My new favorite place

My new favorite place: National Capitol Post Office, conveniently located at 2 Massachusetts Avenue, Northeast. Open until midnight on weekdays, from 7 a.m. until 8 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.

Sundays.

I think my discovery of the site has just revolutionized the way I mail things. Granted, I only hit the post office two or three times a year, but now I can go darn near close to the middle of the night.

"I have to go to the Post Office tomorrow. It's my mom's birthday," I observed over salads and beer. "She's not going to get her presents on time."

I forked the salad, stabbing a bit of arugula, a caramelized pecan, some cheese. I was decidedly unconcerned about the lack of giftage.

"I even have my brother's present for her and a load of videos. Two big boxes that I've had since April. Actually, I think she gave me $40 for shipping in April and I still haven't sent them. I need someone to help me or I'll have to make two trips."

"I can help you," my friend offered.

"Really? I could make two trips."

"We have time."

"I, um, have to buy her a birthday present on the way home."

We stopped at Urban Outfitters, not a traditional "mom" sort of place but I am not the traditional sort of daughter. I found a fantastically maternal straw tote and a candle to accompany the book in one of the boxes at home.

Normally, I'd spend more time and energy finding the perfect gift, but I figured I would do that in advance of my visit in three weeks time. Normally, I would buy the gift well in advance of the date and send it months late. Before taping up the boxes, I signed the card I had bought for Mother's Day and included a birthday message. I have issues with sending things on time.

I boxed them in April. Added the photos and the book in May. My brother handed me his present before he left for a work trip, concerned with making it on time: He would have done better shipping it from Mexico.

There's always something: I don't have tape. The address. The inclination to stand in line. This time I couldn't quite figure out the logistics of wrestling two large boxes into a post office during a weekday, a workday, or limited Saturday hours.

As we walked and shopped, picking up more for ourselves than my mother and joking over gifts such as a "Pull My Finger President," a "Beer Money" bank and "Penis Pokey." I wanted, desperately, to buy my mom a gnome because we had Norske books and dolls of gnomes in my childhood, but I didn't think she would appreciate it as much as I did.

My friend bought a growing birthday cake, just add water, for my mom and a patchwork comforter for herself. We popped into City Sports to make use of a gift certificate.

"Does that look like a... like... I should be carrying a baby?"

"Um, I never would have thought it looked like a diaper bag, but now I do."

She bought it anyway. I bought T-shirts. We walked out into the warm afternoon and I looked at the time. We'd whiled away the afternoon with salad and shopping, talking and walking. We wouldn't make it to the post office on time.

An internet search brought a list of the post offices closest to home, many nestled in House office buildings. I couldn't imagine walking in with two large boxes, even if they did stay open until 5:30, 5:45. Union Station posed the best bet – 5:45 and fairly close to home. We taped up the boxes and hopped in the car.

Circling, circling, looking for parking and... nothing but traffic.

"Is that a post office?" asked my friend as she looked out the window.

"I don't know. It wasn't on the list."

"It says 'Post Office.'" She hopped out of the car to ask the closing time and walked back slowly. I looked up in confusion. "Midnight... It's open until midnight."

"What?"

We found a space and walked dubiously across the street and through the doors in the beautiful, cavernous post office. A post office like those I remembered from my childhood but larger. Much, much larger. Rows of mailboxes with tiny little windows and hand-painted numbers, stuffed from behind and opened with keys. Gilt garbage cans. Table upon table for filling out forms and filling out labels and oodles of windows from which to be served.

I stood gaping in awe, looking around the marbled and gilt-edged room.

"This is my new favorite place."

Evenings. Weekends. Real, grownup working hours to fit my real, grownup life. The agents were friendly. The hours amenable. I left happy, $52 later. My mom would receive her gifts late, but she would receive them. And within days.

Next stop: Dry cleaning.


Tag: Post Office Errands

Evening

I wanted it to work. I wanted to lose myself in the parallel stories of a dying woman reflecting on life and the young woman she had once been, love and laughter, family and friends. I wanted the ultimate chick flick experience with more than a few tears, laughs and sighs.

It was a pretty tall order.

Evening
This deeply emotional film illuminates the timeless love that binds mother and daughter, seen through the prism of one mother's life as it crests with optimism, navigates a turning point, and ebbs to its close. Two pairs of real-life mothers and daughters—Vanessa Redgrave and Natasha Richardson, and Meryl Streep and Mamie Gummer—portray, respectively, a mother and her daughter and the mother's best friend at different stages in life. Co-starring Glenn Close, Patrick Wilson and Hugh Dancy. Screenplay by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Cunningham (The Hours), based on the best-selling novel by Susan Minot. English-language debut for director Lajos Koltai (Fateless).

Honestly, I probably needed to cry, to let go of all of the stress in my life with a little prescribed drama. A tightly contained story with a beginning and an end, a natural progression from joy to sadness and back again with a little poignancy thrown in for good measure. I couldn't cry about anything real; I might not stop. A movie, though, a movie would be perfect.

The previews were great: Meryl Streep standing on the steps looking lovingly at Toni Collette, both fabulous actors in their own right, saying, "Your mother had her whole life. She sang at my wedding... she raised two girls... we can't know everything she did. We are mysterious creatures, aren't we?"

Claire Danes opposite the lovely Hugh Dancy as he implores, "What if we just sang and laughed together... for the rest of our lives."

"It wouldn't work."

"Not for you..."

Honestly, I did fall a little in love with Hugh as a lost, lonely soul looking for love, for acceptance, and truth be told, I've been a fan of Miss Danes ever since My So-Called Life. (I cried when it ended - for the loss of the hopelessly real Angela Chase and the love of both our lives, Jordan Catalano.) In fact, I liked most of the actors in the movie, it just didn't gel. Not for me.

I found myself disillusioned by the plot, by the characters and wondering what I might relive on my deathbed as the defining moments of my life. I prayed that I wouldn't be trapped in the memory of myself at age 24, in mistakes I had made, in a life I had not lived. I almost cried for the futility of it all, a life almost wasted not by the decisions she had made but by the paths she had not chosen. I almost cried from the futility of it all.

The movie was beautifully shot. The actors well cast and the scenery quite lovely. I just couldn't empathize. I wanted too much. I asked too much. If nothing else, though, it made me think. It made me realize that I didn't want to find myself at the end of life with only regrets.


Tag: Evening Movies

Better late than...

"No," I cried, looking at the clock. "No, no, no, no, no."

I raced into the living room, looked at the clock, the TV screen frozen on an angry Jeremy Piven (I'd stopped mid-Entourage) and back to my room.

"No."

I pulled on the clothes I'd laid out for the day, the skirt, tank and sweater. I stepped into flip flops and grabbed my bag, flying out the door and into my car.

"No, no, no, no, no."

I needed a shower but I'd run out time. 7 o'clock. I had a conference call at 7 o'clock. I needed to make time stand still.

I hadn't thought to set the alarm when I peeled off my dress and crawled into bed for a nap. I didn't expect to sleep through the night. The neighbors were gone, house hunting in California, and for the first time I slept. I honestly slept. Without the creaks, bangs and pounding of a family of four. No babies crying. No toddlers running. My body gave up the exhaustion, the stress and the tension, and I slept without moving.

In the car, I swigged from my bottle of water and watched the time. 7:07. An excuse. I needed an excuse. I just couldn't bear to say, "I screwed up. I overslept." A bus drifted into my lane. Death by bus while late to a meeting. Great.

I parked on the street, risking an almost certain ticket and fed coins into the meter. I pulled my badge from the bag and half skipped, half ran into the office.

A man with a bucket swabbed the floor between the double doors of the employees' entrance. He waved me toward the visitors' entrance. I smiled and nodded, rushing through the doors and to security.

"Thank you," I breathed as I ran toward the elevator and pushed the button. Waiting. Waiting. Breathe. Don't forget to breathe. On the sixth floor, I raced toward the conference room.

