our insurance carrier, looking for urgent care: Bethesda or Falls Church.

I called the Bethesda office, the only one metro accessible and discovered that they closed at five, reopening at 9 in the morning. It was already 4:15 and I had an important meeting scheduled before I left. I considered going home to get my car and driving to Falls Church in rush hour traffic, but that would take at least an hour, not to mention the waiting room.

“You should go,” my coworkers urged. “But before you leave, I just have one question…”

The clock continued to tick.

I finally grabbed my bag and logged off my computer. I walked to my doctor’s office, around the corner and about four blocks away. Kris tried to talk me down, to talk me through my options as I walked/ran to the office.

“It’s dark… I’m outside and it’s dark… I’m just going in to check the door.” Inside, I saw a hand-lettered sign instructing the mailman to deliver mail to the office next door. For the next week. “They’re gone. They’re just… gone.”

“It’s okay. You can go to urgent care. It will be fine…”

In the end, I decided to stop at the George Washington University Hospital, conveniently located off the orange and blue lines at Foggy Bottom. It was on the way home and I definitely knew my way around after my brother’s recent stay. I registered myself, panicking a bit at the forms for a living will (two of them), organ donation, next of kin. I’ve heard that infections gained while at the hospital is the leading cause of death. I don’t know if it’s true, but the thought lodged firmly in my mind.

The man next to me cried softly and called everyone he knew.

“I was in an accident… I’m fine… My car’s totaled… My beautiful little car, totaled, and it’s all her fault… No, I’m at the hospital now…”

Across from me, a man asked for ointment. The man in camo, the man next to him, muttered quietly in a language I didn’t recognize before falling asleep. The man from the desk came over and put a bracelet on him but when he awoke, he ripped off the bracelet and staggered out. Next to him, a man curled up with a stuffed Christmas moose, white fur gleaming under green antlers and a red Santa hat.

Cheryl, a travel companion and I, talked on the phone.

“I think I have shingles.”

“Is it [mumble]?”

“What?”

“Is it [mumble]?”

“What?”

“Is it [mumble]?”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Is it caused by [mumble]?”

“Stress? Yeah… It’s triggered by stress and I’m even more stressed now.” She offered to do what she could to help, but I really just needed to go home and pack. She stopped on her own way home and picked up the book I needed for one book club, she packed the other book club book from her shelves at home.

The moose lover got up after a while and went over to watch the man with blood spurting from his face. He stood about three feet away, staring, with the stuffed animal tucked under his arm, as the bloody man’s friends circled – one holding a garbage bag full of blood, a woman with a roll of toilet paper that she kept pressing against his cheek, another pacing with his briefcase, trying to intimidate the hospital staff.

I was triaged rather quickly (within an hour) and returned to my seat. A well-dressed man with bandages on this hands and scrapes on his face talked into a cell, “She just ran into the street. She could have been hurt… I could have seriously hurt her if I didn’t stop.”

A gaggle of girls came in and took the seats on either side of me. Five girls chattering about majors and minors and prerequisites, talking about Thanksgiving break and buying books. They asked me to move so they could sit together, I ended up by the door, freezing as a man vacuumed between the automatic doors.

Eventually, after three hours, I ended up behind the big doors and took a seat outside the nurses station. I made a new friend, a woman worrying about her daughter and holding her granddaughter. I made her laugh. Another half hour passed and a doctor called me over, examined me in a triage station.

“You have shingles… It’s good that you came in. We need to prescribe something.”

I ended up in CVS, a store I’ve been boycotting for a half-dozen years, picking up a prescription marked “Private” because it’s used to treat herpes, of which chicken pox is a strain, before I left the hospital, though, I verified that I could fly, that I wasn’t too contagious.

“Just don’t expose it,” the doctor said, the doctor who is going to Turkey himself in just two weeks. “Don’t rub it on anyone.”

“So… I shouldn’t rub any random strangers on the plane?”

“Not in the air. On the ground, maybe.” And he laughed, handed me the prescription and sent me on my way. By the time I finished at the late night pharmacy and got home, it was close to 10 and I started to pack, to reorganize my closet, to clean for the family that plans to stay in my apartment while I’m gone. Eventually, I gave up. I crawled into bed and let go of the worry.

I should have taken a prescription for painkillers, though.

Now, I’m just waiting for my ride to the airport. What I have, I have. If I need it, I'll buy it. If I don't, I can do without. Breathe.

Three Wise Men

Jim, Jack and Johnny, three wise men and one stupid move for a Wednesday night. At least I made it to work. My friends? Not so lucky...

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go

A lie. It's not 24 hours to go. It's more like 74 hours to go and I really, really, really want to be sedated.

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothing to do
Nowhere to go
I wanna be sedated

I am not normally one for drugs. Any drugs. If I have a headache, I drink more water (dehydration causes headaches and I have to imagine my four-can-a-day habit of Diet Coke does little for head health) and exercise more. If I want to lose weight, I drink more water and exercise more. If I am feeling a little insomniac, I lay off the water and exercise more. I do not pop pills.

Nevertheless, I think my current state warrants drugs. Many, many drugs. I wanna be sedated. The song keeps rolling through my head at hyper-speed on endless loop.

Just get me to the airport
And put me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry before I go insane
I cant control my fingers
I cant control my brain
Oh no oh no

It's true. I can't control my fingers and I can't control my brain. I cannot type nearly fast enough to update the files I need to update before I go, before my meeting on Thursday, really.

During my weekly team meeting this morning, I highlighted everything on the agenda that I needed to accomplish or address before I leave Friday afternoon. By the time I left, the sheet was yellow and warped in a damp paper kind of way. I had highlighter on my fingers and a bit on my sleeve. It might have made it to my cheek or hair but I haven't looked in a mirror. I haven't really had a chance to get up and go to the bathroom yet today. (It's almost five.)

I need to pack. I need to seriously think about packing. I don't really want to take a lot of clothes but I am leaving for more than two weeks. I don't want to hate my clothes like I did after the trip to Barbados when everything was stolen on day two and I spent the rest of the trip in a pair of black capris and a little yellow t-shirt that said "take a hike."

I wanted to burn that shirt after the trip.

I'm worried about offending the locals – I'm going to a Muslim country. Unescorted. It would not do to have my breasts popping out or bare legs flashing. I cannot forget to pack a head scarf. Skirts. High-necked… things.

I don’t really have anything high necked and even turtlenecks and t-shirts resemble boob shirts once I get myself situated. I think my shirts attempt to maintain some sense of decorum in the morning but by the end of the day, they've just given up. Given in. Let go.

Just put me in a wheelchair
And get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry before I go loco
I cant control my fingers
I cant control my toes
Oh no oh no

Of course, instead of packing last night, I wrote up little bits of our itinerary that my brother or Kayla or Kris will post while I'm gone. It helped me get my head straight, figure out what we're doing when and forced me to think about what I really want to do and might have helped with some of the theoretical bits of packing, but truly, nothing made it into a bag. I procrastinated.

