High heels

"Dress is casual," the message said, "and enthusiasm mandatory."

I didn't bother to read the confirmation before I left; the enthusiasm bit might have made me gag a little. I double-checked the address and start time and tucked the sheets in my bag. Even if I had read the instructions, it wouldn't have mattered. I would have worn heels.

A week of training in Tysons Corner meant a week of driving. No metro (though, I did research public transportation). No walking. No falling. No flats.

I'm a girl of sensible shoes. I walk miles every day and every time I slip into a pair of shoes for work, I think about September 11. I think about people running down stairs, running through streets, walking miles in work clothes and shoes. Heels. High heels.

Granted, I wear high-heeled boots fairly often, but they're a little more stable and a little more comfortable than they appear. I also tend to wear Merrells or Clarks or something equally clunky and sensible and change into heels at work. Or not. I often find myself in orthopedic-looking loafers at the end of the day (in non-boot, non-flipflop season).

I also fall down a lot. Not because of the heels. I fall down in flats, in slippers, barefoot. I can actually sprain an ankle without falling at all. Massive amounts of scar tissue in my inner ears, hypermobile joints, sheer klutziness - whatever it is, heels don't help.

A week of driving and sitting through training seemed an ideal time to break out my favorite height enhancers. I didn't go overboard, a simple skirt and sweater with my new superhero boots. Fairly innocuous but a pair of shoes in which I'd probably kill myself on the typical morning commute. I actually tried a couple of necklaces before work ,a couple of sweaters, debating with myself, "Tank top? No tank top? Tank top? No tank top?"

I needn't have worried.

The message did say "Dress is casual" and the rest of my classmates dressed in the office casual uniform – pleated pants and plaid button downs. Blue plaid button downs.

Most of the class, the blue plaid brigade, had arrived by the time I walked in.

"Kristin?" the instructor asked but before I could reply, he answered himself. "Of course, you are."

He handed me the sign in sheet and I understood his certainty. I was the only girl, the only woman in the class. Even with a trio of last-minute drop ins, I was still the only woman in our class of 12, and there I sat, in my skirt and heels, in a classroom full of middle-aged, male software developers.

By an hour and 10 minutes into the course, I was ready to email the company. I wanted to draft an enraged email and might have done so if their website weren't so labyrinthine, so convoluted, so useless. I settled back into the course and tried to ignore the fact that I was being condescended, mistreated, ignored.

It's happened before, the assumption that I won't understand, that I cannot do something because I'm a girl. As an aspiring lifeguard, I found myself under the direction of a man who didn't believe girls could or should lifeguard. He made us swim twice as far, twice as long, pulling twice the weight. After class, he sent us, the girliest of girls, the girls with breasts and hips and long hair, out to the middle of the pool to tread water. From behind, he sent boy after boy to attack us one at a time or in groups. We had to prove that we could defend ourselves; though, we'd never be able to prove ourselves to him.

Almost fifteen years later, a software instructor looked at me with the same condescending glaze in his gaze.

"Have I lost you?" the trainer asked the one time he questioned me. I raised an eyebrow and shot back the answer, in both technical and layman's terms.

I'd already stopped raising my hand. I'd already started surfing the web, reading blogs and emailing friends, working on my submission for an online art exhibit and tackling some projects for work. Still I managed to follow the course, type out eight pages of notes and work through all of the exercises, figuring out the missing steps.

I worried briefly at the outset. I felt like I'd entered a world where everyone spoke a different language, and I did. They did. Speak a different language. But it was a language that I once knew. A language that I practiced time and again. Data Warehousing. Business Intelligence. SQL. Slowly I remembered the terms, the vernacular and my heart returned to a normal pace. A slower pace than usual, actually, as I focused on less than a dozen tasks for once.

"You look frazzled," the instructor said as I leaned against my desk and tapped my nails.

"No, I'm fine," I replied. Frazzled? No. Bored. Most definitely.

I actually worried about falling behind. I worried about asking a question. Three more days of training and I still worry about falling behind. Asking questions. I know the condescension will be heavy, swift, complete. I know it doesn't matter if I succeed, and I completely expect to excel.

The men in my class don't think a girl in heels belongs in their world. I don't think they belong in mine. I'm glad I wore them. The heels. I'm just sorry I wasted all that sexy on the blue plaid brigade.


Tag: High heels Software Sexy Sexism

Pillow fighting

Note to self: Posting an ad for a panty pillow-fighting partner on craigslist is a very bad idea.

In the interest of saving a little money (or not spending money we didn't have), we'd planned a girls' night in. I brought the wine. My friends brought the food. Hummus and veggies, bread and cheese, wine, some music and maybe a movie. It started as a low-key night, and then we started playing on the computer.

"Hey, you're into online dating, right?" we asked the hostess. As it turned out, she'd tuned out of the more "legitimate" sites and posted an ad on craigslist. A dirty, racy ad. We had to check it out.

Now, I had never really succumbed to the lure of craigslist. I browsed a bit when I was looking for a new apartment. I meandered through missed connections. I enjoyed a friend's take on posted personals, but I never really got into the site.

Sitting there, at a computer desk with a couple of friends and a glass of wine, I started to see the appeal. We perused personals, looking for a man who seemed suited for our online dating friend. We chatted with a boy who'd been stood up by his high school girlfriend. She contacted him for a date but later backed out or didn't back out and just failed to show. He decided to spend the night with a bottle of vodka and craigslist. We IM'd until his typing degraded to the point that we just couldn't decipher it.

We emailed a man who offered a back massage but quit after he sent directions and a map to his house and the security code for the door. That was just creepy.

For the most part, though, it was just fun. Craigslist reminded me of spending Friday nights with Jessica Shively, with her big barking dogs and house that smelled of kibble, her inattentive parents, her nosy big brother. We'd call into WCMJ, Magic 96, for the Friday night request line, which was always busy.

Occasionally, the lines crossed and we heard someone else calling into the station. We'd exchange numbers and spend the night on the phone with strangers. We never met. We never talked about anything other than our favorite bands or teachers, about how boring our hometown could be, and we loved every second of it.

That Friday night, on craigslist, chatting with strangers, swapping email and IM gave me a rush in much the same way. Doing something I probably ought not be doing with little chance of actually getting in trouble. And then we posted our ad.

Panty Pillow Fight! Meeoooow! Looking for naughty boys who are willing to get down and dirty....

It was a joke; anybody reading the posting would know that we weren't serious. Right?

Maybe not.

this post gets my vote for the best of CL. and by the pillow fight is my game, nasty is my middle name.....

Hi,
I saw your posting on craigslist and I am interested in getting to know more about you. I am 6'1 tall and live in germantown. my aol screen name is XXX. tell me more about yourself.

See, a pillow fight is fun, but a panty pillow fight...oh my goodness, can i bring a camera along? :) 24/m,blk 175IBS, personal trainer, and kinda cute..oh...wish i saw your post earlier, but hey there's always tommorow.....bye...fred

hi, straight to the point, i am 26,m,annandale. i am up for ur fantasy. i am 5'7" 150 lb, blk eyes and hair. if interested mail me back.
good night

"Well, fudge," I thought. "Seems like people took it a little more seriously intended."

Fortunately, the responses went directly to my friend, the online dater. She was far more accustomed to random, unsolicited pictures of male genitalia and messages filled with grammatical mistakes. Some were forwarded to me. Some were answered by the other girls. A lot of the messages were trashed.

One of the men seemed to take the post in the spirit in which it was intended, as a joke. We emailed back and forth for a while, progressing to IM. I sent pictures of all of us and explained the story, that we were bored on a Friday night and not interested in anything resembling pillow fighting with random strangers from craigslist. He rolled with it, so we met (all of us). We talked. We drank. We went our separate ways and that was the end of it.