The empty conference room.

"No... no, no, no."

I wandered the floor, peeking in conference rooms. I was almost sure of the location, but it wasn't our room. It wasn't our meeting, our call. I might have been mistaken, but no, that was the name of our contact on the office next door. Breathe.

I walked back to the elevators and rode down to the tunnels. I walked to my own building, certain in my excuse. "I looked for the room, but I just couldn't find it."

I should have called the 800-number. I could have done that from home. By now, I had lost a half hour. I must have made a mistake. Maybe the last messages, the ones with the numbers, said that everyone should call from their own locations. Maybe we'd given up the room.

My client wasn't in her office. I punched her number into my cell and left a breathless message, "Hi, Em, it's Kristin. I'm sorry I missed the call. I went over to 10B and looked for the room, but I couldn't seem to find it. I'm sorry. I'll catch up with you later this morning."

Up to my desk. I might as well log in and get the number, call for the last 30 minutes or so. The office was empty but for a few sleepy souls clattering away on their keyboards. Slowly, slowly the computer booted and I logged into my email. Calendar. Calendar.

That's the wrong entry. My Wednesday meeting. I looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. 7:39.

7:39 PM

I wasn't 39 minutes late. I was 11 hours and 21 minutes early. I had only slept an hour.

As I walked back to the car, the sun started to dip into the sky. Twenty minutes later and I might have realized my mistake. I might have noted the late-day sun. Then, again, I probably wouldn't. I was panicked. My heart was racing and I couldn't quite think straight.

Twenty minutes later and I might have called, too late to even attempt a face-to-face meeting.

On the walk to the car, I called my client.

"Please disregard the last message. Sorry about that. For some reason, I thought the call was 7 o'clock tonight instead of tomorrow morning. I should be there on time. No worries... unless you receive another panicked call from me. Thanks."

I wondered briefly how to explain the word "morning" in the message but decided to pretend that I hadn't.


Tag: Work Sleep

Eight things

Eight things about me? Do they have to be new? I tell everyone everything there is to know about me. The stuff that remains hidden, the stuff that is mine, will have to remain private. It is too intimate, too personal, and something must be mine and mine alone.

The rules:
1. Post the rules, then list eight things about yourself.
2. At the end of the post, tag and link to eight other people.
3. Leave a comment at those sites, letting them know they've been tagged, and asking them to come read the post so they know what to do.

About me...
1. Flip flops hurt my shins something fierce. They're unprofessional, awkward and annoying and not particularly flattering in terms of what they do to my calves or my gait. But they're the closest I can get to barefoot and I'm a barefoot kind of girl.

2. I don't clean very much because I cannot seem to stop. I find myself sorting my sock drawer in the middle of the night and putting my photos in chronological order when I just wanted to put away my shoes.

3. In the words of Jane's Addiction, I've never been in love. I don't know what it is. Only knows if someone wants her. I want them if they want me. I only know they want me.

4. I *love* music. There's always a song in my head or seven. Seven songs. Not seven heads. I only have one head and it's not nearly enough to hold all these thoughts.

5. John from Cincinnati confuses me. So does Meadowlands. I don't think I care enough to figure them out but I keep watching.

6. Meat grosses me out. I've been a veg for more than two decades and it kind of skeeves me out to see people picking flesh off a bone. I pretend that it doesn't bother me. I smile and say, "Oh, that looks good" or "smells good" or "How do you find the fish?"

7. I don't wear makeup. I figure it's false advertising – I'm too lazy to make myself up daily and I pity the fool who falls for me expecting that level of effort. People say I look fine without it. I figure they've just grown accustomed to my fresh face, all naked like. I'm OK with that.

8. I am scared. Scared that I'll die young. Scared that I won't. I fill every moment of every day so that I will not come to the end of life and find that I have not yet lived, be it at 32 or 70 years later. I have the feeling that as much as I do, even that latter would come much too soon.

I'm terrible at tagging. I would love to read anyone's facts. Everyone's. The lists I've seen thus far are simply amazing. Barbara? A Million Paths? Aileen? Ulysses? Hey Pretty? Blue? EJ? Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?


Tag: Meme

Quizzo

If life were a movie, we'd all have our parts. The geeky girl. The beautiful one. Little Miss Sport Star. As it was, we all had a little of each in us. The girls with the sports knowledge didn't wear sweats – one with very trendy, very new haircut, the other with a sexy little black tank. The psychology girl answered technology questions. The literature girls knew music and bands. Unfortunately, I offered very little but I knew enough to invite very smart friends.

I went into the night, into Quizzo, fully expecting to lose and love every second of it. I was pleasantly surprised to come in fourth of a field of 30. It didn't matter, though. I just wanted to spend time with friends.

I did hold my own in securing and defending a table, which was tough. Trivia at the Pour House attracts monster crowds and even arriving a little more than two hours early, I found myself relegated to the last available table with only two stools. I culled a couple of extra stools from the surrounding tables and defended them with my life (or at least, my feet and my bag) as the bar started to fill.

"Are you going to use the whole table?" asked a girl, looking at me doubtfully with my book and my beer.

"I do have friends," I thought. "They're just not here yet."

I managed to defend the table and the girls trickled in. Of course, arriving early, hours early, ensured that I drank too much. Granted, the seven beers were spread over five hours in the bar, defending the table and playing the game. I drank a liter of water as well and might have gulped anything set before me in the hot, crowded room in the hot summer night.

I arrived home a little after 10, feeling none the worse for wear. Though, I felt a little bad about losing the math question. As if I'm the math girl. As if a question with the addition and multiplication of the number of kids on Just the Ten of Us, Eight is Enough, Family Ties and Bernie Mac counted as math. Fortunately, nobody held it against me, held me accountable for the loss of the question or the loss of the game.

After all, it was just a game and nobody seemed to care if we won. Personally, I didn't care if we lost miserably. I wouldn't have known. I enjoyed the company, the Stella, the chance to play.

I lost a pen over the course of the night – one of my favorite rolling ball pens. I kept the stools and defended the table. I ran into my friend, Nick the Cop, as he ended his shift and enjoyed a kevlar-free hug. I rode home in a friend's beautiful new convertible, enjoying a breeze as row houses streamed past in the clear summer night. Most of all, I enjoyed time with my friends, my beautiful friends who know so much more than me.


Tag: Quizzo Trivia Pour House

American games

"I've never seen so many preppy people with popped collars at a baseball game," I observed on the walk home. Polo shirts and girls in skirts, ties and suits filled the stands, inasmuch as the stands were filled at the 46th Annual Congressional Baseball Game, sponsored by Roll Call.

The Republicans won. From what I understand, the Republicans always win, but the Democrats held their own – ending the night with a 5-2 loss.

John Shimkus brought home the win for the Republicans, pitching his second winning game in as many years. Joe Baca threw for the Dems, maintaining a game befitting his former career as a semipro ball player.

Congresswoman Linda Sanchez, last fall's Funniest Celebrity in Washington, brought out quite the following with a crowd in the stands chanting for her placement in the game. She connected for a hit in her first and only at bat in the seventh and last inning, earning cheers along the third baseline. The Democrats' side.

The biggest cheers of the night, however, accompanied the entrance of the Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, Nancy Pelosi. Or so I heard, I couldn't quite see anything for the crowd.

Only in DC.

I have to admit that I felt woefully underdressed in my cargo pants and "Everyone Loves An American Girl" t-shirt, but the girl behind me wore an Animal shirt. It wasn't all suits and ties. Not entirely.

Beer flowed and peanut shells crunched underfoot. At the concession stand, we saw a sign proclaiming that beer sales would stop at 10 p.m. or in the fifth inning, whichever came first. It was a little disconcerting, at best, to imagine 10 hitting before the top of the fifth, but after a strong start, the players seemed to tire, losing control of the ball. Losing control of the game.