That's the real problem. Procrastination. And trying to do too much.

Before I leave, I need to pack, of course, and make sure that my office, my client and my coworkers are ready for my absence, that I'm not leaving anyone in a lurch (a word that always makes me think of the Addams family). I want to stop by Olsson's and pick up my book club reading materials. I'm Running with Scissors and hopefully happy houring. I need to clean my apartment for invading family members. I have to make a solid effort to reduce the produce in my fridge.

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated

Granted, I could leave it all behind. I could grab a couple of t-shirts, my camera and my passport and head to the airport. I just might.

Tag: Ramones Travel Anxiety Stress

Warning

The warning pops up.


I've seen it a million times in the past couple of months or some variation of it as I've moved more data into databases and made changes to get at the information more easily.

Am I sure I want to update these records?

Normally, I don't think about it. I click Yes. I assume that I did whatever I did for a reason and that I did it right. Occasionally, I'll click No with a "No. No. No!" running through my head followed by "Whew" but normally, I don't even think about it.

Today, though, it struck a chord. Do I want to update these records?

Honestly, I couldn't care less. I need to update these records, so I'll click Yes but do I want to update them?

No. I want to go home and crawl into bed. I want to nap for a couple of hours, get up when my body decides to be awake, walk around the apartment in my pajamas and curl up with a good book and a pot of tea.

I want to go to the Portrait Museum.

I want to clean out my closet and get rid of those sweaters that I know I'll never wear, including the long, red angora one with my monogram. I've been storing that sweater since 1992. It's moved with me at least nine times. I am NEVER going to wear it; I'm allergic to angora.

I want to get a pedicure.

I want to pack for Turkey.

I want to paint my apartment, even though it is a rental and I am half convinced that painting my apartment will result in a sudden decision on my landlord's part to sell the house or to rent to her nephew/cousin/friend from work.

I want to organize my photos.

I want to go to Paris for New Year's and New Orleans for Jazz Fest and I want to know if I'm going to be sharing a bed with a friend or a lover on either of those trips.

I want to know if I should get an MBA.

I want to buy a house, move out of the basement, paint the walls red.

I want a place to put my new rice cooker.

I want a lot of things.

Do I want to update 913010 rows? It's not exactly at the top of my list or the bottom or anywhere in between, but I click Yes. I get out of my head and back to work.

Tired

So tired.

Yawning, I programmed my alarm for 3:40. I programmed a second for 3:45 and a third for 3:50, praying that at least one would work. I crawled into my pajamas and crawled into bed thinking, “If I fall asleep in the next 10 minutes, I’ll get at least four hours sleep.”

I tried. I tried too hard and witnessed the witching hour before drifting off. Entirely too soon, the first alarm sounded, followed by the second and third and I stumbled out of bed, rubbing the grit of too little sleep from my eyes. I pulled on a T-shirt and looked for my jeans. I wandered down the hall, stopping and returning to my room for the text message that buzzing on my windowsill.

“I’m on my way.”

“Pants,” I thought. “I need to find pants. Soon.”

Vaguely, I remembered that the jeans I wanted were folded on the couch or the ottoman or somewhere in the living room.

“Pants…”

I found the jeans and struggled into them. I pulled on my sweater. Slipped on some flip-flops. Sat down at my computer and googled the Leesburg outlet mall. Sunday: 11 am – 6 pm.

“Well, that’s inconvenient,” I thought and the house phone rang. “Hello?”

“Helloooo,” Kayla intoned. “I’m outside.”

“I’ll be right out.” Climbing into the car, I said, “I don’t know why I bothered to answer. As if it could be anyone else at four in the morning.”

We headed over to the Brokekid’s house and I called, leaving a message when it went directly to voicemail.

“We’re early. I’ll try again in five minutes if we don’t hear from him.” My mobile buzzed to let me know he was awake (and probably rushing around the apartment in last-minute, early-morning preparations). Within minutes, he climbed into the backseat and we headed toward the airport. Dulles. A 6 am flight.

“Where are you going?” I asked. “People keep asking and while I’m 99-percent sure it’s Arizona, Amy [our sister] thinks you’re going to Oklahoma and I suppose it could be New Mexico or Texas.”

“I’m going to Tux-sahn,” he replied. “For work.”

“Ah, Tux-sahn... I hate Tucson. I’m also supposed to tell you that you’re lame.”

“Why?”

“Because you skipped 123Valerie’s party and I went,” I replied. “And I’m the one taking you to the airport.”

He didn’t mind so much, the “lame” designee. He had a legitimate excuse with the early morning flight, and Sunday morning, he felt better than me. He’d been in bed by eight, asleep by 8:30, while I drank red wine from a sippy cup, chatted up strangers and partook in Halloween themed hors d’oeuvres, regretting that I missed the “ladies’ fingers” and jack o’ cheese ball. (I didn’t even grab a gummy worm for the road.) All the while, my brother nestled all snug in his bed, while visions of security and trade shows danced in his head.

I almost didn’t make it to the party, spending the day running errands, getting ready for my upcoming vacation and helping Kayla get her apartment back to white. We painted for four hours, and I figured out how to pop a beer cap on a countertop. The walls looked none the better for our efforts or the beer, but they were no longer brown, meeting the building’s requirements. Kayla drove me home and I deliberated crawling into bed (around 7 pm) and going to the party.

“If the Brokekid’s changed my headlight, I’ll go.” I wavered. “If the party’s early enough, I’ll go.”

I got home and realized that my brother came by in my absence and swapped out the headlight. I checked my email and found a reminder from 123Valerie. I checked the time of the party and discovered that it started in 15 minutes.

“Fine,” I shouted inside my head. “I’ll go!”

And so I showered and left, looking less than put-together but slightly less paint-spattered and proud of myself for leaving. I drove 45 minutes to the party and presented my bottle of wine. I made my excuses early, citing my exhaustion and need to drive the kid to the airport as a reason to leave early. I stayed later than I expected. I chatted with 123Valerie’s potential love interest. I chatted with my brother’s high school prom date and his Peace Corps buddy, the buddy’s boyfriend, a neighbor from home, a whole bunch of strangers. I circulated in a room full of more fiscally-oriented people than one would ever expect to find in such a small place. I had fun.

At 3:45, though, I wanted to cry. I could barely function most of the day. We dropped off my brother and drove to Kayla’s mom’s house. I felt like a college kid, bringing my laundry, scavenging in the cupboards and curling up for a nap. It was kind of nice.

By 10:15, we were both up again, watching TV and waiting for the end of the laundry so we could drive to the outlets for some retail therapy. It was the reason Kayla joined me in the early morning airport run. Shopping. We used the crazy girl gift certificate to get housewares at William Sonoma for Kayla's new place. We bought clothes for work and play and my upcoming trip to Turkey. We bought a whole bunch of things, most of which I have yet to unpack and our plans for brunch turned into plans for lunch and plans to go home and crash.

I still haven’t crashed.