Or so I thought.

Months ago, the "normal guy" started instant messaging me. He told me about phone sex with a friend of mine. He told me about a homosexual encounter. He asked me if I wanted to watch him "fuck a canteloupe."

"Um, no," I replied. I thought that was the end of it.

About a month ago, he asked if I wanted to watch him make sweet, sticky love to anyone or anything else. Again, I declined (in no uncertain terms). Over the next several weeks, he asked if I'd work on the lighting or videography for his internet porn. He sent me pictures of his [at this point, a number of absurd romance novel phrases are running through my head – throbbing member, pulsating manhood, quivering... I think I just threw up a little]. He told me that he fantasized about my breasts.

What, exactly, is the right response to that?

"Well, thank you very much. I hope that you found the experience enjoyable"?

Maybe not.

I've served my penance and I've learned my lesson. I'll leave my desk sale to craigslist and pillow-fighting partnering to the real world.


Tag: Craigslist Online Dating Freaks

Panic attacks

I dreamt I was late. I awoke to find watery sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, into the room. I glanced at the clock.

"7:18," I moaned. "Oh, god… Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god."

In my dream, I jumped from bed and picked up the clock.

7:18.

My heart sank and my stomach flipped. I looked around frantically. I looked at the window helplessly and raced into the bedroom next door where my mother sat in bed, reading.

"Is it really 7:18?" I asked. My mother nodded. "I screwed up."

I was in a house I hadn't visited in 14 years, in a town where I don't live, seeking comfort from a woman not known for nurturing. I'm my dream, she soothed me as I panicked about missing my 6 a.m. conference call.

Eventually, I panicked myself awake. I looked around the darkened living room and groped for my phone. With my fingers crossed and after a short prayer of intercession, I pushed a button to make the phone illuminate. 3:36. I breathed a sigh of relief.

With an hour left to sleep, I lay awake on the couch, staring into the cold empty night. My heartbeat slowed a little but not enough to fall back asleep and I worried about sleeping through the alarms, worried about the time I'd set, worried about failing to give myself enough time to get ready and get to work. As the minutes ticked, I shivered quietly and wished myself asleep.

I'd fallen asleep in front of the fire. Intentionally. I worry about leaving the fire unattended. Of course, I don't know what I'd do if the fire decided to jump from fireplace to living room, regardless of my proximity. I'd burn faster on the couch than in the bedroom. When I awoke at 3:36 in the a.m., I was relieved to see that the fire had died.

Last Monday, my Sunday fire crackled merrily hours after I'd gone to bed and gotten up for work. I was semi-convinced, all day, that I would come home to find a charred hole in the ground and very angry neighbors. Before I left, I moved the old wooden radio from the fireplace and pushed back the ottoman. I poked at the fire, looked around and left. I returned to a cold fireplace and an overwhelming sense of relief.

After 44 minutes on the couch, in the darkened living room, the alarm on the phone sounded. It was set to the right time. The battery didn't die. I pressed snooze a half dozen times until the phone stopped offering the option and got up for work.

I work long hours but most days I don't go in until 8, 8:30, 9. That morning I had an international call at 6 a.m. and wanted to work a while before the meeting. At 5:15, I pulled in front of the office. Showered. Cold. Tired. By noon, I'd worked almost seven hours. When I left three hours later, it was after an almost 10-hour day. I felt guilty and continued to check my email from home for the next three or four hours.

Eventually, I napped on the couch. When I awoke, I had an overwhelming desire to build a fire. To check my work mail. To call my mom.


Tag: Anxiety Panic

How many protestors...

When my brother asked if I planned to join the protest, I said no. I wasn't going to go. It wasn't that I disagreed with the message; I just didn't want to leave the couch. I expected a woman to come by and pick up the desk from my guest room. I was tired and sluggish and my entire body punished me for too many drinks at too many birthday celebrations the night before. My cold, dark apartment insulated me from the glorious day outside.

"It's gorgeous out. It's practically jacket weather instead of coat weather," a friend said on the phone.

"Well, fudge. That means I have to go." And still I sat on the couch for a couple of hours, reading, writing, plowing through the DVR. I was showered and dressed, ready, yet still I hesitated.

I didn't want to go alone. Strangely enough, I have no problem going to weddings, movies or concerts alone. I go to bars alone and on vacation alone. I shop alone. I live alone. I've driven across the country alone. Twice. And I loved every second of it. I just felt awkward taking myself to a protest, thinking of myself in the middle of a crowd alone. Strange.

More than that, the march reminded me of a friend's favorite joke. "How many protestors does it take to change a light bulb? None. Protest never changes anything."

While I don't find it nearly as funny as my Irish friend who giggles with glee during each telling, I can almost see his point. We encounter so many protests and marches in DC (two this week) that they barely earn airtime, newspaper coverage, a blurb in the nightly news. I don't know if they gain any attention outside of the DC but within the district boundaries, people tend to note the effect on traffic more than anything else.

I seriously considered just staying home but guilt gnawed at me. Finally, I pulled on my sweater and jacket. I grabbed my camera and headed down to the mall. Even if I could not effect change, I could not sit idly while less than a mile from my house, people gathered to protest a war in which I did not believe.

Before I left, I checked the official website. I downloaded the map of the assembly area and noted the list of "contingents." I could align myself with any of a number of groups, including veterans and military families, lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender, "Women say pull out," end Israeli occupation of Palestine, and "stop global warming/no more oil wars," among many, many others.

On the Mall, the list grew longer. It wasn't just unwashed masses looking as if they smell of patchouli, pot and body odor (though, they were there). Yuppies pushed jogging strollers past elderly, leaning on canes and carrying signs. A boy posed for his father in the shirt that caused so much trouble at JFK, a shirt with a slogan in both Arabic and English: We will not be silent. Thousands of women in pink offered a pink slip to the President. Soldiers and punks, families and me.

I sat for a while on the steps by the semi-frozen Capitol Reflecting Pool, watching the seagulls, the protestors, the police. A number of people approached me, almost apologetically, for photographs that I willingly snapped. One man returned and asked if he could sit beside me. I couldn't think of a reason not. He sat at my side for an hour, talking about Seattle, his home, and DC, mine. We talked about the Muslim religion (also his) and Sufis, the dervishes, Rumi. This man invited me to Georgetown for dinner, but I declined in favor of sitting on the steps and watching the seagulls.

I missed the speakers: Jane Fonda, Susan Sarandon, Congresswomen Maxine Waters and Lynn Woolsey, Rhea Perlman, Eve Ensler, Mimi Kennedy, Q'orianka Kilcher among many others.

I didn't march. I watched the line, the column, that inched up Constitution, across the front of the Capitol on 1st Street and down Independence, wrapping around three sides of the Capitol.

On the way back to the Metro, I met a woman who'd driven in from Columbus. Actually, she was sitting on a bench with a sign announcing her affiliation and I walked up to her and introduced myself as a girl from Ohio. We chatted a while. I thanked her for coming, rather inanely but sincerely.

I am the first to admit that I didn't do anything to effect change, but I was there. I counted, literally, as one of the tens of thousands rallying.

I don't know what to think about the war. I don't want to discount the valiant efforts of the soldiers who've fought but some of them have just come home. I don't want to see them return to war.

The other night, Helen Thomas noted that more journalists have died in Iraq than in any other war. 93 to date and that doesn't count the media support workers who have been killed.