"I could see how everything falls apart," sighed the woman next to me after I questioned the previous year's high scoring game, ending at 12-1, Republicans. (The prior year closed at 19-11.) "You jinxed it."

The crowd seemed more interested in cheering than jeering, though, and the score didn't seem to matter.

"Good eye," called the announcer, which I echoed at the call of a ball. "Shake it off" and "Control the bat" peppered our conversation as we kept our eye out for fouls.

The game stretched a little longer than comfortable and the kids in our crew left with their dad.

"I think it should be five innings," announced a friend. Her boyfriend sighed in relief when he realized that it ended at seven. It was a Monday night and we'd have to rise early. None of us would hurt as much as the Congressmen, we wagered, but we felt old and tired, filled to the brim with American games – politics and baseball.

The evening's events raised funds the Boys and Girls Clubs of Greater Washington and the Washington Literacy Council.


Tag: Baseball Congress

Eye of the beholder

Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder, and as Miss Piggy once added, "it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

"Perception" has been on my mind a lot lately: the process of acquiring, interpreting, selecting, and organizing sensory information. The word lingers in my mind, popping up as I walk, as I write, as I struggle to sleep.

At a party last weekend, the weekend before this one, I sat and talked with a friend of a friend, a woman I'd met a handful of times over the past several times, now pregnant with twins. She glowed in her full-figured glory. Her husband sat at her feet as we talked, clearly in love.

We talked about beauty and we talked about confidence. At some point, I mentioned that I once weighed 40 pounds less. In my adult life. I later realized, with a weigh in at my annual exam, that it was more like 60.

"But you look fine now," said the woman between us. "I cannot imagine you 40 pounds lighter."

"I was... unhealthy," I said. "Honestly, at that point, I had no idea how I looked. I still don't. I barely look in mirrors."

The radiant mother-to-be nodded in understanding.

"When I see a woman who I think looks like me, I ask John if that's how I appear. Sometimes, I'm right. Sometimes, I pick a body too fat or too thin. He lets me know."

John, at her feet, continued his conversation about photography and travel, oblivious as his wife looked down with a soft smile. We talked for hours, until her pregnant body gave way to exhaustion.

During the night, people came and went. I talked with my friends, coaxing one to tell a story that I loved – allergies, alcohol and a Siamese cat. I don't know if anyone else appreciated it as much as we did. I talked with a man that I'd met many times before but didn't know at all.

I met a woman who'd haunted conversations for years, the college roommate of our hostess. I couldn't describe her to save my life – she lived in my mind as clearly as in the flesh and years of happy stories colored my glasses a nice shade of rose. She was important to a friend of mine; she was important to me.

The friend, the hostess, drives me nuts on occasion, as all friends do; I love her dearly. She feels the same about me. She knows that I hate it when she calls my hair brown. She uses adjectives such as "chestnut" and "fawn," but it still irks me. It's not the color – I much respect the brunette – but the fact that my hair isn't really brown. Some people call it auburn or red, and there's some of that in there plus streaks of blond.

"This is the first time I've seen your hair look red," I've heard more than once. My hair color doesn't change. More often than not, it's just that I'm being seen in a different light. Literally. Figuratively. Some people never see the red at all.

It doesn't matter, though. It's just hair. Sometimes frizzy. Sometimes limp. Either too short or too long as I only really seem to cut it when I give it away, which I do with some regularity not because I'm good but because I know I will lose it someday. It will turn gray and coarse. It will fall out. I do it for the karma, in part, as well as the kids. Those pictures, the confidence that comes with a hairpiece, is amazing.

Of course, confidence is one of those perception things, too. It's easier to play a part while wearing a costume. Can a full head of hair really inspire "belief in oneself and one's powers or abilities, self-confidence, self-reliance, assurance"? Is a child more beautiful with hair or is it the smile that comes with feeling "normal"?

What about grownups? Do some of us have more beauty, more confidence or is it all perception? Even superheroes don their costumes before saving the world, taking the time to find a phone booth and put on a pair of tights. For those of us in mortal coils, we find our ways of convincing the world that we have a right to be here, that we belong, be it through sexy, strappy sandals, a favorite T, a smile.

Maybe it's just all in the eye of the beholder.


Unlike Me
Kate Havnevik

There are no guarantees in life
Not for the present,
Nor for the future.
All I know is
That I'm here;
Don't know for how long.
I love the way
You live so intensely
Enjoy every minute of life
With space to swing
Your arms around
Laughing loudly

Unlike me
Unlike me
Do you think I'm strange?
Unlike you
Unlike you
I am not pretending

There is no time,
There is no time,
There is no time,
Time doesn't really exist.

The past, the present,
And the future,
Are all side by side,
Hand in hand.
You move and change,
Yet you go nowhere:
Everything stays the same.
You stare at me,
And ask me questions,
Makes me nervous,
This room it keeps a constant tone
While I'm on a roller coaster

Unlike me
Unlike me
Do you think I'm strange
Unlike you
Unlike you
I am not pretending

There is no time
There is no time
There is no time
Time doesn't really exist

There is no time
There is no time
There is no time
Time doesn't really exist

Tag: Perception Beauty Confidence

Midsummer night

"Are you Brazilian?" she asked.

I laughed and shook my head. "No, I'm... Norweigan."

I probably ought to have said "American" but I didn't want to deny my very northern European roots and I knew why she asked, this woman from Morocco. Around us, Portuguese swirled as did hips.

"But you dance?"

"Not really," I laughed.

She didn't believe me. Later in the night, she would tell her daughter, born and raised in Paris and perched on the lap of her American boyfriend, to watch me dance. Even later, she would wrap a scarf around her hips and slink to a Berber beat; I tried, in vain, to follow. Later still, she would ask my brother if he was with the girl, the Norwege, who could dance.

"My sister?"

They looked out to where I sat next to a man in a football jersey, breathing in the orange-tinged smoke from a hookah. I waved.

To the right, a pair of couples lounged on blankets and pillows, talking. As they left, they asked the boy to watch the bolsa, not knowing to whom the purse belonged but taking care to keep it safe. It was mine and empty but for my phone and a couple of dollars, a couple of batteries and a silver-plated cigarette case. Strangers guarded it.

Candles dotted the yard, the edge of the porch. Meat sizzled on a grill by the house. Cheese and olives, bread and fruit filled end tables between the blankets and chairs. Inside the house, tabouleh and greens, rice and fruit made way for a selection of desserts. Chocolate cake and a fruit-laden tart, tropical mousse and a pineapple cake with a single candle for the birthday girl.

I didn't understand the words to the birthday song, but I laughed and clapped as she blew out the candle and hugged her friends. I didn't understand much of the conversation, picking up every seventh or tenth word or so.

"Are you American?" asked a tall, beautiful girl in a very short skirt over long, lean legs. She had come to the States to train for the upcoming Olympic tryouts in rowing. She had won the Brazilian nationals once but been disqualified. She didn't know why, but I did not see her without a smile.

Others would translate for me or switch to English for my benefit. The Portuguese escaped me but I sat and listened. I struggled to understand.

I talked with a girl I had met at another party, a year earlier. I would plan to hear her sing backup to Lady Pcoq at Meze two weeks hence: a fusion of soul, jazz, funk, latin and spoken word. She left before the dancing, but I think she would have enjoyed it.

We danced to burn off the desserts, the mousse, the pineapple cake. We danced for the sake of dancing, for the music, for the beat. We danced into the chill, midsummer night, between the candles and the food, under orange-tinged smoke and a starry sky. We danced.


Tag: Friends Parties

When it rains

"We are now under a severe thunderstorm watch for all of the DC Metro area..." I stopped listening and drove. I knew it was going to rain. It felt like it was going to pour.