I awoke 17, 18 hours ago and dropped my brother at the airport. I napped a little. I ate a little. I walked entirely too much and spent entirely too much and examined entirely too many different chocolate-colored wool cardigans. I bought a rice cooker and a prairie skirt, some sweaters and pint jars. I bought tights. I am tired. So tired. And happy.

Tag: Shopping Party Leesburg Outlet Sleep

Shopgirl

I got there early, probably the first or second to arrive, but I didn’t see the rest of my party until they were seated at the table. The whole Ardeo/Bardeo thing threw me, threw us all, as the rest of the girls ended up in the bar on the Bardeo side and I sat at the bar on the Ardeo side, side of our dinner reservation, finishing the book for the second time. I started it that morning on the metro.

Most of us finished the book ages ago. We planned to meet in September but life got in the way. Two of us waited to start it. It was a short book and we tended to read fast. Even so, the delay blurred the details in our mind and the fact that some saw the movie blurred them even further.

Eventually, I finished the book again and met up with friends, joining them in a table at the end of the bar in Ardeo. We tried to get a table in Bardeo but they don’t take reservations and Friday at 7 it was hard to seat six. (The whole thing seemed too complicated with two restaurants in one space.)

Instead, we refilled our wine glasses, ordered appetizers and settled into a discussion of the book. Shopgirl.

We liked it, most of us. I found it detached and Molly found it somewhat depressed. All of us had trouble placing Claire Danes in the lead role, whether or not we’d seen the movie, and reconciling the objective narrator of the book with Steve Martin’s voice in the movie, as the lead male. At least one had problems getting into the story and a couple of us had troubles getting out of it, with quick leaps in time or emotion. Overall, though, we seemed to like it. More than anything, though, we enjoyed each other’s company.

Throughout the night, we threw off the poor waiter as Molly traded places with first Kristen and then Tammy so that we might share our plates and Tammy might get away from the pinenuts. We heard the story of her allergy and her discovery of the ailment at age 18, the summer after her senior year in high school and working at Ben & Jerry’s.

“I decided to try every flavor, including Wavy Gravy, a hazelnut ice cream,” she said. “My entire face swelled up.”

The caramel and cashew brazil nut ice cream with chocolate hazelnut fudge swirls and roasted almonds was probably the worst thing she could sample and the best way of finding a nut allergy. She ended up in the hospital, shot up with epinephrine and steroids. Despite the serious subject matter, she made us laugh.

We ordered glass after glass of wine – sometimes more than we needed, sometimes less, always accommodating and willing to make do. I declined the dessert wine.

“There’s beet on my breast,” I explained. “I’ve already made a mess. I don’t think I need to drink more.”

We figured out the next date and time. We figured out the next book – Bergdorf Blondes – followed by The Historian. Chick lit and a Book Sense Book of the Year winner. (I’m reading another 2006 Book Sense contender for my other bookclub.) Fitting.

Sometimes, we need a little brain candy. Sometimes, we need a little floss. We always need good company and great conversation, wine and time with friends. I look forward to mid-November and our next discussion.


Tag: Book Club Shopgirl Bardeo Ardeo

Let them eat cake

"We're going to be late," I noted, looking at the clock in the car. "We're going to have to sit in the front row, next to the guy with the suitcase."

"I've gone so much I know who you're talking about," Kayla laughed. "I wonder what he keeps in the suitcase."

"His mother?" I supposed.

We made our way through town and to the theater, finding rock star parking across the street from the theater. We were officially late. The doors had opened and we worried that we wouldn't find seats. At least, I worried that we wouldn't find seats – it seemed like a pretty mainstream flick, despite the historic subject matter. We rushed through the lobby and gave my name to a woman with a clipboard who crossed it off a very short list.

"That's a little weird…" normally the list stretches to page after page, and inside the theater, row upon row was blocked off for the press.

"Maybe there are more reporters coming to this screening."

We took our seats down toward the front, six or seven rows back from the screen and dove into our candy, mixing Mike and Ike with Jelly Belly jelly beans. Between the sugar buzz and the onscreen trivia, it took us a minute to notice the crowd.

"They must have gone to local schools… high schools," Kayla observed. The seats around us were filled with teenagers in incredibly trendy, incredibly unflattering clothes. Chunky, flat layers of greasy hair. Off the shoulder sweaters. Tapered pants with silver lamé ankle boots.

"Isn't it funny how 'lamé' and lame are basically the same word?" I wondered aloud as Kayla stared at the girls across the aisle. A pair walked down the aisle, interrupting the observation, followed by a couple who could only be grandparents. Nodding at a child in front of us, "That's how you know they're in high school. No girl who's gone through puberty could be that thin."

The group seemed strange. I've never felt old at a movie - at concerts, certainly; amusement parks; festivals; but never in a movie theater - even kids' movies are peppered with parents. The screening of Marie Antoinette, though, was filled with adolescent girls. I suppose it was fitting: A puerile audience for the teenaged queen.

I've got to admit that my public school education did little to enlighten me on the whole French Revolution. In fact, if not for my sister's move to France (in the summer of 1989), I would have known nothing. I paid minimal attention to the 200th anniversary of the storming of the Bastille given my sister's proximity. She lived in the same country, at least. That much I knew.

I turned 14 that year – the same age as Marie Antoinette when she married Louis XVI – but I didn't know that at the time.

"If they have no bread, then let them eat cake!" That was the image I had of the girl, the woman, the queen. I learned last night how wrong I was.

In Marie Antoinette, actress Kirsten Dunst and director Sofia Coppola created an entirely sympathetic character, showing the transformation of schoolgirl, separated from her family, home and country, into a princess and a party girl, a mother and a queen, all the while wearing fancy frocks and hellacious high hair.

Sitting in the audience, six or seven rows back, I wondered at the expense of the absolutely fabulous costumes and scenery, the hair and the food. I suppose the French did as well, 200 years ago; thus, the Revolution. It was easy to see, though, how she could have been the product of her environment. If they're going to give you champagne with every meal, you might as well drink it.

I wanted some by the end of the film. Champagne. The movie was scrumptious, beautiful and rich, like dark chocolate, with a strangely fitting modern soundtrack. "I Want Candy" nestled (loudly) between "Aux languets d'Apollon" (from the opera-ballet "Platée") and "Hong Kong Garden" performed by Siouxsie and the Banshees. Corks popped, champagne splashed and beautiful girls twirled in beautiful clothes.

The slightly quirky cast, including Dunst, Jason Schwartzman (from Rushmore) and Molly Shannon (of SNL fame), worked well together as Sofia Coppola created a stunning historical drama in her own offbeat way. It was the perfect end to a less than perfect week.

Tag: Marie Antoinette Sofia Coppola Kirsten Dunst Jason Schwartzman Screening

Flags of our Fathers

“What did you think?” I asked as we walked out of the theater.

“It was awesome,” he replied and turned the question on me. “What did you think?”

“The plot was a little… thin,” I said. I paused for a bathroom break and resumed my train of thought. “I didn’t feel like the characters were very well developed. The ones who died or, well, even the ones who lived.”