Soldiers. Journalists. Aid workers. Iraqis. Friday night I saw the 23-year-old Marine who's convinced he'll never see 26. He mentioned that he would soon be deployed. He might be right with his grim prediction.

I don't know what the answer is but after four years, I'm starting to think I don't even know the question. There are no weapons of mass destruction. Iraq was not responsible for 9/11 and Saddam Hussein is dead.

Why is Bush deploying more troops?



Tag: War Protest Rally Washington DC

The Last King of Scotland

I realized something strange when we walked out of the theater.

"It feels like we just walked in," I exclaimed, with more than a bit of surprise. The movie was an intense 123 minutes long, and I'd had to pee since Panera, 15 minutes before the film even started. I just couldn't leave. I couldn't tear myself from the thrall of the film.

"What did you think?"

"I... I don't know. Wow."

Eventually, words came to mind.

"If 300,000 people died in Uganda under Amin, I cannot begin to imagine the state of Darfur today. Close to 400,000 people have died."

We discussed the movie, the violence. We discussed desolation, despair, devastation. Neither one of us could quite wrap our minds around the idea that such people existed. Exist today.

"Idi Amin was removed in 1979. What sort of government followed? What's the state of Uganda today, and if it's okay, what about the neighboring countries?" I shot off question after question as I tried to wrap my brain around it.

The movie was "inspired by" true events and based on a novel. It might have been fiction, but many of the events depicted were true.

Rotten.com called Amin "one of the most batshit loco leaders ever to seize control of a chaotic African nation." According to the CIA World Factbook, the dictator was responsible for the deaths of some 300,000 opponents and according to CNN, some human rights groups claim the figure as much higher, arguing that as many as 500,000 people were killed or simply disappeared under his rule.

Even if the events were fictionalized, the underlying truth remains: A really bad man killed a lot of people, tortured dissenters, ravaged a nation. Some of the most disturbing bits were based in reality. A wife really was mysteriously dismembered, and according to the Daily Monitor, "Amin showed neither surprise nor contrition at her death. Instead he had her young children aged between four and eight brought before the body and shouted at them, telling them how bad their mother was.

It would be easier to swallow if it were all fiction.

The oh-so-recently Academy nominated Forest Whitaker, with his crazy gaze. A beautiful young wife. A naïve (and frequently naked) young Scotsman. Agent Scully. It was a talented and somewhat beautiful cast, except for some of the polyester and that crazy gaze.

Several days later, I keep thinking about the film. Several days later, I keep thinking about Africa. The Last King of Scotland. Blood Diamond. God Grew Tired of Us. Hollywood's social conscience. Darfur, Sudanese refugees, and Grandma Mavis (my grandma, Mavis) teaching English as a second language in small-town Minnesota. I diverge. My head hurts. My heart hearts. And I am glad I saw that movie.

Forest Whitaker deserved the nomination.


Tag: Uganda Africa Idi Amin Forest Whitaker The Last King of Scotland Movies

Watchdog

"This is the most secret administration I've ever covered because they do so many things that are bad... Are there any Republicans in here?"

The audience laughed, charmed by the feisty octogenarian. The small crowd gathered at the newest Olssons Books and Records to hear veteran journalist Helen Thomas talk about her newest book, Watchdogs of Democracy? The Waning Washington Press Corps and How It Has Failed the Public.

A coffee cup on the table loomed larger than life in front of her tiny, stooped frame and seemed to require both hands to lift. Wrinkles lined her face; she wore lipstick that complemented her muted autumnal blazer. A press pass dangled from a cord around her neck.

The store manager introduced her as an icon for journalism for "how many years?"

"Don't tell them!" Thomas protested, laughing. The whole crowd laughed when the manager said she'd "gone through nine presidents."

In November 1960, Thomas began covering then President-elect John F. Kennedy, following him to the White House in 1961. She has traveled around the world several times with Presidents Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush, and has covered every Economic Summit.

This tiny woman inspired awe in the crowd. Before the event began, people whispered reverently. Hushed bits and phrases such as "shoot an arrow into the air" and "it's fun, though" and "you've lost your coat, Walter" drifted through the waiting crowd, the growing crowd. Whispers of the warren under Crystal City, days without sunlight.

The audience ranged in age, from the white-haired, cane-assisted woman in the front to the young, idealistic journalism student who practically prostrated himself at her feet before the event began. A Peace Corps type sat quietly, beautifully earthy in her rugged cargo pants, layered Ts and a batik scarf around her neck. A man in a ski parka and headband. Balding intellectuals. Government employees. Accents floated above our heads.

In the background, registers ticked loudly, tapping a syncopated beat. When Thomas spoke, her strangely young voice resonated clearly, as did her convictions. She spoke frankly against the current administration and against the war in Iraq.

"We are in the worst shape I have ever seen our country," she said more than once during her brief talk and the question and answer session that followed. Thomas asked if everyone had seen the President's State of the Union address. She mentioned the phrase, "Give peace a chance" and offered "Give war a chance" as the underlying message to the nation.

She quoted William Sloane Coffin, Jr., paraphrasing his lines, “The war against Iraq is as disastrous as it is unnecessary; perhaps in terms of its wisdom, purpose and motives, the worst war in American history…. Our military men and women…were not called to defend America but rather to attack Iraq. They were not called to die for, but rather to kill for, their country. What more unpatriotic thing could we have asked of our sons and daughters…?”

More than the government, though, and more than the war, Thomas lamented the current state of journalism.

"Is the press corps less hard-hitting than years past?" asked the red-haired man by the door.

"I'll say," Thomas said. "That's the premise of my book. They've let us down… It's a mess. I think they've let the country down. They were afraid."

"If they don't ask the questions, nobody will."

For every question she answered, more hands arose, more questions were asked, the same questions repeated. A voice from the back defended the war with Iraq. The speaker equated the current war with World War II, raising the ire of a white-haired veteran in the front. The speaker proposed entering every war-torn nation, stopping rape, stopping murder. He supported the deployment of more troops saying they signed up to die for our country.

He apparently missed the Coffin quote.

"We have no right to be in Iraq," Thomas said. Her agent cut off the angry voices and lined people up for the signing portion of the evening. The dissenter disappeared. My brother joined the queue, getting a signature for me, a picture for himself. She talked to him, to us for a while, and posed for another picture with both of us, snapped by a soft-spoken man with a handlebar mustache dressed in black, before turning back to the line.

Fiery convictions in an aging body, opinionated, strong and more than a little bit scary, Thomas reminded me of my Grandma Mavis and my brother lamented that we didn't have more time. He wanted to take her out for coffee, ask her questions, meet for dinner.

"You're in love," I teased. He admitted he was half in love with the octogenarian who held true to her convictions in that Virginia bookstore, a woman who has spent more than half a century asking questions and forming her mind.


Tag: Helen Thomas Journalism Watchdogs of Democracy

Under control, weight control

Apparently, an active lifestyle leads to weight control. This breaking news item appeared on MSN only two and a half, three years after first appearing in the journal Medicine & Science in Sports and Exercise.

According to the study, which required 98 people to wear pedometers for a week and fill out the International Physical Activity Questionnaire, the Amish studied had very high levels of physical activity. Researchers concluded that the active lifestyle may (or may not) contribute to their low prevalence of obesity.

Fascinating: Daily exercise may (or may not) lead to weight control.

Actually, West Virginia University, has compiled a number of interesting facts about the Amish, very few of which were addressed by the study.