As for me, it was already raining, despite the sun in the sky. Life had battered me around a bit and I carried the physical, emotional and financial marks of a rough couple of days. Things just kept getting worse.

Bruises on my legs, arms and forehead. A tender nose. Sleepless nights (though, that might be attributed, in part, to the brilliant decision to build a fire in the fireplace in the middle of a hot summer's night) and long days at work.

The ominous weather fit my mood. Steamy and temperamental. Dark and stormy. Dangerous. Annoyingly inconvenient.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but I had already tried that and it didn't help. Life didn't get better. Metro breakdown. Blown tire. Potentially scary medical news. Ever-increasing workload. Ever-decreasing motivation. Something needed to change.

As was my wont, the harder life kicked, the nicer I was to people.

I practically skipped my way through the whole tire mess, joking and laughing. As for my health, I smiled at the doctor and thanked her for the news.

"It is a crappy day," I wrote to a friend. "I'm going to have to donate lots of money to charities, my hair to Locks of Love and adopt Wednesday's Child to get myself out of this. Bad karma. I must have done something really, really, really wrong."

I made a list of charities to which I might donate money – I had been asked by at least 13 in the past week and a half, giving to a fraction. I might make up the difference.

I mentally calculated the months since my last hair-chopping donation. 12. I probably had two or three to go, unless I wanted to shave my head. (That would depend on the rest of my week.)

I reviewed my email for volunteering opportunities and I made plans with friends.

"You'd better hurry up. It's gonna rain," warned a man on the corner, with gray stubble on a darkened cheek. He leaned into his broom and shook his head. We picked up the pace.

I let the soulful sound of the Wood Brothers wash over me, strumming and plucking and singing to Bob Dylan's tune.

Buckets of rain
Buckets of tears
Got all them buckets comin' out of my ears.

I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music.

John, of College Grad "Real" World, recently wrote of "Shower Power!" He wrote of hot showers and cold showers, and once, washing his hair in the rain, using the opportunity to clean himself up.

I thought of my current downpour. The thunderstorm watch. My luck and my mood.

Thunder only happens when it's raining
Players only love you when they're playing
Say... women... they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean... you'll know

It wouldn't rain forever.


Tag: Karma Rain

White wine. Red carpet.

Crystals glittered like diamonds overhead. I didn't need to look up. I knew they were there and I knew they were beautiful. Actually, that's why I looked.

Leaving the office, I noticed a crowd awaiting the Metro elevator. I decided to walk not to the escalator down the street but a mile or so to the next Metro stop. Somewhere mid-route, between talking to my brother, making plans for the weekend and arranging a predawn ride to the airport, and running into an old friend, I thought about seeing a show.

I boarded the train in Rosslyn and disembarked just one stop later, at Foggy Bottom, for a quick walk to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and a free performance on the Millennium Stage.

I worked there once, as an usher a million years ago when the Millennium Stage was a novel idea in anticipation of Y2K and I still get a thrill from the plush red carpets and big golden bust, the Hadelands and Lobmeyr and Orrefors crystal. Mirrors 58 feet high. The view of the Potomac.

Sometime mid-afternoon, I had checked out my links to local free events – Olssons, Politics and Prose, Busboys and Poets. I checked TicketPlace for cheap theater seats. I checked the Kennedy Center and found Bertell Knox Group, led "by veteran jazz drummer Bertell Knox, the quartet swings standards."

Honestly, I don't even like jazz. Not much. I enjoy a little Ellington, Basie and Davis, but I prefer more of an influence, an essence of jazz than the bebopping, wandering rhythm of brushes on a cymbal, a muted trumpet, rambling bass. Give me blues. Give me zydeco. Give me something a voice, a literal voice on a mic.

But I was tired. I would have just gone home and stewed in my own exhaustion, curled up on my couch with my laptop, the remote and BBC America. Drifting.

Bertell Knox wasn't there. A man named Percy Smith kept the beat and the quartet was actually a quintet of drums, trumpet, sax, piano and bass.

A man with a glass of red, red wine took the seat beside me.

"I was in the front now," he said. "That trumpet... You don't need a microphone up there."

I laughed as he rolled his eyes and stuck his fingers in his ears, smiling. We both turned to the stage.

There's something to be said for people doing what they love and doing it well. The gray hair on the stage, the etched faces – those men looked like they had stories to tell and I wanted to listen. To the muted trumpet and rambling bass. Brushes on a cymbal. A crooning sax. Jangling ivories. All of it. Duke Ellington's notes, their hearts.

A baby cried behind me. To my left, on the steps, a pair of women in saris, a mother with her infant children, a man and his preteen daughter, two young men, and a gaggle of high school girls crowded for a view. People came and went.

Next to me, the man with the red scribbled in his notebook as I scribbled in mine.

The songs stopped for a minute as the Music Performance Fund gave away scholarships to promising young musicians. A young woman in a skirt and an older man on behalf of his son accepted the checks from a union rep. I put down my pen and I put down my wine to clap. The girl twisted nervously and the father beamed proudly on stage.

"No evening is complete without a bossa nova," announced the leader, the saxophonist, as they launched into Blue Bossa.

The bald man in a suit, the man with a large golden ankh hanging from around his neck, the man with the trumpet stepped up to the mic, blasting us several rows back and the man beside me shoved bits of napkin into his ears.

In the front corner, stage left/house right, a woman danced. She lifted her sweatshirt-clad arms, twisting to the beat alone, a half grin lighting her downcast eyes.

After a half-hearted plug of a new CD, the quintet launched into Candy and I found myself smiling. I found myself in love with jazz. Maybe. Just a little bit.


Tag: Music Washington DC Kennedy Center

Similar to a shark, but slightly better

"I can understand why the review I read compared it to 'Napoleon Dynamite,'" my friend observed as we walked out of the theater. I kept laughing.

"That was awesome."

Granted, through most of the movie, people sat in awkward silence watching the same on the screen.

Me? I couldn't stop laughing. I actually rocked my chair with laughter – who knew that the seats at Gallery Place rocked? Beside me, my friends chortled, chuckled or tittered, as the case may be.

Eagle vs. Shark was absurdly funny.

A wry comedy that chronicles the quirky romance of two awkward misfits, Lily (Loren Horsley), a shy fast-food restaurant cashier, and her crush, Jarrod (Jemaine Clement, HBO’s One Night Stand: the Flight of the Conchords), an electronic store clerk. On the day Lily gets fired from her job at Meaty Boy, she musters up the courage to attend Jarrod’s annual “come as your favorite animal” costume party. The dressy affair sparks the beginnings of a romance as well as a small journey for the pair to Jarrod’s quiet hometown.

The reviews were mediocre, at best. It was slow and quirky, gawky and somewhat excruciating. I found it hilarious.

"The theater was quiet," I noted. "I couldn't stop laughing. Do you think I identified a little too closely with the characters?"

According to the website, I'm an eagle: I try to act cool, even though I know I'm a bit of a nerd. Watching the movie, I felt more like a shark.

Either way, I identified with the shy, awkward characters as they stumbled their way toward love.

There's someone for everyone...apparently.

This movie? Definitely not for everyone, but the sweet love story with killer tunes felt all right to me.

Bluesummer
by Phoenix Foundation

You're so careful
And you're so kind
Well I'm careless and I'm blind
Oh oh
But I never mean a bad word
Oh no
Well I only wanna see you smile

In my coat
Out of the cold
There's room enough too
Ah ooh ooh
That means you
Mmm mmm
I could never try
I could never try to bring you down

And if I've understood your rights
You've got the whole world on your shoulders

Baby that don't seem right

This is a chance
for a new romance
Summer's here, the sky's blue
Ah ooh ooh
I said I wanna be beside you
Oh oh
We can be unemployed together

And so I don't think that you're right
You can have the whole world
On its knees

Lean within me

Lean within me


Tag: Movies Eagle vs Shark

Not your typical Tuesday

I forgot to set the alarm. That never happens. The alarm in the window sill, the one on my phone, the second one on my phone – they're always set. They always sound. Always. In event of complete alarm failure, the toddlers upstairs generally rouse by 6:00, 6:30 at the latest, rumbling like a herd of elephants over my head.