We’d just walked out of Flags of our Fathers, the World War II flick about the battle at Iwo Jima, the men who fought there, and the fabulously famous shot of the men raising the flag. If a picture’s worth a thousand words, what about a thousand images of death and violence? Is that worth a million words? A decapitated head? A single hand in the mire? Disemboweled entrails?

I did well for the first 15 or 30 or 40 minutes of fighting but after a point, I couldn’t stop cringing. I closed my eyes as bullets sprayed soldiers we’d watched playing cards moments earlier. The constant, staccato beat of guns firing, of cannons and bombs and grenades exploding, made me wonder if I might be damaging my hearing.

The music felt cheesily sentimental. The beautiful Ryan Phillippe stoically, charmingly, played a hero in a group of men who would have (and did) deny the label. I just wish that I knew more about the man he played, about all of the men portrayed.

I knew very little of the battle going into the movie and I felt the film provided a firm historic basis. Unfortunately, it did so in a choppy, less than cohesive manner. It jumped from the aging World War II vets to training camp, from the war to the tour following the photo to interviews with retirees in 1998.

The amazing thing is that they managed to do most of it without words. Patriotism was bought and sold. Men died without stories and the stories told made me feel bad about myself, my country and the men who died. All of it without dialogue, without context, without story or history.

The best part of the film was the credits. Not only did it mean that the film was over, but as they rolled, photos from Iwo Jima flashed on the screen. The men who lived and the men who died. The island. The flag. The planes and the boats and the boys on the beach, boys who never made it home.

Of course, I didn’t tell any of this to my friend. We talked about Iwo Jima and how it served then and continues to serve as a defining moment for the Marines. I should have known that. My grandfather was a Marine in World War II.

I could almost imagine him as one of the boys on the bunks. He never really talked about the war, my mom’s dad. Neither did my dad’s dad, a navy guy in World War II. The movie made me think of them, both gone now. I miss them. I wish I knew more about them, what they did, who they were a lifetime ago.

The violence made me think of my uncle Conrad, a man who served as a chaplain’s assistant in Vietnam. It sounds all good and Catholic and almost clean, but it means that he spent his tour giving last rites to the dead and dying. He passed away a couple of years ago, succumbing to cancer. He never talked about his war either.

And there I was, taking a boy to a movie about war. The gunshots made me nervous; how did they make him feel? We talked about thin plots and cheesy music. I think I might have mentioned how the actors resembled the men they portrayed. We just didn’t talk about war. We didn’t talk about Iraq. Or the fact that he’d just gotten back. We didn’t talk about a lot of things but I guess there’s time.

Then, again, I thought that about my uncle, my grandfathers, and I found myself learning about them through a movie I didn’t really enjoy. Maybe we should have talked; I should have asked. The movie wasn't just a thin plot or cheesy music. It was history and maybe it was awesome.


Tag: Flags of our Fathers World War II Veterans Grandfather

The Upshot

Normally, I don't write about dating. I don't exclude it for a lack of material but I know people who write dating blogs. It's hard. People take liberties when commenting on extremely intimate aspects of their lives. Some bloggers run out of material – it's hard to have that many bad dates – and end up writing about something else. Some just make things up or ruin perfectly good/bad/normal relationships for the sake of the blog. It's all too much for me...

Well, that and my family reads my blog. (Hi, Grandma Mavis!) Some things are best left unshared.

That being said, I've lost it. I have to vent about dating. Just this once.

It's been an interesting year. In April, I found myself single again after a couple of years in relationship after relationship. Some ended with anger (I deleted you), hurt feelings (you're a bad person) and just plain messily (baby did a bad, bad thing).

Granted, the relationships were not all serious but they did take me out of the game. I felt benched, as it were, and it took me a bit to recover, to feel more human, to get back out there. Eventually, though, I started dating again and in the past few months, I've realized how much dating in DC sucks.

Some highlights of my recent adventures in dating…

Dirty whore
An ingrown hair in your nether regions does not an STD make, as your doctor proved. It most definitely does not give you the right to accuse me of a disease I DON'T HAVE, followed by "I've enjoyed hanging out with you" and "Call me." Beep, beep. Wave... Um, yeah. No. We did have fun until you called me a dirty whore; I prefer my men less repressed and passive aggressive.

Schizophrenic
The fact that I don't want to make out with you in the back of a cab while pressed against your best friend, an extra man you brought on the date and for whom you abandoned me as you attempted to get him a girl, does not make me schizophrenic. Berating me in the back of said cab, screaming at me on the sidewalk and forcing me to walk a mile home, in a thunderstorm, at 3 o'clock in the morning does not a positive impression make, especially on a first date. (Highlights of the night included running into my most recent ex as well as the guy from the next clip.)

Abandoned
Since when is it socially acceptable to exit with your date and go home with a girl you met outside? What is wrong with me?! I don't even mean the fact that you abandoned me (twice) for other girls but the fact that I put up with it. Twice. Though, the first time did result in a rather rude text message. I've been know to send messages like "jury wasted salad" sober, due to the auto-complete function. God only knows how I figured out to swear in my angry, inebriated state.

Cantaloupe fucker
Craigslist is a very bad idea. I didn't post an ad and I didn't answer it, but a friend passed along his email and somehow I ended up writing the guy. Email. IM. He seemed kind of nice and so we met. The boy. Two of my friends. Me. Lots of beer. It was actually fun; though, he seemed a bit freaky.

I didn't mind so much that I didn't hear from him. Two months later, though, he IM'd me. The conversation quickly degraded as he told me about making sweet sticky love to a melon.

"A girl asked me to fuck a cantaloupe. So I did," he wrote.

"Really?" I asked. "It sounds kind of… sticky."

"What do you think?" he replied. "No, I didn't do it."

[Nothing]

"Do you want to watch me fuck a cantaloupe?" he asked.

"No."

In addition to putting incredibly icky thoughts in my head, he propositioned me. He told me he wanted to get naked and blindfolded. He wanted me to join my friends in hitting him with pillows. For the record, my friends are not interested and he totally ruined a sweet, healthy snack for all of us. (Though, I do appreciate the epithet: Cantaloupe fucker.)

The Upshot
We had fun. We drank beer and watched comedians. We talked. We laughed. He walked me to the metro, offered to drive me home and kept attempting to flag down a cab so I wouldn't have to walk alone at the other end of the line. I went to Alaska. He went on job interviews. I didn't hear from him for a month and a half but then I got this…

Blah, blah, blah. Bought a camera. Bought a motorcycle. Moving cross country. "So, the upshot is, I'll never see you again but I had fun when we went out. Look me up if you make it out to that corner of the country again."

I got the last email last night. I think it might have been the proverbial straw. I didn't mind that I hadn't heard from him, but the upshot is that he'll never see me again? The upshot? I know it means "gist" but did he really need to email me that after two months of silence?

There have been others. Some good. Some less good. Some just plain weird. Such is life.