• The Amish do not wear zippers or buttons.
• They leave school after eighth grade and don't include science in their curriculum.
• They pay taxes but do not receive federal, state or local benefits, including Medicare or Medicaid.
• Amish women and girls never cut their hair.
• They tend to eat lots of pickled, garden-fresh vegetables, canned fruit (which they can themselves) from their orchards, and smoked and cured meats because they do not have freezers that run on electricity.
• The Amish do not oppose modern medicine. They often go to doctors, take pills and other medications, and stay in the hospital when necessary.
• The Amish often rely on home remedies when someone in the family is sick.

The study focused on daily exercise and weight control. Old Order Amish lead (incredibly) active lifestyles and are less likely to be obese. Seems like common sense to me, but common sense doesn't always translate.

The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) reports that during the past 20 years, obesity has risen dramatically in the United States. The latest data from the National Center for Health Statistics show that 30 percent of U.S. adults 20 years of age and older – over 60 million people – are obese.

Forgetting about aesthetics and the cultural emphasis on "thin," which is hard to shun (look at the focus on Tyra Banks), there are health and economic implications of obesity. The CDC states that overweight and obese individuals are at increased risk for many diseases and health conditions, including diabetes, heart disease, stroke and some cancers. The CDC goes even further and states that these health problems have a "significant impact" on the U.S. healthcare system.

An entire organization, the American Obesity Association, is dedicated to "combat[ting] a condition that affects more than one-quarter of all adults and one in five children."

On April 2, 2002, the IRS announced a new policy (IRS Ruling 202-19) stating that "Obesity is medically accepted to be a disease in its own right." For taxpayers, this means that treatment specifically for obesity can now be claimed as a medical deduction.

All of this focus and apparently, all we need to do is take after the Amish. Integrate a little activity, maybe plow a field, grow our own vegetables, give up TV, into our daily life. That's what I took from the article, at least.

A couple of years ago, I moved to Capitol Hill. I'd been living in Springfield, Virginia, for years, driving up I-395 on a daily basis. One day, I woke up and realized where I lived.

I didn't want the headaches, the backaches, the twitching and desire to vomit inspired by the tense commute.

I didn't want the temptation to drink and drive, and I didn't want to make Jaxx my local bar.

I didn't want exercise to be a thing I did on a treadmill after a long day at work, a horrid drive and in front of a TV.

I moved to the Hill and I changed my life. Suddenly, instead of walking on a treadmill, I found myself walking on city streets, brick sidewalks. I found myself walking as a means of transportation – to the Metro, to my client site, to the grocery and video store, to bars and restaurants. My daily commute changed to a half mile walk, each way, every day, and a half hour on the Metro, reading a book.

The headaches started to fade and I lost weight. Not only that, I felt better about myself and my lifestyle. Granted, I'm not thin. In my adult life, I've ranged from size 4 to 14. Well, 16. Or 18. I'm closer to middle of the range these days. I've had eating disorders and gym addictions. I lost 65 pounds once, causing coworkers to question whether I'd contracted some wasting disease and causing my stomach to spasm to the point that a doctor prescribed barbiturates, which just plain scared me.

I don't mean to underestimate the serious nature of our nation's "battle of the bulge" or to suggest that a little extra activity would work for everyone. (The Amish lifestyle includes far more than a "little extra activity.") For me, for once, I feel healthy. Not quite Amish, given that I drink, occasionally smoke and zip my pants, but healthy. Active. Happy.


Tag: Amish Obesity Weight Control

Age of consent

"You'd better get off that website," Kayla warned. "You don't want those people from Dateline coming to your door."

"I know," I replied. "This is just really disturbing. I think this website says that a 14-year-old can have consensual sex with a 20-year-old. Or maybe it's just 18 or 19. I'm confused and a little disturbed. I can't quite figure it out."

I thought a little more.

"Okay, so I knew freshmen in high school with senior boyfriends, but the thought of a 14-year-old with a 20-year-old seriously disturbs me. Six years? That's more than a third of your life when you're 14."

Granted, at age 31, I've got an ex five years my junior, one 14 years my senior, and a tiny little crush on a 50-year-old but I'm a grown up. There's a difference between 31 and 14, between 21 and 14.

It all started with the local news, with two missing teens, with the missing Rachels, Smith and Crites. According to local news, Smith's parents were disburbed by her diary. The 16-year-old wrote, "Wherever I end up laying, whether buried or cremated, I want to stay with my true love, buried next to her. This is my choice. I'm sorry."

Buried or cremated? I wondered about her plans.

According to WTOP, their website received a message board comment from Rachel's older sister, Lindsay, saying the girls "didn't run away because of their sexuality" and thanking everyone for their prayers and concerns.

I seriously wondered about Smith and her true love. I googled their names. I looked for pictures. A graduation picture showed the two with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. Wide smiles. A cross around Crites neck.

Mixed religion. Girl love. Given the age difference, I wondered if statutory rape came into play and that's when I really started searching. I don't know the laws - when I was growing up, boys over 18 referred to girls under 18 as "jail bait." I didn't know if it was the same for a couple of girls, two years apart, in Maryland.

I had a strangely hard time finding information about the age of consent. Once I found it, I had a hard time understanding it, and frankly, some of the websites just made me feel dirty.

One website warned, "Please keep in mind that many states have additional laws that are used to harass adults who have consensual sexual activity with minors." Harass. Not exactly the word I would use.

Some states have different ages for boys and girls. Some states have different laws depending on the age of the older versus the younger.

Of course, marriage plays a role in the legality. Parents can give consent to teens under the age of 18 years. The 15-year-old brides- and grooms-to-be need the approval of a judge as well as their parents, unless the girl's knocked up.

If you are under 18, pregnant or have a child, and show a certificate from a licensed physician stating you are pregnant or have had a child, the parental consent requirement may be waived.

Want to get married? Have a baby!

While fascinating and more than a little scary, the googling did nothing to enlighten me as to the motivations of the two missing teens. I clarified that legal persecution wasn't a serious concern, but not the girl love. The religion. The families.

News reports indicated that the police did not suspect foul play; though, there were rumors of a suicide pact.

Something in their lives made them want to disappear.


Tag: Adolescence Rachel Smith Rachel Crites Love Sex

Growing up

The State of the Union starts in 46 minutes. Another year, another president, and I might find myself in a crowded Capitol Hill bar, watching the address on TV, but tonight, I'd rather curl up with my computer, a fire, and a recording of last night's episode of Heroes.

I might change my mind, about the viewing at least (I'm pretty sure I'll stay curled up with the computer and fire, maybe a handful of M&Ms and a glass of red wine), but I don't know. I have a 6 a.m. conference call and something tells me that the address would disturb my sleep as well as my peace. I might have to record it, watch it tomorrow, after I read the papers and watch the morning news.

Sometimes I hate being a grownup.

The taxman cometh

When I got the letter informing me of my impending audit, of my investigation, of the need to pay the IRS $1,500 (by February 1), I panicked a little.

Granted, it was a controlled panic. I hauled out the box o' paperwork and finally filed the stacks from my table, my dresser, the stand by the door. I pulled together my tax returns from the past several years and printed reports from my electronic checkbook. I was prepared, but still, I panicked.

The next morning, I made my way to the office, to pick up the outstanding pieces of information, and I made my way to H&R Block. I'd filed through them for years. I figured they could help me.

I figured wrong.

The first visit was a comedy of errors. A girl on her first day of work. Personal phone calls. A teenager. A crying baby. The (brand, spanking new) software crashed repeatedly, mid-return and I found myself trying to explain, to the new girl, how to use it. I knew what needed to be done, but I didn't know how to do it. I needed help.

After an hour or so, I left with an appointment and an overwhelming sense of loss for that hour of my life. Before I left, I asked when the software might be updated.