I awoke, quietly stretching and slowly realized that the day had long since dawned. I looked toward the clock and realized that I couldn't read anything through the gauze curtains and without some sort of eyewear. Stumbling slightly, I lurched toward the window and swept the curtain aside: 7:51.

Given that the clock was somewhere between 20 and 40 minutes fast (I wasn't sure which), I wasn't as late as I originally thought. But I was late. Especially after getting up, playing on the computer and watching Matt Lauer interview the lovely princes of Wales. Eventually, I jumped in the shower and got my life together.

I dressed in girly clothes – good for work, good for after work plans. I slipped my feet into flip flops, heels into my bag and climbed into the Jeep for the rare morning drive. I had a doctor's appointment and my doctor's office wasn't even remotely Metro accessible. Not only that, I was late. Driving would shave a half hour from the commute and $15 from my wallet.

"I really miss the radio," I thought as I drove, enjoying Morning Edition. Suddenly, I hit a curb or a pothole or a blade of grass and my car shuddered, wobbled, stopped with the whole "forward movement" thing.

"Fudge," I thought. "I just blew out my tire."

I inched along Rock Creek Parkway, looking for a place to stop. I was next to the Lincoln and the morning traffic, while light, wasn't that light.

"Fudge."

I inched across the Memorial Bridge, limping on the rim with my hazards flashing and a scowl forming. I pulled onto the exit toward 50. The SUV next to me slowed to my pace.

"Just go around me," I muttered and jumped the curb into the grass. Reluctantly, I opened the door and circled the car to see smoke rising from my shredded tire, the car listing dangerously front and right. "Fudge."

I hopped back into the drivers' seat and thought for a second. I called my office but nobody answered. I dug through my glove compartment – basically bare due to the frequent break ins – and found an invoice for Mr. Tire.

"Hey, hi... I just blew out my tire and I don't know how to get my car to you," I chirped into my cell phone.

"I can tell you where we're located," offered the man on the other end of the line.

"I think I need a tow truck. I'm pretty sure I jacked up my car and I don't know who to call."

He gave a number and I called, cheerfully relaying the details of my car, my location, myself. "I'll send a truck out."

I called the office and left messages for coworkers. I sent a text message or two. I curled up, foot next to the steering wheel, seat tilted and started to read. I fought to ignore the strange looks from passing motorists. An hour or so later, a cop pulled up next to me.

"Are you OK?"

"I just blew out my tire," I grinned through the open window.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I'm just waiting for a tow truck."

"Do you have a spare?" he nodded toward the back of the Jeep and the full size spare, which was actually the tire from the front of the car that flattened last month. It had been patched and mounted to the back.

"Sure. I just don't know anything about changing tires. It's OK; I can wait for the tow truck."

It was a slow morning, though, and the officer stepped out of the car. I joined him in looking at the mangled, melted mess that had been my front tire.

"Nice." He opened the back and looked for a jack.

"Really, I can wait."

He kept looking, so I found the jack. I knew where it was. Honestly, I probably knew how to use it, too, but I wasn’t changing a tire in my wrap dress, off 50, during rush hour. He crawled around in front of my car. I told him that I'd offer to help but I didn't know a thing about cars. I said I'd wait; he jacked up my car, knowing full well as soon as he got it up that the truck would arrive. And it did.

The two men looked at me. I realized that I would have to decide between my knights in shining armor. Or tevlon. Or steel. The friendly officer lowered the car and tried to fish the jack back to the front. I leaned over to pick it up.

"I'll get that," he said, waving me away.

"No, it's OK. I'm just girly because of work."

"Me, too," he laughed. I realized that, thus far, my only experiences with Park Police consisted of one man trying to pick me up while looking for a gun and another jacking my car. They seemed pretty nice.

"Thank you so much," I gushed, wishing I could have tipped him or something. I felt bad picking the tow truck over him, but I'd called for the truck.

"Nice," offered the driver, viewing the damage. "You either blew it out or you drove really, really far on it."

He and the officer agreed that I really didn't have a choice in where I left the car and that it wasn't my fault. It was definitely the tire. (It might have been the wrap dress talking.)

After a few false starts (apparently, I popped the car into 4-wheel drive when I jumped the curb and left it there), we took off for the shop, chatting pleasantly about the weather, the commute, cab drivers who left their cars in the middle of the Memorial Bridge and expected tow truck drivers to replace their tires amidst rushing traffic.

I gave him directions as we talked, pointing him toward the shop. He didn't know where to put my car. He didn't think anyone could get very far if they tried to steal it; it wouldn’t be easy to move. We went inside to ask for help.

"I blew out my tire," I smiled to the man behind the counter.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"On the tow truck," I practically glowed. He looked at me strangely. I shrugged. "Not your typical Tuesday but it got me out of my morning meeting."


Tag: Jeep Blow out Tires

Metro malfunction

I paused in the door of my office, looking down at my feet. Wrong shoes. I glanced back at the desk, toward the ridiculously comfortable flip flops and shrugged. I was already late. I could walk the few blocks home in my heels.

The man in the elevator smiled as if he knew me.

"Monday's done," he said. "One down."

"I know, only four more to go," I responded inanely.

"So, it's supposed to cool down later this week?"

"Um, I think so." Do I look like a meteorologist? I cannot even spell meteorologist, but I did go a concert with that one. What was the show? Oh, and I wonder if he still lives by me. That was awkward. "It's crazy hot outside."

We chatted for 10 floors or so. He headed toward the north doors and I headed south.

"Have a good one!"

Completely inane, much like my life. I headed to the Metro, waited four minutes for an orange line train and found a seat.

"Excuse me!" the man next to me shouted as we approached Rosslyn. He lowered his voice as I stood, "Sorry about that."

I took the seat by the window and finished Songlines, going back and re-reading some of the phrases, rolling the words around in my mouth, a quote from Daughters of Copper Woman by Anne Cameron.

"There was a song for goin' to China and a song for goin' to Japan, a song for the big island and a song for the smaller one. All she had to know was the song and she knew where she was. To get back, she just sang the song in reverse..."

I closed the book with a smile, savoring the taste and the feel of the words, thinking of finding my way with a song, before digging in my pack for Isabel Allende. After a half dozen pages or so, I realized we were still in the tunnel between Rosslyn and not Rosslyn, under the Potomac and heading into the District.

"There's a malfunction on the train," announced the conductor to a chorus of grumbles.

"Dang, we pay all this money and nothing works." I turned to look at the old men behind me who probably paid $1.35 for the ride. I turned back to the book.

"I'm going to leave the cab now and look for the source of the malfunction. The train will be moving soon." He sounded awfully confident for a man who had to go and look for the broken bit. I wondered with a half thrill if we'd have to walk through the tunnels avoiding the dangerous third rail. Honestly, it was the last thing I wanted to do in my heels, late as I was. Tired. But it just sounded cool.

I imagined the story: The old men cantankerous and limping. The man next to me, nodding off. A pregnant woman. The camaraderie, the short tempers, the smell, the grease, the way I'd never look at the train the same again.

Eventually, we moved on, pulling slowly into Foggy Bottom.

"Attention passengers on the platform: Please let passengers exit the train. This train is out of service," the conductor said. "This train is out of service."

A collective groan arose from the hordes on the platform and the throngs on the train. We pushed our way to the doors as the man in the front seat looked around in confusion.

"Didn't you hear the man?"

"I was reading."

"This train is out of service."