I'm not about to quit dating; though, I will go back to keeping it to myself, a few well chosen friends and the boys. Always the boys. Maybe someday it will be a man and everything will change.


Tag: Dating Washington DC

Big visit

I started to feel a little trapped. It was my own darn fault. I chose to stay at the client site. I needed to download some files but that wasn’t the real reason. I wanted a chance to see the jefe, the commander in chief, the President. Of the United States. Of America.

I didn’t know he was coming until my morning meeting.

“When is the President coming?” a contractor asked. I tilted my head and looked at him quizzically.

“President?”

“Is that why the third floor was taped off?” asked my client. She rambled a bit, trying to process the information. “I thought that maybe someone died and it was a police line, a crime scene, do not cross… I never thought it was the president… I would have deleted the morning broadcasts… He visits my mother’s nursing home. Senior voters. It’s a limited audience though – I think they have to be registered voters.”

Eventually, she wrapped her mind around the idea that the leader of the free world would be visiting the building, just one floor below her, and we moved on with the agenda, discussing our time off schedules, upcoming meetings, reporting on the end of the fiscal year (and how that coincides with various team members’ travel) and arguing hotly about reporting tools and using data from the source (transactional systems) versus data warehousing. Thrilling stuff.

For the most part, we forgot about el jefe. I forgot until I walked out of the building with one of my coworkers, heading back to my own office.

“Big stuff going on?” asked my coworker at the sight of dogs in the hall and men in dark suits and curly cords joining their collars to their ears.

“It’s the President,” I replied. I explained the reason for his visit and we walked out in the cold, gray morning. “I kind of want to stay.”

“You should,” she said.

“I could run reports,” I thought aloud. “I really need to do it and it’s easier from here.”

She nodded encouragingly, smiling broadly and shooing me back toward the building. I reentered through security and made my way to the shared cubicle in the sky (or rather the seventh floor).

I pulled report after report, data that had been made available that morning and some things that had been available for ages but we were too lazy or busy or forgetful to pull. I met with clients. I got answers to questions that were too complicated to put into an email and signed up for additional work, calling the coworker who had left me at the door.

Through it all, I kept glancing at the clock. When I went down to the cafeteria (worried that they’d shut down the elevators and/or the lunch line), I looked outside at the pouring rain, security men in slickers and police line. I felt a little flutter of anticipation.

I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t vote for the man and I don’t much like what he has to say. I used to think him an embarrassment. Now, I don’t think about him at all. I’m more concerned with the upcoming midterm elections, just weeks away.

I wouldn’t see him when he arrived. I didn't know which entrance he’d use, and even if I knew the side of building, I doubted I could get anywhere close enough to recognize him. Besides, it’s illegal to take pictures inside the building.

I thought I would have to forego use of the elevators for a couple of hours. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave to go back to my own office and frankly, I could watch the webcast of his address from just about anywhere. My shared computer didn't even have speakers.

Nevertheless, I stayed. I wanted to stay, to be in the building, annoyed by the hacking, regular cough of the girl on the other side of a shared cubicle wall, by the woman who played Free Cell and Solitaire all day, every day, by the buzz of voices from all sides, half-heard conversations and jokes and mutterings.

I stayed. I ate my cafeteria cornbread, steamed broccoli and buttery potatoes. I pulled reports. I met with clients. I peed. All with the President of the United States of America four stories below me.

Iraq the Vote

After a long, exhausting week of work and driving, house sitting and getting up in the middle of the night to walk the dogs with exceedingly small bladders, I wanted nothing more than to crash. Rest. Relax. Stay home and sleep in my own bed. Instead, I planned a party.

Before anybody gets upset about not being included on the guest list, I didn't really think of it as a party and I didn't invite many people. Actually, I barely invited anyone. People just showed up.

It all started a couple of weeks ago with an email from MoveOn.org. They wanted hosts for a screening of the DVD "Iraq for Sale," a film focusing on the cost of contractors in Iraq. As a sucker for free movies and a fan of documentaries, I was intrigued. I emailed my oh-so-politically-minded brother and asked if he'd bring friends. He agreed, so I signed myself up and promptly forgot.

Over the next few days, the emails came, the instructions, the guidelines. I found myself sitting through an hour-long call for hosts and started to wonder. Me, girl who hates to talk on the phone, hosting an "Iraq the Vote" calling party and movie screening, open to a whole bunch of strangers. What was I thinking?

As the date drew near, I pushed it aside. My trip to Turkey seemed more important and work, house/dog/cat/fish/guinea-pig-sitting and hanging out with friends. I didn't need to focus on the party on Sunday. I did have to run home midweek to make sure I got the video and sit through the information session, but overall, I didn't have to do much and I didn't have to think.

But Sunday kept getting closer.

At some point, I would have to think about it. I would have to clean my apartment. Buy food. Entertain a half dozen strangers and cold call people about voting. The thought turned my stomach a bit. Calling? Really? Couldn't we just skip that bit and watch the movie?

On Friday, I printed out the calling lists and the scripts. I sent a reminder to the guests, to the people I didn't know, and sent directions to my house.

On Saturday, I went grocery shopping. Chips and dips and tons of veggies. Beer and wine for after the calls, soda and juice before. I went home after a week in the 'burbs.

On Sunday, I cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned. I washed the dishes stacked in the sink and scrubbed the toilet. I sorted through the mail and the magazines, setting some out for recycling. I bagged VHS tapes to ship to my mom (I haven't had a working VCR since 2002) and unboxed my great grandmother's crystal, which my uncle sent me in June. I even put my laundry away, which is a major accomplishment for me.

I cut up veggies and sliced the baguette. I spooned hummus and tabouleh and baba ghanoush into the aforementioned crystal. Black bean dip and salsa. Chocolate raspberry pretzel dip and pumpkin butter. Bread and crackers. Veggies and cheese. Brownies. I laid out a spread for the people I didn't know while my brother vacuumed and people started to arrive.

Three people I didn't know. Four I did. We called my home state (Ohio) to encourage people to get out and vote. It was exciting and awful all at the same time. Not everyone made calls; though, one of my brother's friends came along for the ride and ended up more into the calling than anyone else.

A few people hung up on me. A few people seemed confused and really like they were just waiting for me to ask them for money, which never really happened. I just encouraged them to get out and vote. I talked about local candidates. I asked what issues influenced their voting. (I followed the script.) One woman told me that she could not answer the question on issues. Not that she wouldn't or that she didn't know. She just couldn't tell me.

When I started calling, I hoped for two pages of answering machines, of caller IDs and people who wouldn't pick up. I feel strongly about exercising the right and responsibility to vote; I just hate talking on the phone. The hang ups didn't help.

"Hi, my name's Kristin. I'm a volunteer with –"

"I can't." Click.

"You can't vote?" I looked at my phone. Call ended. Great. I wanted to call even less than he wanted to listen, but I tried. One man (exactly one) seemed interested in what I had to say and offered his own opinions. He seemed glad that I called and I drew a little smiley face on my list of numbers.