"I don't want to plan to come back Monday if the software's still not working," I explained. "Do you have any idea when it might be up and running?"

The girl at the desk, the mother of the teen and the baby, the girl who actually earned a paycheck from H&R Block, looked at her nails. She looked at the computer and she looked at me.

"I don't know. I keep calling him and telling him he needs to come in and look at it."

Huh.

"So, if I come in Wednesday?"

We made a plan. I made an appointment midweek, after work, and actually drove into the office that day, paying for parking and carrying file after file, to make sure I'd make it on time. I left work early-ish to face rush hour traffic, a serious lack of available parking and a shaky walk in superhigh heels.

I approached the office, worried that I'd be late. As I approached, I viewed a man through the plate glass window. He was working at the computer that had crashed so many times just days before. I spotted a girl at a desk and breathed a sigh of relief. I pulled on the door, but it stayed fast. Locked.

I looked through the door; the man and girl returned my gaze. I knocked. They dropped their heads and returned to their work. I shifted my files from one arm to another and tugged at the door again. Definitely locked. In frustration, I turned on my heel and wobbled blocks back to the car. I went home and fumed for a minute or two and then went out to drink with friends, sans my wallet, soon to be sans phone.

Another week passed as I grew ever closer to the impending deadline. Additional fees. A bill.

I seriously considered sending a check. A $1,500 check for $70 worth of income. I didn't know what else to do. I knew what was wrong but I didn't know how to fix it.

Eventually, after a commercial or 17 for Jackson Hewitt with Zorro, Ghost Rider, and a slew of regular Joes, I decided to try another preparer. I called and made an appointment. I got myself up (with the help of an early morning phone call and firewood delivery) and walked to the office where I found a full waiting area (adults, teens, children playing and sitting on laps) and three people working, with customers at their desks.

A woman approached the desk, "Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Kristin. I called about filing an amended return."

"Just fill out this form and I'll be with you next."

Within minutes, I found myself at a desk in the back. It wasn't the sterile environment of the commercial but rather a beat-up desk and a hand-labeled filing cabinet, teetering binders and a computer monitor dating back to the mid-80s. Despite appearances, the woman who helped me was professional and courteous. Best of all, she did help.

Within the hour, I left with an amended return. As it turns out, the IRS owes me $177.


Tag: Tax IRS

Snow wreaks havoc on morning commute

Clumsy girl traverses icy sidewalks toward Metro and work, praying to God that she doesn’t fall, twist or sprain anything.

Generally navigable sidewalks turned treacherous as yesterday’s snow turned to this morning’s ice. Kristin, a Capitol Hill denizen, claims no known grace, dignity or basic ability to walk. Picking her way among the snowy bits and icy patches, the girl kept her eyes on the ground and a mantra in her head.

“Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.”

The mantra apparently worked as the klutz made it to Eastern Market Metro station with nary a bump, bruise or scrape. She even avoided the embarrassing wet spots associated with falling in snow.

The treacherous path, however, as well as a problem with her SmarTrip card (“You entered at Courthouse but you never left,” the Station Manager said) and delayed trains resulted in further evidence of the girl’s chronic tardiness. A change in meeting location only augmented the delay.

Additionally, meeting attendees noted a strange smell emanating from the girl.

“I had a fire in the fireplace yesterday,” Kristin explained. “My coat reeks of wood smoke.”

“What happened?” asked the man to her left.

“I built a fire because it was cold?”

“Oh, so it wasn’t an accident?”

“Um, no,” she replied, wondering what sort of spontaneous combustion he might have envisioned in her fireplace.

The meeting proved useless, as not all of the required participants made it into the office on time. School delays caused parents to shift their schedules; the 9 a.m. meeting was moved to 11 a.m. and the 11 a.m. meeting was changed to 2 p.m. and the klutz found herself relegated to the client site for the rest of the day, smelling a little funny and worrying about the walk home.

“Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.”

In second grade, as a Bluebird, Kristin earned the moniker “Gray Squirrel.” Amanda Bintz, fellow Bluebird, balked at the name, claiming to want it as her own.

“I should be Grace Girl,” she said. “I’m far more graceful than Kristin. I'm prettier, too.”

The argument, while true, did nothing to sway troop leader Kilpatrick as the nickname had nothing to do with grace or beauty but rather a rodent.

The clumsy girl’s mother, convinced her daughter was born on a Tuesday, fretted for years.

“Monday’s child is fair of face. Tuesday’s child is full of grace,” she’d repeat, ticking off the days and shaking her head. Kristin eventually clarified the issue for her mother.

“Mom, I was born on a Wednesday,” she said. “Wednesday’s child is full of woe.”

Her mother breathed a sigh of relief. “That makes much more sense.”

These thoughts joined images of sprained ankles and dislocated kneecaps as Kristin walked toward the Metro this morning and are sure to return in the evening commute. While the Capitol Hill denizen cleared her own patch of sidewalk before turning in, not all home owners or renters were quite so prudent.

Only time will tell if she makes it home sans incident.


Tag: Snow Washington DC Commute Klutz

Snowy Sunday in DC

When the phone buzzed, I fully expected to see a message from my brunch date. I flipped it over: Kayla.

"its snowing!"

I ran to the door and peeked between the Venetian blinds.

"It is snowing," I said to myself and danced a happy little "it's snowing outside and I'm standing barefoot on ceramic tile floors in the middle of winter" dance. Eventually, I pulled on a pair of socks. Eventually, I stepped into my boots and slid into my coat. I doubled over my scarf and donned my hat and danced my way out into the snow.

I slipped and slid. I snapped pictures and lifted my face to the flakes. I almost stuck out my tongue to catch one, but realized I was in the middle of a relatively crowded street. I kept my tongue in place and grinned happily. I passed a pair of boys snow bowling, throwing precipitous balls at plastic cups and cheering wildly before diving to the cement and working on additional orbs.

I snapped a few pictures. I tried to capture the boys without disturbing their play or worrying their parents.

By the time I reached Tunnicliff's, I was covered from capped head to booted toe in wet whiteness, white wetness, in snow. Across the street, a few brave vendors huddled over their wares at Eastern Market. No farmers, however; no fresh vegetables for soup. Hats, certainly, and scarves, gloves and frozen patrons.

I walked into the crowded bar and smiled, waved, pulled out a stool. A friend tended bar, filling and refilling our drinks and providing a running commentary. She recommended a hearty, warm brunch on a cold winter's day. A farmer's omelet, mashed potato goodness with cheese and eggs, sour cream and scallions. I kept eating long after my hunger faded. I kept eating until the bartender offered a box. I couldn't quite stop the culinary comfort. It seemed too perfect for a snowy Sunday.

Anticipation grew as game time drew near.

"What's your plan?"

"For today?" I asked. "I'm sorry. I really want to go home and sit in front of a fire. I want to make soup and drink hot chocolate. I want to watch movies and sit on my couch for the next seven hours."

"I really am sorry," I reiterated.

"Hey, no. It's cool."

We made plans for a movie on Monday and slid the snowy sidewalks home. Passing the site of the snow bowling, I saw the cups stacked neatly on the step, snow once again covered the sidewalk, providing plenty of ammunition.

It was the first snowfall of the season. I saw snow once before, in Turkey. According to Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, it only snows five or six days a year in the city. We happened to catch one of them and even then, as my friends complained, I reveled in the flakes.

Today, in DC, I made fire. I made soup. I poured myself a glass of champagne. Just because I could. I watched movies and barely left the sofa. I was supremely happy on a snowy Sunday in DC.


Tag: Snow Washington DC

It's snowing

The first snow of the season.