The confused man held his ground for a minute or two before giving in and exiting the car. The platform was full of hot, tired-looking people. Working people. People who just wanted to get home. To dinner. To anywhere other than a Metro platform. I hesitated to stand at the edge of the platform, to cut before the people who waited but I had no place to go. I edged into the crowd, shouldering my backpack and apologizing profusely.

"If you don't get on this train, take the Stadium-Armory exit."

"Is there a game tonight?" I asked the woman beside me as we both looked up in panic.

"I think so," she sighed.

A Metro man in a bright green vest walked along the edge of the platform warning people to step back. He advised people to wait for the next train if they wouldn't fit on the first. He disappeared into the crowd as we pressed toward the doors.

I found my way onto the train, grabbing the rail overhead and juggling book and bag as I tried to find solid footing. I teetered in my high heels, the straps cutting into my swelling feet as the temperature rose and people pressed into every available space. I apologized repeatedly as I fought to stay upright with my bag in check.

MacPherson Square and Farragut West. For every person who left, more tried to board and I thought back to my crowded commute a week or so earlier: A delay at Eastern Market.

I noted an empty seat next to a rather large woman. She looked uncomfortable. I tried to put myself in her position, aboard a crowded train and riding a full seat for two. She tried to make herself smaller. I sat beside her with plenty of room to spare.

"How are you tonight?" I asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to smile away the tension in her shoulders and arms. "This is crazy, isn't it?"

She smiled and relaxed just a hair. I made way for her exit at Metro Center and lost myself to a window seat and A Portrait in Sepia. I worried that I wouldn't be able to make my way to the door, that I'd have to ride to the Stadium or Minnesota Avenue, but I didn't. I worried that I would be late, and I was. It didn't matter.

I read my book. I enjoyed the ride. My feet didn't suffer too much for wear.


Tag: Metro

Accident prone

"Oh, that's going to leave a mark," I said, rubbing my tender forehead. I could already feel a bump forming, swelling under my inquisitive fingers.

To the best of my knowledge, laundry ought not be a full-contact sport but about 30 seconds into the thing, I banged my head on the change tray. I knew it was there. It's always there. In the same place. But somehow I managed to connect forehead to metal tray as I leaned over to grab pillowcase of reds, ready to load the machine.

Sometime later, I managed to pop out my kneecap as I sat on the bench. One minute it was there, in the normal place; the next, it slid solidly to the left as the rest of my leg went right.

"Oh, ouch," I said and sat in stunned silence for a minute or two. "That hurt."

I massaged the knee and looked at my legs, a veritable roadmap of scars and bruises, scratches and cuts. At some point over the last four or five days, I had managed to walk into every chair, table and door frame in a tri-state area. I couldn't place a single one. They just appeared, multiplied, had bruise babies on my legs and arms.

I managed to mar my freshly painted toes 34 minutes after leaving the salon. Fortunately, I had picked a color I had at home. Unfortunately, I scratched up the repaint by the end of the night.

Generally, exhaustion makes me a little more likely to walk into walls and the kids upstairs are getting bigger and louder. I sleep very little. Too little for me. But the truth of the matter is that even with enough sleep, I would walk into walls. I am accident prone.

Accident prone
- adjective
Tending to have more accidents or mishaps than the average person.

Apparently, researchers are trying to determine if it's a personality trait. A team of British researchers have tied it to three distinct characteristics or the lack thereof.

Openness: This is the tendency to learn from experience and to be open to suggestions from others. But the Robertson team cautions that too much openness can increase accident risk.
Dependability: This is the tendency to be conscientious and socially responsible.
Agreeableness: This is the tendency not to be aggressive or self-centered.

Not exactly flattering findings. Not even applicable, but that might depend on who was asked. Another team, led by Dr G. C. Gauchard of the WHO Collaborative Centre in the Faculty of Medicine at the Henri Poincare University in Nancy, studied French rail workers.

The researchers also found that youth, inexperience on the job, dissatisfaction with the job (indicated by applying for a job transfer), having no safety training, having a sleep disorder, smoking, and getting little or no exercise were all related to suffering more accidental injuries. Surprisingly, there was another factor too: Not having a personal hobby (such as gardening).

Not exactly me, either, other than the sleep disorder.

Then again, it might be the hypermobile joints, loose joints, joints that move beyond the normal range with little effort.

Or common clumsiness.

If you find yourself being more clumsy than you normally are, it could simply be a symptom of fatigue, premenstrual syndrome or anxiety. But it also could be a warning sign of a stroke, multiple sclerosis or a tumor.

Well, that's just scary.

Fortunately, the clumsiness site offered simple advice for those of us who walk into walls.

Don't dwell on it.
Take a nap.
Take time to relax.
Exercise.
Imagine your worst nightmare.

"Many people walk on pins and needles so they avoid some imagined catastrophe. But actually imagining the worst-case scenario often takes the bite out of that fear of klutziness," Dr. Gersten says.

Not bad advice for avoiding the awkwardness, not to mention for life.


Tag: Accident prone Clumsiness Klutziness

Vitriol victim

Vitriol. Plain and simple. Hatred and rage spewed from this woman we barely knew, covered by a grin. The funny part was that we stood for it. We tried for a second or two to respond, but she didn't want to hear it and we were too far in the cups to make ourselves understood.

"I'm never going out in Adams Morgan again," I observed in hindsight, after getting up and changing clothes and before discovering, via my neighbors, that my keys were still in the front door. That and "I smell like vomit and I'm pretty sure I didn't throw up."

It was possible, though. The strength of the vitriol turned my stomach and made me leave early, inspired me to leave a man behind. A woman behind.

I don't know what happened. Normally, I would never leave a girl down, go home without my people. Somehow we separated and I left. I got in a cab and left. I paid my tab. I planned to go. I just didn't take my friend with me. (In my defense, I have a hazy memory of looking for her before I left but that might have been a dreamy projection.)

When we reconnected the following "morning" (read: early afternoon), she theorized that all went to pot when we separated to get away from the hate. She might have been right. It formed a defining moment in the evening, the break between "we're having fun" and "this sucks."

I didn't really talk to a boy with whom I had words to share. I shared far too few words with others and far too many with the girl who apparently hated me.

She didn't know me but for email from a former friend - edited, misconstrued and out of context - my writing, and two random encounters in as many years. She accused me of so many things that just weren't true, including using a man about whom I deeply cared.

She talked as if she knew me. She knew my name. She cited the two times we had met. She said she had my email address and reports of the wrongs I had done her forwarded by a girl who disliked me. As if these things defined me, gave her power over me.

She didn't doubt the validity of the email. She didn't doubt that I would use a man, her friend by most accounts. She didn't doubt that she was right.

I didn't understand her point. Was she telling me to leave the happy hour, that I wasn't welcome? Did she feel righteous in her indignation and desperate to share with me all of my faults? Did she want me to apologize? Did she simply want to tell me that she hated me?

Truth be told, in my own private email, I did mock the girl, out of jealousy, out of spite, out of a desire to please a friend. I mocked her because I didn't like her writing and I found her immensely, intensely mockable.

Mocking is never good, not even between friends and I did make a mistake in my choice of friends, trusting someone I ought not to have trusted. I was wrong. Honestly, I hadn't thought of it (or her) in well over a year.

We'd had exactly one conversation before that night, the girl and I. It lasted approximately 23 seconds. The second conversation, the vitriol, lasted much longer. I couldn't explain it. I couldn't understand it. It was just so... wrong. Her actions. Her assumptions. Grossly out of context and utterly fascinating but for the barbs, the attack on my person.

Such is life. Not everyone needs to like me. Not everyone will. I am only human and I have made mistakes. So have my friends. I have corrected some of my own, apologized for others and realized that I cannot carry the weight of the world or the mistakes of my friends. I could only live a life that I believed to be good.

"I exist as I am, that is enough." Walt Whitman's quote adorned my keyboard at work and wore a weary path through my heart and mind. Maybe someday I would believe it.