After the calls, after I reported my results, I went back inside. People filled their plates and filled their glasses and settled in for the film. It was enlightening and frustrating, engaging and enraging. When it ended, one man, one of the strangers, asked where he could get a copy. Another man said he wished we could send it to everyone we'd just called.

We talked for a while. About the movie. About the war. We talked about politics and civic action and reluctantly ended the night. Actually, a couple of friends and my brother stayed on my couch late into the night, munching and chatting and watching Sunday night television, a little self-satisfied for having done something worthwhile.


Tag: Election Voting Iraq for Sale Calling Party

Book club

“Just another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody… Got some money ‘cause I just got paid…”

The song raced through my head. A little bit true. A little bit not. I have never been one for Saturday nights. I go out, as one might expect, but not because it’s Saturday. I go out because I like to go out. The day matters little.

On Saturday night, though, the night in question, I actually found myself struggling. I wanted nothing less than to pull myself together, walk six blocks and talk about a book I little enjoyed. Book club night.

I belong to two book clubs. I have belonged to half a dozen throughout the years but for the past year or so, I have found myself committed to two groups. They are different as night and day but for their love of books.

One club includes only girls, 30-ish women, with looks and brains, degrees and pedigrees. We meet in bars and restaurants and two of the girls (a lawyer and a teacher) are two of my biggest drinking friends. I have taken my mom to meet this club; she was impressed by both our hour-long discussion of the book and our knowledge of wine. (The drinking stories scared her a bit.)

The other club, the one that met Saturday night, is coed and has been meeting for years. I believe that I am the newest member and my friend, Eclectic Blue, and I are the youngest at 30 and 31 respectively. The group talks literature, politics and everything in between. It is filled with journalists, analysts, and the most random group of people to which I belong.

I read the book for Saturday night, The Messenger by Daniel Silva. I bought my dish, the tabbouleh and hummus and baba ghanoush. I was prepared but I wanted to stay home. I just wanted sleep. Ah, sleep. Glorious sleep.

I sacked out on the couch as long as possible, setting my alarm, hitting the snooze, ignoring it for a bit and getting up around the time that I need to be there. Fortunately, it was in my neighborhood and even leaving, remembering my phone, and coming back for it didn’t put me too much off schedule. I arrived late, but not the latest, and joined the conversation.

Once again, we talked literature, politics, and everything in between. We devised a devilish plan to poke fun at an absent member at our holiday gift exchange. Given her history of completely terrible gifts, we decided that we would each bring the “free-est, shittiest gifts” we could find.

With a white elephant approach and giving her #1 (all the slips would say #1), she would open the first shitty gift. #2 would take the gift, and the bad gift giver would have to open another and another and another until we progressed through the used hot air popper and random Sunday newspaper samples, the takeout packets and almost empty toilet paper rolls. As the plot unfolded, most of the table doubled over in laughter.

“I can’t see for the tears,” I joked as Chris tried to read the author’s bio. He made it most of the way through before Anne started laughing, completely unprompted, completely unscripted at the thought of our plan. She could not stop and Teresa, recipient of years’ worth of crappy Christmas gifts, wiped away her tears.

We talked about the book and plastic surgery and the differences between religion and a way of life. We talked about travel and DC traffic. We talked.

Not everybody liked the book and not everybody agreed with each other's viewpoints, but we all enjoyed each other's company. We all got along and we laughed harder than I have laughed in ages. Sometimes the thing you least want to do, sometimes pulling yourself together after hitting snooze a few dozen times is just what a person needs.


Tag: Book Club Friends Books

Friends of friends

So… how do you know Miles?” asked the opera singer.

“My brother, Brokekid, was in the Peace Corps with Busta who works with him.”

[Blank stare]

“We all went camping a couple of weeks ago,” I offered.

“Oh!” she replied. “I heard about the camping trip. Shenandoah, right? I head about that. I’m so jealous!”

We talked a bit about camping. She never did get my connection to Miles, but that’s okay. I didn’t get hers. None of it mattered. The point was that we were friends with the host, with his wife, that they liked us enough to invite us into their home, to share their food and friends with us.

I drove in from the ‘burbs to pick up the Brokekid and Mike (another Peace Corps buddy who recently, as in Tuesday, moved into my brother’s building). Driving to Glover Park, I realized how much time I had spent in the neighborhood. My friend, Sara, lived there and Alison. My friend Sandy used to live around the corner, and I dated a boy who lived down the street. So much time, so many memories for such a small neighborhood.

We drove to upper northwest, skipping the Google directions through the middle of town and the middle of Georgetown. We figured out how to get where we wanted to be and we looked for parking in the incredibly cute, incredibly crowded streets of Glover Park. We drove past an incredibly small spot, cruising slowly and stopping to compare the length of the car to the length of the spot. Tight fit, too tight. We decided against it and tried another.

“I can get into the spot but I’m not sure I can get out… Should we try?”

Both the Brokekid and Mike shook their heads and we moved on, pulling a U-ey and driving back down the street. Suddenly, rock star parking appeared before us, not half a block from the house and two car-lengths long. I pulled in and backed up, leaving room for another (compact) car (which was later filled by an SUV). We climbed out of the Jeep, grabbed the beer, grabbed the wine and walked to our friends’ house.

It was an impromptu invitation. Last minute.

“Come on by tonight for some Brazilian foods and music, maybe even that mariachi special we were thinking about for Busta, he'd love that.”

And so we did. We came by for Brazilian foods and music but no mariachi special for Busta. Bummer. We split when we got there, Brokekid and Mike to the living room, me to the kitchen to hang out with Fer as she pitted dates for dessert. She made rice. She made fish (a whole fish, head and all - when it was ready, she encouraged me back to the kitchen with “They’re killing the fish now. You should have some.”). I smoked with her, bumming a cigarette from another Brazilian friend. Earlier, talking to the opera singer, I mentioned smoking.

“I wanted a cigarette earlier. I’m not used to commuting. It drives me nuts and something about the bumper-to-bumper drive and a deep, sexy voice on my voice mail (from Tuesday, which I didn't check until Friday) made me want a cigarette,” I explained. “I got into my glove compartment, but the cigarettes were gone. Instead, I found a bag of batteries.”

“That’s funny,” she said.

“I know and they so weren’t mine,” I explained. “I don’t buy Energizer… I hate the bunny. I figure that somebody broke into my car and swapped them for the cigarettes.”

“That’s crazy,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Definitely… I mean, who hates the bunny?”

It was that kind of party. Friends. Friends of friends. Random strangers. When I joined Fer on the porch for the cigarette with some of the Brazilians, I found myself in the minority, as the minority, the only one who didn’t speak Portuguese. They chatted freely, translating for me, speaking English for my benefit.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand every fifth word, give or take a few.” I caught the gist and I had fun. I liked the short, slightly dirty-looking guy giving me unabashed looks of interest without saying a word. I appreciated that they felt free to speak in front of me, not expecting me to understand. I enjoyed the fact that they translated for me, that they switched to English for my benefit.