I am.
So.
Excited.

I want to put on boots and scarf and run out and play. I want to build a fire, make a pot of hot chocolate and fill a mug with marshmallows. In a day or so, I might be tired of it, but for now, I'm going out to play...

A cold awakening

Startled, I jumped off the couch and looked around the living room. I squinted to the see the clock: 8:07, and inwardly I groaned.

"I just went to bed," I thought, and "Why I am wearing a dress?"

I was watching TV, catching up on the DVR sometime after the bar and before bed, which turned into during bed as I feel asleep, dress and all, on the couch. I awoke briefly around six, to the enthusiastic sound of infomercials, and stumbled into the bathroom to peel the contacts from my eyes and brush my teeth. One would think I'd take that opportunity to slide between the sheets but, no, I sank to the sofa for a little more sleep.

And sleep I did, until 8:07 a.m.

When the phone rang, I started. I jumped. I staggered around the living room, squinting and confused.

"Hello?" I coughed into the phone, my voice raw, unused.

"Hi, Kristin? You bought firewood from us a month ago. Do you need more?"

A light bulb flashed. A very dim bulb. Hardly worth mentioning. But the man on the phone was pleasant and patient. He made me understand that he was one of the two very nice men from whom I bought firewood a month and a half ago. They lost their space at Eastern Market and found themselves in position of delivering wood on an "on-call" basis.

Unfortunately for me, the call came "on" at 8:07, less than five hours after I fell asleep.

"I have to run out," I managed to say. "What time? What window are you looking at for a delivery?"

"You're close to that park, right? We can be there in five or 10 minutes."

Once again, I inwardly groaned and then I pulled myself together. "That would be great."

For a minute or two, I sank back into the couch and closed my eyes. Then, I remembered the dress. A little wrap number would not do for firewood delivery at 8:13 on a Saturday morning. I didn't even have a story to go with it. No walk of shame. No fabulously riotous night. Drinks with friends at the Showbar and falling asleep on the couch while watching Dirt.

A change of clothes later, the phone rang again.

"You're right by the park, right? Do you have a white door?"

"I don't think so," I said. "I mean, I'm close to the park, but I have no idea what color door I have. I'm under the steps."

Still a little foggy. I actually got up and opened the door to check the color. Brown. As always. I gave directions to the woodsmen.

"You'll be outside, right?"

"Um, sure."

I found shoes. I found my coat. I found myself outside in below-freezing temps with a wind chill knocking it back into the teens and setting my teeth to chattering. I'd forgotten my hat and scarf. I'd forgotten socks. I paced. I stomped. I jumped a little and realized they must have ended up circling the park with all those stoplights.

A car approached and I looked up anxiously. It passed. I paced a little more and ducked back into the house to grab my phone, worried about missing them. An SUV approached slowly. A trailer behind. I smiled and waved and jumped around a little.

"You want two bundles, right? Just tell me where you want them and go back inside. It's cold out here." I pointed to the area and headed back under the stairs. I had almost made it inside when the driver called out, "So, we lost our space at Eastern Market."

I walked back to the sidewalk and replied, "That's unfortunate. You got so much street traffic there."

We continued to chat as he pulled at the cords holding the tarp. The passenger closed his cell phone, another delivery, and joined the driver in sorting out wood, pulling pieces and carrying them two or three at a time over to my door.

"So, they're talking snow on Sunday," I said.

"We actually saw a few flakes on the way here."

"Is this too big?" and "Will this work?" they asked, holding up slightly larger pieces for my approval. Eventually, I wound my wits about me and made small talk. They filled the crisp morning air with chatter and laughter. They filled the space with wood; I swear they left me half a cord, delivered to my door, for $14.

"Call us anytime," the driver offered. "We'll give you a call. Two weeks, do you think?"

"Depends on how cold it is," I replied with a smile.

"Let me give you another card." He handed me two.

By the time they left, I was thoroughly chilled and wide awake. I decided to start my day. Shopping. Taxes. Finding my car.

When I get back from errands, I'll start a fire. I have plenty of wood and I wouldn't mind seeing the woodsmen again. They kind of made my morning.


Tag: Firewood Morning Sleep Showbar Dirt

In my pocket

"I have to go home now," I announced to my coworker after we'd divvied up work for late night fun. "I have to change my clothes."

"What?" she asked, laughing. "You can't take yourself seriously in that outfit?"

"No. I really can't. I feel a little ridiculous," I said, referring to my jester's clothes, my argyle tights and suffusion of brown. "I have to ride the Metro; I have to go out in public like this."

I could hear her laughter as I packed up my bag, changed out of my heels into sensible Merrell Mary Janes and wrapped my scarf around my neck.

"Have a good night!" I called and headed down the hall. In the lobby a woman stopped me, told me she loved my outfit. I thanked her but despite the compliment, I felt a little too Bagger Vance. I needed to go home and change clothes before happy hour.

Fortunately, I found a seat on the Metro; I managed to hide a bit. Unfortunately, I left the office much later than expected and had to rush home to change, drop off my messenger bag and head back to the Metro to meet my brother. I grabbed a pair of jeans from the unpacked suitcase on my living room floor and wiggled into them as the phone rang.

"Hey, you're at home?" my brother asked. He'd called my home number.

"Yeah, I'm leaving in a minute."

"I'm going to wait inside the station for you. It's cold outside." We made plans to meet. I hung up, pulled on my coat and scarf and left. I checked my voicemail on the way to the station. Friends. Dinner plans. I returned the call, stopping at the corner by my house for an independent film crew shooting a short scene in the cold night. Hurrying past the lights and the actors, I put the phone in my pocket and felt a lump.

Confused, I put my hand in my jeans pocket, which lay twisted and somewhat lumpy against my hip. I pulled it forward and identified the lump: a pair of underwear.

"Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do with these?" I wondered. I looked around for a second, as if I'd find an answer on South Carolina Avenue. I looked at my purse: No zipper. I patted down my coat and envisioned myself pulling out my gloves and a pair of underwear in the middle of the Metro station, in the middle of a crowded bar. I pondered as I scuttled down the street and realized that I had no option. The underwear would have to stay in my pocket.

We arrived early, my brother and I. We ran into Rob at the hostess station, flashing smiles and IDs as he tried to sort out the space for the happy hour, the Blogger Meetup. Despite our intentions to mingle, we ended up at a long table near the front.

I chatted with Jamy and my brother. I met Andrew and John, Ross and Wyatt. Techne. That guy from Debatepedia (and why can't I remember his name? He was really interesting.) Patrick was there. And I-66. A whole bunch of people I didn't meet. Some I recognized. Some I didn't.

Most of my conversation was limited to the group in the middle of the table and maverick minglers, those who actually left their seats and started conversations with strangers. Most of my conversation was limited to writing with a sprinkling of gossip. I laughed; I talked. I tried to ignore the lump in my pocket. The knowledge burned like a dirty secret. I suppose it was a dirty secret.

Later, walking down the street, my brother and I chatted about the night. We chatted about the group.

"I have underwear in my pocket," I announced, apropos of nothing.

"What?"

"I have underwear in my pocket." I had to share it with someone.

"Why do you have underwear in your pocket?"

"I don't know. Traveling. I wore these jeans over the weekend. I was sleeping in the dining room, changing in the bathroom… Honestly, I don't know."

He sighed in relief.

"I thought you were going to say it was some weird sex thing with a guy."

"Ew. No. And you're my brother – like I'd tell you."

I didn't bother to mention that time in New York.


Tag: Underwear Bloggers Happy hour

Technical Difficulties

I struggled to make out the voice on the intercom.