In the meantime, I would focus on the "we're having fun" part of the night and forget the rest.

Stop helping people

"Promise me you'll stop helping people," she called from across the road. I laughed and leaned out the window of my car.

"Do you realize how absurd that sounds?"

"I know, but..." she floundered for an explanation. "It's killing you."

I laughed. I denied death by kindness but I didn't have much of a scarred leg to stand on. I feared that my tender, swelling nose would spread into a black eye by morning. By the end of the weekend, my right arm would hang limp and useless at my side, aching under the weight of a sprain or strain or just plain overuse.

"I'm not dying. I'll be fine."

"You give too much."

Earlier in the evening, over coffee and dessert, she told me the same. I looked up in bewilderment.

"Do you ever feel that maybe you just go too far?" she asked. "You do too much to help people and you end up getting hurt in the process."

I shook my head and smiled in confusion.

"You thought this was book club," laughed a friend. "It's actually an intervention."

"I'm not going to stop helping people." Just because I took a fist to the nose. Twice.

I grew up in a religious family. I don't know the reference, but I know that there's something in the good book about not discussing charitable acts. One wouldn't want to be seen as bragging. It invalidates the good in the deed to take pride in it. So I don't talk about it, for the most part.

Talking is poor form. Doing, required.

I worried about my nose, though. The swelling. I didn't know how to explain the bruising and the black eye that I knew would follow. I thought about saying I walked into a wall. I thought about blaming my brother, my boyfriend, my pimp.

Strangely enough, I hesitated to mention volunteering but had no problem blaming a non-existent boyfriend or joking about prostitution. I just knew that nobody would buy it. The easiest explanation, as always, was the truth.

"I got backhanded while volunteering this morning."

An over-enthusiastic 12-year-old boy, a young man taller than me with the mental faculties of a small child, accidentally slapped me in his excitement. Then, he slapped me again to see my reaction.

"Are you OK?" asked the new girls.

"It hurts," I replied, tears burning and mingling with the chlorinated water. I pressed my hand to my nose and pulled it away wet. I didn't know if I would find pool water, snot or blood but my fingers were clean.

Over the next hour, I struggled to keep him afloat and guard my nose. The man who was supposed to help me preferred the smaller, splashing kids to our tall, almost-a-man child in a mellow mood who just wanted to float, spin and apparently slap.

I pulled my arm when he jumped from the stairs into the water. I didn't want him to hit his head. To hurt himself. He was, after all, just a child. I should have known better.

"Are you OK?" the girls asked again later, in the locker room.

"I'll be fine; it just hurt."

"We could hear it from across the pool when he hit you."

I cringed. What could I say?

Maybe it was the beatitudes: Blessed are the poor, the meek, those who mourn. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, the merciful and clean of heart. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Maybe it was first Corinthians, drilled into my head at every wedding I had attended for years.

Love is patient, Love is kind,
It does not envy, it does not boast,
It is not proud,
It is not rude,
It is not self-seeking,
It is not easily angered,
It keeps no record of wrongs.

Maybe it was just good, common sense.

"Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds."
- George Eliot

Whatever it was, I wouldn't stop volunteering. Helping others. That would be absurd.

Tag: Volunteering

Hair magic

My office has started to worry me. Strike that. My office building has started to worry me. The bathroom smells of home permanent.

Anyone who knew me between 1983 and 1988 or has seen a picture of my head from the same period (including the unfortunate photo hanging next to my brother's front door) knows my authority on the issue.

Home permanent solution. Thick crème dripping over tightly wound hair on thin plastic rods. Burning nose, eyes, and forehead, on occasion.

The smell hit me as I prepped for the commute home, a pungent reminder of bad hair days, weeks, months and years past. The white girl afro. Helmet head. A mushroom cloud of hair fixed hard and fast inches from my head in every direction. Aqua Net.

Of course, my hair was just icing on a dismally dressed cake: capris when short pants weren't cool. Matching tops. Tapered jeans with zippers at the bottom. Ridiculous raglan sweaters. Keds. Penny loafers. Slouch socks. Belted button downs with popped collars. Layered Ts. The works.

The scent, the burn, the bathroom took me back to years I'd long since blocked. I wondered about the source of the smell. I imagined a frustrated office worker hitting the Metro market downstairs for a bottle of cheap wine, a pack of smokes and a box of curl-inducing chemicals.

Would she perch on the edge of the sinks, dampening the purse she'd thrown close to the one on the end with its continuous drip and contemplating her reflection under harsh fluorescent lights?

Would she crouch on a lidless toilet waiting for the curls to set? The toilet in the first stall never quite flushed. The door to the third always stuck and required determined effort to open and close. The cushy, roomy handicapped stall remained empty but for the occasional change of clothes. That and the woman from HR who just seemed to prefer the extra space.

Would she lean into a sink, rinsing the chemical from springy curls? She could chose from a number of identical, conjoined basins. The drip, drip dripping one to the left or the water-spotted one in the middle. The little-used one to the right? All were too shallow for a proper wash and the water spewed forth with approximately 7.3 seconds of scalding force before a perpetuity of freezing drops.

What would follow? A blow out? A towel dry? In the office bathroom?

Ah, home permanent-scented bathroom, did you release a newly curled and coiffed professional into the workplace? Were you the home of some fine, hairy magic? Is this your way of competing with the elevators, the floor-skipping, mood-lit, shuddering elevators?

If only those walls could talk.


Tag: Work Perm

Our own quiet chaos

Chaos ruled in the funerary farce Death at a Funeral as everything that could go wrong did. From psychotropic drugs to a dead man flopping like a carp on the living room floor, the movie stepped to the edge of propriety and dove right off.

"I'm more worried about Uncle Alfie's sh*t in my mouth," shrugged a hypochondriac and rightly so after a stomach-turning bout of bathroom humor gone horribly, horribly awry. I actually covered my eyes and heaved for a second as the peals of laughter rang from the audience.

"A dysfunctional British family gathers for the patriarch's funeral. Tensions rise, old conflicts are uncovered and, when a man arrives saying he's the dead man's gay lover and threatens blackmail, drastic measures are taken and chaos ensues."

The chaos started long before the arrival of the larcenous lover. Actually, it didn't start at all and it wouldn't end. It was just there. They were family.

The movie reminded me that in just a few short weeks, a month or so, I would join my family in a trek Midwest for Grandma Mavis's 80th birthday. I in my kerchief and Ma in her cap… Or rather, my brother, my sister, three munchkins and I would board a flight to the land of 10,000 lakes where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking and all the children are above-average. With friends and family from around the country, we would celebrate our matriarch with a right proper fete.

At some point I'd cry.

Unlike the film, our chaos was quiet, invisible to the untrained eye, but nevertheless, it ran true and deep. We knew each other at the children we once were, the mistakes we made, the dreams we had. We knew each other better than anyone else in the world and we didn't knew each other at all. I was a caricature, a shadow of myself in my grandmother's house. We all were.

We'd drink too much and talk too much. We'd pop antidepressants and migraine meds like so much candy. I'd sleep late in a twin-sized bed with a thin blue spread, inadequate in any season. I'd sleep on the couch in the study. In the fireplace room. My allergy-laden eyes would swell as I laid my weary head upon pillows musty with dampness and disuse. Maybe we'd stay at Mom's farmhouse, sleeping in her stepchildren's beds, surrounded by their things.

I would beat Grandma Mavis at Boggle and turn green with envy as my sister and cousin bonded over marriage and motherhood. My cousin adored my sister; I idolized them both.

My brother would fix Grandma's computer. My aunt would banish everyone from the kitchen and complain that nobody helped cook or clean. I'd snag cigarettes from my Irish aunt, who "doesn't smoke," and sit on the patio late into the night chatting. I'd tell her about my love life. She'd tell me to get a clue.