The night wore on. Good food. Good music. Great friends. The Brokekid crashed early and I drove us home, dropping him off and heading out to the ‘burbs to take out the dogs. On the way, I passed my house.

“I just want to stop…” I thought, longing for my own bed, for the dreadfully procreative family upstairs with crying baby and running toddler, instead of the dogs but I bucked up for a 2 a.m. walk. They woke me at 5. We got up for the day around 7:30 and I wanted to cry. I wanted to get back to the peaceful happy place of friends and strangers, cheese and wine. A language I didn’t know and music I did. I had a good night.

So… how do you know Miles?” asked the opera singer.

“He’s my friend.” Enough said.

Tag: Friends Party

Weekday Serenade

Sometime after that last turn, I realized I didn’t have the house number. I had directions, a phone number and a picture of the house – big and beautiful in the daylight – but no house number. My stomach fluttered a little. I started looking for a car with an Ohio plate and Kerry bumper sticker. When I found that, I knew I was in the right neighborhood.

I parked, walked up to the car and brushed away the leaves covering the house number painted on the asphalt. Looking up, I checked out the corresponding house. It looked like the picture except for the whole dark of night thing making it difficult to see. Holding my breath, I walked up to the door. I heard a guitar, some barking, and sighing with relief, I pressed the doorbell.

“Welcome, friends…” came a voice from within as the door swung open. I couldn’t quite see her, but I knew it was 123Valerie. I opened the door. My senses flooded.

The Wonder Bean Dog barked half heartedly and 123Valerie asked if I was hungry. Savory undertones wafted from the kitchen as the music stopped and Har-Har Harwell came over to give me a hug. Megan Jane called hello from the dining room.

“Put your stuff anywhere. Are you hungry? How was the drive?”

I pulled myself together and handed over the bottles of wine.

“Would you like something to drink? A beer? Some wine? Would you like cabernet or … cabernet?”

“Wine, please,” and I followed 123Valerie into the kitchen were a smorgasbord awaited – veggies and dip, hummus, pita chips, spinach and artichokes bubbling blissfully in a crock and as Har-Har Harwell pointed out, cherry tomatoes stuffed with lentils and feta.

“Did you stuff these yourself?” he asked and the hostess nodded, her red curls bouncing. Plates and glasses were filled, emptied, filled again as the Brokekid and Mike arrived. Miles. Byrd. Guitars were tuned and a ukulele appeared. Boys strummed, girls drummed. Jennyjenny8675309 came home at some point and held to the fringes of the group, trying to stay out of the way but there was no way. No plan. No method to the madness, just friends making music.

Of course, I am singularly untalented in the music department. Through the years, I have played piano, bassoon and almost every percussion instrument known to band. The Brokekid’s guitar is really mine. I can read music and understand the progressions; I just hate playing. My idea of hell centers somewhere between being forced onstage to perform under the direction of Max Treier, my high school band director, and skiing, sliding down an icy slope with bad knees, arthritic hips and a fear of heights. Absolute hell includes playing the bassoon while slaloming in front of a Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear.

But I digress. Thursday night centered around an impromptu jam session with food and wine, friends and music. After a while, we moved downstairs to avoid bothering the neighbors. The Brokekid crafted lyrics from the inscriptions on 123Valerie’s junior high yearbook… “To a cool, sweet, funny girl” and “Stay the same” and “You’ll go far.” The crafting stopped after a while and the hostess took her own guitar in hand, sweetly singing in her beautifully clear, clearly beautiful, strong voice.

We talked for a while. I snapped pictures, deleting some, keeping most. Documenting the night. Our lives. Contributing the only way I could or would, with my words and my pictures. I sifted through the pages of music, looking for the second sheet of “Such Great Heights.” I stumbled upon Romeo and Juliet.

“I love this song…”

Once again, 123Valerie picked up her guitar and started to sing. The talking stopped after a minute. The laughter. Eyes closed and heads nodded.

Juliet when we made love you used to cry
You said I love you like the stars above; I’ll love you till I die
There’s a place for us you know the movie song
When you gonna realize it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

A million images raced through my head. The first time I heard the song, the Indigo Girls version, in a cabin in the woods, crashed on a couch with Seth. Wendy. People I used to know. People I used to love. Liz Bohne with her romance novels and Empire Records. Ballet. Love struck Romeos on the streets on a serenade. A long, slow drive from Louisiana, dancing in my car, thinking about kissing.

A million half-formed thoughts and images and impressions shifted sideways to make room for more. Wine in a sippy cup. Beer on the floor. Mike leafing through a yearbook from another life. Miles with the dimples and the ukulele and Byrd with her ravaged voice, infectious laugh and a drum. My brother, sweet-smiled and big-dreamed. Megan Jane's head on Har-Har Harwell's knee. A red-haired girl lifting her voice and silencing a room as we whiled away an autumn night.


Tag: Music Friends Thursday

Infamous

"I should have known before the movie started when he shouted 'My water tastes like beer!'" Kayla laughed as we walked out of the theater.

"I think it was beer," I replied, talking about the man to her right, the constant commenter, the peanut gallery of Gallery Place, Statler and Waldorf all rolled into one.

She couldn't stop laughing. It started well before the movie ended, I thought she might fall to the floor, convulsing in hysterics. During a rather poignant scene, as she sniggered uncontrollably, I leaned over to say, "I don't think it's a comedy."

She laughed harder. I can't say as I blame her. Statler (or was it Waldorf?) had provided a running and completely inappropriate commentary to Infamous, the story behind the story of In Cold Blood.

INFAMOUS
What starts out as the irreverent journey of the openly gay writer Truman Capote to the middle-class world of 1950's Kansas, where he goes--with his childhood friend Harper Lee--to research the murder of the Clutter family, turns to something altogether darker when Capote forms an intense and complex relationship with one of the murderers. In doing so, he produced his greatest work, "In Cold Blood," but at a devastating personal cost.

Following closely on the critically-acclaimed Capote, the movie touched well-covered subject matter but having never seen the one, I couldn't compare. From what I understand, the former focused more on the relationship between writer and murderer, Truman and Perry.

As the relationship unfolded, the heckler proclaimed, "You couldn't pay me enough to play that role." Unfortunately, it was unclear as to which role he wouldn't want – the flaming writer or the brooding killer. Glancing past Kayla at his seemingly drunken form slouched in a movie seat, sipping and slurping on a water bottle, I figured he was in no danger of landing said unwanted role.

He was kind of funny, though, and when he shouted, "You talk too much!" to the screen, half the theater lost it. (Thanks be that the movie was free.)

"Yeah, so do you," I posed, later, one of those things I wish I said but failed to think at the time.

"I should have turned and said that to him," Kayla replied. "I think half the theater would have applauded."

"They're smoking like chimneys, I want a cigarette," I quoted.

"Sluuuuuuuuuuurp."

"You talk too much."