"Brakes" and "Did you try?" and ""Oh, that's not good" echoed through the car, as we sat and pretended nothing was wrong. I tried to keep my leg from bouncing as I read my book and strained to hear. Next to me, a man worked intently on the Su | Do | Ku puzzle in the Express. Degree of Difficulty: HARD.

"Please exit the train," boomed a voice from above. "This train is out of service due to mechanical difficulties. Please exit the train."

A collective groan arose as the packed Orange Line train heaved its passengers, morning commuters, onto the already crowded platform at Metro Center. I grabbed my bag, my newspapers, my book, and joined the queue at the door. A girl with crinkly blond hair looked up in alarm. She pulled an earbud from her mess of curls.

"Is this train out of service?"

I nodded; she sighed. We both stepped onto the platform. Facing a solid wall of human flesh, I ducked my head, muttered "excuse me" and pushed my way to the back of the crowd, away from the edge of the platform and the broken train.

"Do not attempt to board this train. This train is out of service."

The doors closed. The train stood still. A man in blue trousers, a blue shirt with a patch on the sleeve and a fluorescent yellowish-green and orange vest ran through the train, doors slamming behind him as he dashed from car to car, looking for stragglers.

Eventually, confident in emptiness, he sauntered back toward the middle of the train, to the car in front of me and stopped, speaking into his shoulder, talking into a handset. The train was clear. Eventually, slowly, painfully, it eased out of the station, dragging any hope I had of making it to work on time.

Another train. Blue Line. The conductor instructed people to use all available doors or to wait for one of the many trains directly behind her. It didn't really matter. We were waiting for Orange.

"Please do not lean on the doors. Please do not lean on the doors. McPherson Square, next stop," her voice faded into the tunnel.

Overhead, in the station, someone announced, "Passengers traveling in the direction of Vienna/Franconia-Springfield, we are experiencing a delay due to a technical difficulty on an Orange Line train."

I flushed a little. I almost felt a sense of ownership, a sense of embarrassment. I was on the train that disrupted the morning commute. I ducked my head again and waited for the flashing lights, an arriving train.

"Please use all doors. Please use all available doors," called the conductor as we crammed into the train, jostling, elbowing, edging into already occupied space. I found a seat, riding backwards, and read my book.

Next to me, a businessman fidgeted, adjusting his coat, flapping his elbows and playing a handheld game. A Sony of some sort. He moved his entire upper body to follow the picture on the screen. Well dressed, handsome, flashing a gold band on his left hand, he played intently, doing whatever it is that people do with handheld games. Suddenly, he folded up the game and tucked it into his bag. He sat quietly alert, with his hands folded, his back straight. Expectant. Waiting.

With my eyes on the page, I stood as we pulled into McPherson Square and he slid out of the seat, a slim smile, a short nod, and he waited for the doors to open. I slipped back into the seat and pressed against the window, hoping to read a few more pages before reaching Arlington Courthouse, hoping to reach Arlington Courthouse before I was too late for work.

On Saturday, as I made my publicly transported way to Dulles Airport, I sat at Eastern Market and read. Overhead, I heard an announcement. I turned to the man next to me.

"Did he just say that someone was hit at Capitol South?"

The man sighed and nodded. Back to his paper. Back to my book. I worried that I would miss my flight. Hours later, I wondered about the person hit by a train.


Tag: Washington DC Orange Line Commute

Fashion plate

Washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and shook my head. I teetered uncertainly back to the bar on high, high heels and three beers to reclaim my stool.

"You're a guy," I said. "You probably don't know what I'm talking about, but do you ever put on an outfit and halfway through the day realize the error of your ways?"

He just shook his head and laughed.

"Seriously. Look at me. I put on this outfit this morning and thought I looked fine," I explained. "Individually, I love the pieces - my favorite skirt, one of my favorite shirts, a brand new sweater – but they do not belong together."

"You look fine," he laughed.

I cocked my eyebrow and ordered another beer.

One would think I'd learn my lesson, pay a bit more attention to the choices I made in the wardrobe department but hours later, I faced the closet and decided to experiment. (I blame the fourth beer.)

"Hey, I haven't worn those cords in a while, let's try those with some argyle tights," I thought as I faced the closet. The next logical thought should have been "WTF?" but instead, I ended up walking around the office in short pants and argyles.

Seriously.

Strangely enough, I heard very few comments and for the most part they were positive.

"I don't know what I was thinking," I apologized in a coworker's office.

"You are very… brown today."

"I know, and argyles? Argyles?!" She peered around her computer and laughed.

"I didn't even see those. Nice."

"I feel like a jester. Shall I dance for you? Start juggling?"

I returned to my office and my query to the sound of laughter echoing throughout the halls.

Eventually, stuck, I ran to run a bit of logic past my boss. Given that she was not a numbers person, she couldn't quite help. She referred me to the owner of the company as well as a couple of resources at the client site. I trekked to the owner's office and knocked on the door. I explained my dilemma and ran through the logic. We talked about possible solutions. We talked about additional resources. As I headed out of the office, he called, "I like your socks and knickers."

"Knickers," I thought. "The boss man likes my knickers."

Rounding a corner, I found another coworker/manager/the husband of my immediate boss.

"What did I say? A fashion plate," he said. "Though, you look like you could be heading out to golf, at least from the waist down."

"What? Cowl necks don't count as collared shirts?" I asked because I was not only wearing short pants and argyles. I topped off the stellar combination with a brown, cowl neck sweater and a chunky brown necklace, a pair of brown heels. (As mentioned before, my immediate thought should have been "WTF?") "I feel like a harlequin."

"As long as you don't feel like a harlot," another manager shot in passing. I sighed.

"Social activist (slash) fashion plate," the coworker/manager/husband mused.

"Everybody's got to have a niche," I replied and headed back to my office to hide my legs under a bit of particle board for the rest of the day.

I figured out the query; one could only hope I'd figure out my closet. (Juggling is not my forte.)


Tag: Fashion Mistakes

Five Words

"Good morning," called a voice from nowhere. I looked up and saw a woman in an SUV. I smiled and mentally prepared to give directions, answer a question, be neighborly.

"Good morning!"

"You look nice," she said with a smile. I grinned and called back a "Thank you." She rolled up the window. The light changed and she pulled away. I walked down the street, beaming.

When I left the house, I felt like a mess. My stomach roiled. Above my boots and below my skirt, bruises covered both of my knees, mottled shades of blue and purple, yellow and green, red. My fingertips ached from where I stabbed myself with a safety pin, closing my gaping, gapping shirt between the top two buttons, between my breasts.

Honestly, I didn't even shower this morning but suddenly, in my tall black boots, with my long winter white coat and my long winter white scarf, my burgundy skirt peeking below and a matching hat pulled low, I felt beautiful.

It's amazing what five words from a stranger can do.

Late Sunday night, long after the 4-year-old hit the sheets, after my stepbrother turned in, my sister-in-law and I caught up on crap TV. Fast-forwarding through the commercials with a baby latched to her breast, she asked, "So, any new boy toys?" The question seemed casual, the delivery deliberately so, but I knew what she was asking. And I shrank in my seat.

"No."

We've had this conversation before and she definitely did not want stories of my dating woes or woos, the canteloupe lover, the comedian, the man who moved cross country. That wasn't where she was headed and the stories would have only invoked pity.

I felt about three inches tall. Inadequate. Incomplete. It didn't matter how much I traveled. How many plays I saw. How many bands. It didn't matter if I was wildly successful at work. It didn't matter if I was wildly happy. I wasn't complete without a husband and a baby. Or two.

It's amazing what five words from a family member can do.