My sister would chase her kids, still fearful of Grandpa's admonishments from our own childhood to stay off the grass. Feet off the couch. Toys in the storage room. We would remain kugel-free because Grandpa was the only one who could make it, even though he tried to teach us all at one point or another.

My mom would bake cinnamon rolls and something with strawberries, neither of which I'd eat. She would feel bad, and I would feel bad. I'd eat them anyway, wondering all the while why she couldn't remember that I didn't like cinnamon rolls and strawberries, wondering why I didn't just eat them in the first place to make her happy.

We would chatter over and under and at one another, desperate to please, to share, to understand. We'd all listen but nobody would really hear.

My brother and I would fight. My sister and mom. My aunts. My grandmother would go out and sit in the car at some point, not going anywhere, just sitting. Alone. In the car.

We would push each others' buttons as only family can do and we would cry when we left. Every one of us. Nobody would want to go first. Nobody would want to be last.

"Visit soon," we'd cry. "We must do this again."

But in the end, nobody would visit. We'd lose touch.

I was the worst at communication and the best at traveling. Visiting. Unfortunately, though, the trips grew sparse, the big family get-togethers. We'd all grown up, grown apart, covering the country from Washington DC to Washington state. Generally, a member or two lived in another country. We got together for the occasional birthday. Graduation. More for the weddings and blessedly few funerals.

No larcenous lovers. No hallucinogenics. No inappropriate flirting or naked man on the roof. Our chaos won't end with a dead man on the living room floor, but it would be there. Subtle. Quiet. Chaos.


Tag: Movies Family Death At A Funeral

Tiny Ninja Theater

This week, the six-month-long Shakespeare in Washington draws to a close at the Kennedy Center with riveting, action (figure)-packed performances by the Tiny Ninja Theater. A two-show run of Romeo and Juliet starts tonight, following on the cast plastic heels of a comparable run of Macbeth.

It was, in a word, fantastic.

"I'm leaving work now," I announced at 4:45. "I'm going to watch Tiny Ninja Theater."

With lifted brow and cocked head, my coworker stared.

"It's tiny little plastic figurines performing Shakespeare," I explained. "Macbeth. Romeo and Juliet starts tomorrow."

More than 60 arts organizations participated in the event, the Shakespeare festival, offering more than 100 presentations focusing on the work of the Bard.

"I think I'd be more interested in Romeo and Juliet," my officemate offered.

"I know, but there's something about Macbeth," I replied. "Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still."

She looked rather doubtful.

"Lady Macbeth? The porter? 'Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key'?"

I shrugged, shouldered my bag and bid a fond farewell. I stopped in the office next door to make sure that we were good on our workload.

"I'm going then. Tiny Ninja Theater. Macbeth." Peals of laughter. "It's those little… things… that you get from bubble gum machines. Those thing that come in plastic bubbles?"

"Well, you have fun."

I walked out the door and down the hall only to return a second later.

"It's stars Mrs. Smile as Lady Macbeth."

As I later discovered, one hasn't lived until she's seen a grown man bobbing a two-inch tall yellow smiley-face figure and intoning in a high-pitched, Lady Macbeth sort of voice, act five, scene one.

"Out, damned spot! Out, I say! – One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't. – Hell is murky! – Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? – Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him."

The next best thing might be Chris Head musing, "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun." With luck and creative scheduling, I might find out.

I made my way to the Millennium Stage late and damp, having walked in heat and rain from Arlington Courthouse to the Kennedy Center. I found a seat on the steps outside the Concert Hall, sitting cross legged and barefoot on the worn red carpet. I stretched my dress over my knees and joined hundreds in watching 40 minutes of play action fun.

It was easy to envision how the project started. A quarter and a vending machine. A spot of boredom and a plastic figurine. A monologue. A soliloquy. A light bulb.

"Hey, that kind of works."

Hundreds of figurines and eight years later, we have Shakespeare: a touring production from a New York City-based company.

The show earned laughs from comic timing rather than contempt of the medium. It was simply absurd and utterly delightful.

"Tiny Ninja Theater presents Romeo & Juliet" can be seen Wednesday, June 13 and Thursday, June 14 at 6 p.m. on the Millennium Stage in the Grand Foyer of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. All performances are free and open to the public - no ticket required.

The show will be video projected for the benefit of the audience. In addition, the video will be streamed live on the internet.


Tag: Shakespeare Performing Arts Kennedy Center

What's going on?

Blaring from my speakers, the 4 Non Blondes took me back to college days. Without clients or my officemate, I cranked the music and sang along. Queries ran as I sat for a minute or two crooning and remembering.

25 years of my life and still
I'm trying to get up that great big hill of hope
for a destination

The song made me think of Dan and Stacy, of their wedding. Brathaus bartenders and bouncers dancing as if they just didn't care. The girl, the angry bartender, who seemed to hate me through four years of college and I shared a table at the reception. For the life of me, I couldn't remember why I thought she didn't like me.

I realized quickly when I knew I should
that the world was made up of this brotherhood of man
for whatever that means

Over my shoulder, workmen cut a hole into a wall, pounding and sawing, sawing and pounding, driving pain into my sleepy, Monday morning muddled mind. As they finished and removed a door-sized block of drywall, as they moved into the room beyond, a couple of managers stood with steaming mugs of coffee and contemplated the hole.

"Do you think they're going to be done by 10?"

"Yeah... No."

I compared staffing files from three different sources, digging, running, changing and rerunning my queries until I figured out how to recreate and refine the results I needed. I set the queries to running and got up for a cup of tea, some cottage cheese, a chance to stretch, and I walked the maze of corridors to the breakroom. I passed empty offices. I passed coworkers and friends with faces lit by the dull blue glow of monitors.

The construction took out our phone lines and network. By design, my computers still worked and my team worked offline on our own private switch, linked to each other if not the world at large.

Other than the construction, it was a perfectly normal Monday morning. No phone calls. No internet. Little connectivity. But normal. Coffee and conversation. Complaints about contracts. Movie reviews around the water cooler. I changed into heels after chatting up the owner of the company in a pair of flip flops. He didn't seem to care.

"Hey," I called, ducking my head into my boss's office. "Did you hear that Mark F. died?"

"What? Who is that?"

I explained the connection, the history. I gave her the name of another contracting company that supported the same group of clients.

"Apparently he'd been battling cancer for quite some time," I said. "I think he was just, like, 47."

"I am too young for this," she replied. She was right.

When I found out, when I got the email, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. For all I knew he was still working on a project we both supported. I knew he'd been sick but not that sick. I was glad that I hadn't heard from him in a while; he was mean.

If I had known, I might have been nicer. I might have ignored the condescension, the swearing, the blame he laid in every email. I might have done more to make his job easier. I could have... I would have... I should have... I didn't know.

Over the past couple years, I realized that I was growing up. Grown up. A couple months earlier, I received an email about another man from work. We had traveled together on a project a lifetime ago. He retired a few years back to spend more time with his ailing wife. Eventually, word found its way to me that they had both passed.

I cried a little in my office. He was older, a retiree; it wasn't completely unexpected. I hadn't talked to him in years but I remembered his boyish grin. The toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Stories of his rebel youth and motorcycle days in Pittsburgh, getting into trouble, getting into fights. He had slowed down, mellowed, spending time with his wife, building models for himself and his grandchildren.

Coworkers weren't supposed to die nor were clients or teammates. It was decidedly unprofessional. No matter how carefully crafted the message, death shouldn't be announced via email. Nestled there between a sale at eBags and a request for updated charts rested a message I didn't know how to file. I didn't know how to react.

It was just a job, right?

I needed to get back to the queries, the coffee, the water cooler conversation. I needed to work. I needed to breathe.

I needed the music and tuneless singing. I needed to remember the friends from college, dancing like nobody cared. I needed the screensaver of places I'd been, of Istanbul and London, New Orleans an