He was right. Truman did talk too much but that's who he was. A talker. A writer. A man in love with himself and his writing, a man who had trouble separating truth from fiction, the character he wrote from the man he wrote about, a man with foibles and follies

I had trouble figuring out who inspired the title but I enjoyed the movie.


Tag: Infamous Capote Truman Capote Gallery Place

Dog days, er, nights

I opened one eye and squinted at the clock. 5:07. I lifted my head, one on the floor, one in the bed. Neither looked directly at me. I pulled the covers over my head and sighed happily. More sleep. I drifted softly toward peaceful oblivion.

Lick, lick, clank. Lick, clank. Lick, lick, clank.

"Shut up," I muttered into the pillow. I figured out why I was awake at 5:07 on a Wednesday morning. I whined, "Maggie, stop."

The lab stopped licking her paw for a second and then the slobbery sound returned, the clunk of dog tag and choke collar hitting the floor. I buried my head under the pillow, as Max, thrilled at the sound of my voice jumped around my legs.

"Nooo… more sleep," I begged. Surprisingly enough, he settled, pressed against my side, and the pillow dampened the noise from the floor.

An hour and 13 minutes later, the alarm sounded. Groaning, I groped blindly from under the covers and silenced the annoying jingle-jangle of the alarm. At the sight of my arm, the dogs went crazy. I pulled myself into a sitting position, watching them dance in glee. Or from the sheer need to pee. For the first of four nights, they did not awaken me every three hours for a chance to see a man about a horse.

When I signed on to the house/dog/cat/fish/guinea-pig-sitting gig, I figured it would be a walk in the park or the backyard. I'd stayed with them before. Granted, I killed the fish and there were no guinea pigs (which actually scare me with those beady little eyes and sharp little claws), but the dogs I knew. They were sweet as can be and no trouble at all. The cat tended to shy away from me, which combined with the hardwood floors made my allergies tolerable.

The huge house in the 'burbs intimidated me a bit, even though I grew up in a big house. This one sprawled lavishly and carelessly at the top of a hill, in a lavish and careless neighborhood. I tended to stick to the first floor, despite the enormous, "his head is bigger than me" TV in the basement and the two-person shower on the second floor. I stuck with the office/guest bedroom, the living room with a normal-sized TV, the kitchen (bigger than my apartment) and a pantry (the size of my bedroom) stocked with kid/Kristin-friendly foods.

Hurray for cheese puffs! I would never buy you but I'll eat your airy, cheesy goodness while staying in that giant house upon a hill.

The dogs go out at the bottom of the hill, down a couple of flights of flagstone steps. It didn't seem so bad in the spring, but the dogs have aged since then (three dog years between spring and fall). Max has lost much of his hearing and Maggie's arthritis is more pronounced. (I was warned that she might fall down the steps.) They don't move around as well as they did and they certainly don't listen.

On Saturday night, on the first night, the dogs whimpered, begged and barked around 4 a.m. I had just fallen asleep, but I pulled on a pair of knee-high boots with my cherry pajama bottoms, pink tank top and orange sweater. I forgot the flashlight in my rush to keep up with Max sprinting ahead. We climbed down to the yard and I sat on the steps, wondering at my decision. Both ignored my pleas to return to the house and I slip slided my way through the mud, trying to wrangle them back toward the house, the arthritic 50+ pound lab and the hyper deaf little mutt.

A couple of hours later they awoke me again. And again. Sunday night went the same way with three nighttime treks. Monday, too, despite a couple of long walks in the evening.

"There is no way anyone takes you out this much," I thought early Monday morning, freezing in my pretty, pink pajama pants and tank, with sensible black shoes and an olive-green jacket. "And I swear you've never peed this much. Is your going problem really a growing problem? How's your prostate, Max?"

When we got back inside the dogs jumped around me, begging for a treat. "You've got to be kidding. I took you out. There's your treat. I'm going back to bed." I crawled under the covers for a couple of hours' sleep, bone cold and grumpy.

"How do people with babies function?" I wondered as I scraped myself from between the sheets.

I fed the scary rodents, fed the (still living) fish, and checked food and water bowls for the cat and dogs. I walked the pups twice before I left for work and worried all day, rushing home (or rather inching through rush hour to get home) to let them out.

After the first pass, I dragged them inside, leash and all, so I could pee, and took them for a long walk. Well, relatively long. A half hour in Kristin time and three hours in dog years. Distance-wise, maybe a mile. It was hard to tell as they stopped to smell the roses… the bushes, the twigs, the piles of leaves. Fortunately, they missed the dead squirrel and I managed to drag them past the smashed turtle.

Once more before bed and they slept like something other than babies for once. They slept through the night. A glorious seven hours and 13 minutes of sleep. Sheer heaven. Only four more days and many more walks. Twigs. Trees. Smashed turtles. Here's hoping they sleep through the night again.


Tag: Dogs Housesitting

Pinot party

When I saw the email, I had to laugh. A party on Saturday night. It wasn't the idea of the party that amused me as much as the host and the fact that I was on the guest list. I scanned the message – a wine party, old world pinot noir versus the new world, time, location – and I scanned the invitees, looking for the one name I'd know.

I looked at my inbox and a few messages up, there it was. An email from Jamy. "I got this email and thought, 'who the hell is [the host]?' Then I remembered! And I saw your name on the list too. So funny."

I wasn't the only one amused.

We barely knew the host. We met him once, ages ago, at the Capitol Lounge. He and his friends were slamming car bombs and jäger bombs and just about anything else that would make the floor spin and memory fade. They were celebrating an engagement. Somehow, we discovered that a more formal celebration would take place the next night and we wrangled an invitation to the party. We cleared it with the bride-to-be but figured that nobody would remember once sobriety sank through the vapors of far-too-many types of alcohol.

We were right. Sort of. The next night, we showed up at the party. It took a second or two for people to recognize us, but once they did, we became belles of the ball. A great story for the circle of friends – "we met some girls at the Lounge and they came to the engagement party!" We met parents and most of the wedding party. Friends from home and friends from school and one very jealous sister.

Sometime after midnight, the group started to thin and we ended up in a limo and at a bar. I made some new friends (bar friends, in addition to the party friends). I wasn't the only one. When we went back to the apartment, some random chick in a leopard print dress joined us. I think she tried to pick me up. It's all a little hazy now, but I definitely remember that she called me sexy. Repeatedly.

Around four or five, we headed home. Most of the party had gone. The groom-to-be joined us in the cab, headed toward Capitol Hill, even though he lived in Arlington; the bride-to-be had headed home hours earlier. We dropped Jamy off first and Mr. Commitment turned into Mr. Octopus, groping me in the back of the cab, getting out at my house, sending the cab on its way.

I actually forgot about that bit when we decided to go to the party Saturday night. I forgot until Jamy recognized the girl in the kitchen.

"Is that the bride?"

I walked toward the kitchen for a little completely obvious surveillance.

"Yep, that's her." Jamy didn't recognize the guy at her side, she didn't know if it was the groping groom. I lamented that I hadn't see