Over the weekend, I attended the South Carolina debut performance of "I Am My Own Wife." A one-man play, "I Am My Own Wife" depicts author Doug Wright's fascination with the life of Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a German transvestite caught up in the great European dramas of the 20th century. Unlike many contemporaries, von Mahlsdorf survived the Nazi regime and its replacement in East Germany, the Soviet-dominated Communist dictatorship.

In South Carolina, J. Michael Craig (a friend of my stepbrother and sister-in-law) starred. One man on stage. One man, playing dozens, literally dozens, more than 40 characters, with simply a change in voice, a change in accent and a change in syntax. It was powerful. Days later, I still think about it, the words "I am my own wife" and the meaning behind them, the story.

The audience never really knew Charlotte nor did the writer, Doug Wright. He said he believed, he admired her because he "need[ed] to believe" that people like her could exist, and survive, under the worst circumstances of our times.

It's amazing what five words can do.


Tag: I am my own wife Words Family

Martin Luther King Day

I found myself in the South this weekend. The real South. Not just over the bridge and under the Mason Dixon line in Virginia or Maryland, but South Cackalackie. Close to Georgia.

I found myself in a place the fights the holiday, near people who deny the reason for the holiday.

"I'm going to my stepbrother's this weekend, to meet my new niece," I announced to friends over drinks, "what with Monday being a holiday, Martin Luther King Day."

"You know that some people refuse to acknowledge it. In some places, they call it Confederate Day."

"According to OPM, according to the Office of Personal Management, the official holiday is the Birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr." I replied, my anger irked.

"I know. I'm just saying that some people refuse to recognize it."

My stepbrother told me the same when I arrived, offering a bit of trivia, a minor admonition, perhaps, against my big mouth.

Like many others, I used the day to travel. I used the day to visit family. A long weekend. A day off work. The weather was glorious and I walked through a small town, looking in windows and teasing my niece. We walked without coats. I sat in a park and watched my niece chase her father while her mother fed the baby.

I gave little thought to the holiday. I gave little thought to the reason. Even later, heading home from the airport on a city bus, I struggled to collect my thoughts.

I live in a mixed neighborhood, diverse in terms of age and ethnicity, professions and income levels. I would call it integrated but it's not. It was poor and black. It's turning yuppy. A dog or a baby in every house; a renter in every basement.

Gentrification.

I recognize something intrinsically wrong with both the word and the process. Though, I'm not really sure what it means and I don't know how to stop it. I'm part of the problem.

I live in a world that is predominantly white. I live on the fringes of world that is not. I feel the color of my skin in the grocery store a little. On the bus, a lot. At the laundromat. At the movies. Every day, in little ways.

I wonder what Dr. King would think of the world today. I wonder where we're going.

I grew up poor. Government cheese and thrift store clothes. I grew up not noting color. I don't think the two are related, but when my mom married a rich man, our whole world changed. I stopped being one and started noticing the other. Country clubs and fundraisers. International trips. New clothes, furniture, world. Lines were drawn and walls were built.

A few weeks into my freshman year of college, I came home for my birthday, Labor Day weekend. I was homesick after months as a camp counselor, going straight from camp to college. When I got home, early Friday night, I joined my family at the dinner table and I raved about school – classes, dorm life, my resident adviser (Lacretia).

"She's black, isn't she?" my stepfather laughed, launching into a stream of raunchy jokes.

I shrank in my seat. I wanted to deny it, to curb his criticism, but I didn't want to deny her. He was the one who was wrong. I talked to him less and less over time. I stopped coming home and he took my mom and my brother, one of my stepbrothers, out of the country about a year later. I never really talked to him again. He disappeared years later, after much heartache. Drunk and cruel. Angry. Racist.

Sitting on the bus, heading into the District and thinking of him, I flushed. This man was a part of me. He helped form the person I am, for better or worse.

Sitting on the bus, heading into the District and thinking of the holiday, I thought of Martin Luther King Jr. He helped form the person I am, too.

Way back when, a hundred years ago or so, I earned a Martin Luther King Jr. scholarship. In my essay, I had to write about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had to think about what I wanted to do and what kind of difference I could make. I promised myself and the scholarship committee to affect change. I don't even remember how. All I know is that I looked at my stepfather and realized I didn't want to be like him.

I don't want to be like him.

I don't know how to make the world a better place, but I'm trying. I read. I act. I volunteer and I keep my mind open. I am grateful for far more than a day off work. I am grateful for (and humbled by) a man who motivated millions.

I don't know how to make the world a better place, but I'm trying.


Tag: Holiday Three-day weekend Martin Luther King Jr.

Three-day weekends

Time stretches out before me. A long, luxurious weekend. This time last year, I found myself not skiing in Utah. I went to Utah for the express purpose of hanging out with friends, visiting stepbrother and pregnant sister-in-law and not skiing.

This year, I plan to catch a plane south, to visit my other stepbrother, recently pregnant sister-in-law and my nieces. I am very much looking forward to the family time, to the break.

Work seems so much harder this time of year. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, New Year's, there are so many holidays, so many parties, so much vacation. So little work gets done. Everyone seems to come back on January 2 – or 3rd this year with the funereal federal holiday – resolved to work, to get something done.

And then, it hits. Low. Dirty. Hard. The second week of January. The first full week of work. Short, cold days. Long working hours. Playing catch up. It's rough. (I failed miserably this year, cowering under the covers long after the alarm sounded).

And then, blessedly, mercifully, a holiday weekend. A three-day weekend. A break. A step back to help us baby step back into work. (I do not mean to underestimate the importance of the holiday itself, to sell short in incomparable Dr. King. I just need to take a minute to appreciate the break for the sake of the break.)

I have trouble falling asleep. I have trouble staying asleep. I have trouble waking up and getting up and staying up. I have a new alarm, a clock radio. I keep it on a shelf across the room. I keep it far enough away to pull me from the bed in an attempt to pull myself from sleep. Nevertheless, I continue to jump, snooze and return to bed a half dozen times before heaving myself to the tile floor, toward the shower, clothes, work.

Somehow, the radio lost its station. For the past several weeks, I've awakened to a soft, crackling static with the low undulating buzz of an alarm. I must have reset the station as I so often reset the clock instead of the alarm and the alarm instead of the clock. Even with two or three clocks in my room, I never know the time.

Last night I decided to set the station, to find music to wake me.

I used to listen to C-SPAN radio. Presidential politics pulled me from bed, day after day, leaving lingering dreams of war and children, budgets and shortfalls, leaving a Texas twang in my ear and a ball of tension at the base of my neck.

I used to set my cell phone as a backup alarm, as a preliminary alarm, but my legacy of loss left me stranded.

Last night I decided to set the station, to find music to wake me.

Early this morning, earlier than I wanted or needed, I awakened to music. The songs grated my nerves when they woke me or ingratiated themselves into my dreams, confusing me, making me question my wakefulness, my sleep.

I miss the static. The strange, crackling silence with a subtle buzz. The gentle, nothingness. I think I might unset the station. On Tuesday. For now, I have a long, luxurious weekend before me. No need for alarms. Family. Sleep, or as much as I can get around my nieces.

Tag: Sleep Holiday Weekend Break

Lost girl

When stressed, when anxious, when tired and overworked, I lose things. I lose things and I fall down. A lot. In the past week, I've found out that I'm being audited by the IRS for the second time. I've worked excessive hours. I've been sick. I've lost my wallet. I've lost my phone and I have a horrible bruise on my right knee.

I don't even know if I fell down or walked into something. I'm banking on walking into something given the lack of scratch marks and my pro