cinnamon orchid

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K

2005-09-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

2005-05-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

You'd think...
...that it would be soothing to wake up to a classical music radio station. It's not. Classical music has no volume control; it's either blaring and bombastic or whispery quiet. You try to set the volume appropriately when you go to sleep but inevitably you end up jumping out of your skin at 7:15a.m. along with William Tell or your sleep through the alarm entirely to the sotto voce of Cavaleria Rusticana. Or you wake up to the obnoxiously un-soothing voice of the classical music DJs who couldn't be more condescending.

You wish...
...that you could have more times in your life when you could go swimming outside in a lake at dusk right at the moment when the air temperature changes so the air is cooler than the water and you're the closest you'll ever get to perfect homeostasis.

You'll wonder why...
...you decided to take kayaking lessons that necessitate swimming in the canal. Yeah, that's right, I swam in the canal. I'm reasonably confident that I now have a) an alien growing inside my chest, b) a budding third and possibly fourth nipple or c) the ability to glow in the dark. That said, I drank DC tap water for a good solid six years or so and seem to be fine. Or am I...

You speculate...
...that people would be just a little bit nicer to each other if they all had to listen to the opening strains of You Can't Always Get What You Want at the start of each morning.

You can't explain...
...your recent infatuation with R&B. I can't stop listening to that Mario song Let Me Love You. Pass the Courvoisier.

You can't wait...
...for the day when you stop being your jobs bitch.

Life in the fast lane

2005-05-16T21:35:00.000-07:00

I: at the Comfort Inn in Pittsburgh, Kansas. The carpet: strangely sticky. How does a carpet, that otherwise does not appear to have any sort of substance stuck on it, be sticky? The bathroom: handicap accessible (flashback to senior year of college), meaning that there is no real boundary between the shower and the rest of the bathroom floor. There is, however, a lovely little seat that I tried to sit on in the shower that nearly broke my hip. I also forgot that the shower would shoot directly out into the middle of the bathroom floor once I turned it on. The bathroom floor: very, very wet, and most likely treacherous in three hours when I wake up to pee and forget earlier floor-soaking escapades. The "gym": cleaner than expected, points won. The treadmill: broken, points lost. Number of caffeinated beverages consumed today: 4 (which is alot for me). Number of bloody noses endured today: 1, Starbucks, Kansas City airport. Why can't airplanes put humidifiers on board? Is the technology honestly not up to snuff?

In other news, what in the world have I gotten myself into?

Standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, such a fine sight to see

2005-04-25T07:36:00.000-07:00

Last week, vacation, much of it a blur, but here are the highlights:

UNM Hospital Eye Clinic, Albuquerque, NM: Meanest doctor ever. May he rot in hell.

Water aerobics at the YMCA, Albuquerque, NM: My mother, me, and a pool full of octagenarians. The class? Taught by a man best described as the Navajo incarnation of Buddha himself, his breasts bouncing gently as the pool water lapped against his massive beach ball belly, leading his flock through kicks and twirls as the afternoon sun streamed through the vent shafts above. An oddly peaceful experience, I feel enlightened.

Grand Canyon, AZ: Europe can take it's fancy art and aarchitecture, its bars, its temples, and its massage parlors and shove it. No one does natural beauty like we do.

Albuquerque, NM: All the authentic Mexican food I can eat. I'm still trying to shake the last of a mean cheese hangover.

Hawk's Cay Resort, Duck Key, FL: The pina coladas weak, the siblings spoiled, and the smell of sulfur that won't be denied. This is how we are with family.

The Palms Hotel, South Beach, Miami, FL: No conditioner provided, what to do? Try some suntann oil. Result? A greasy head of hair that defies all conventional cleaning and styling products, and continues to plague.

Collins Avenue, South Beach, Miami, FL: A rash to rival all rashes. Walking progress halted immediately, but not before a homeless woman dropped trou and pissed all over the sidewalk directly in front of us. Did not see that one coming.

Nemo, South Beach, Miami, FL: Bad mojitos, terrific dinner. Few things in life rival a crusty bread dipped in a steaming bowl of mussles in a garlicky tomato broth. Parked illegally, no ticket.

Nikki Beach Cafe, South Beach, Miami, FL: Brunch on the beach, under palm trees, sand between the toes. A huevos rancheros frittata, challah french toast, and a mean basket of pastries. Possibly the highlight of the trip. Second instance of illegal parking, still no ticket.

Miami Convention and Visitor Center, Miami, FL: Unlocateable. WORST TOURIST CENTER EVER.

Miami Sequarium, Miami, FL:$25 admission. WORST AQUARIUM EVER.

The Biltmore Hotel, Coral Gables, Miami, FL: Beautiful. Why the hell didn't we stay there? Oh right, it's the Biltmore.

Sunset Place Shopping Mall, Coral Gables, Miami, FL: Dejected, and still with hours to kill before our flight, we surrender ourselves to the sanctuary of the movie theater to see The Interpreter. Sean Penn? Unable to overact, and thus terrible. Floor? Stickiest movie theater floor EVER.

Can we go home already?

Dulles International Airport, VA: We, shorts and flipflops. Weather? Cold and windy. Car? Possibly located in the blue lot. Possibly in the purple lot. A gamble if ever we've taken one. Thankfully it paid off.

And by the way, I did stand ona corner in Winslow, Arizona, and it was indeed a fine sight to see.

These are the days of the endless dancing, the true romancing

2005-04-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

This is possibly the best time of the year to be in DC. The weather is stunning and the city reigns triumphant in its springtime majesty and splendor.

That said, I hate everything.

1) The tourists. The wintertime months of rain and frozen slush kept you away, but now you're back, your fanny packs bigger and better than ever, and arms legs and everything else akimbo just to get in my way. (We should use "akimbo" MUCH more frequently than is currently done.) The metro, the sidewalk in front of my office, the cab I wanted to hail. Great to see the seat of our nation's government, isn't it? Well, the government is big and corrupt and it doesn't care about you and your problems, so be gone with you.

2) The cherry blossoms. When are the countries of Asia going to give us something useful? Best I can tell, all we've gotten are fat lazy panda bears who, despite getting to watch porn all day long, refuse to mate and produce an heir, and cherry blossoms trees, those finicky bastards that just LOVE to blossom at any time except the stupid festival in their honor, and drive allergy sufferers haywire. Thanks for those, really. How about some free DVD players? And maybe a few hundred thousand people to drive rickshaws? I could definitely use more rickshaws. To cart all those tourists around and get them off the metro.

3) Metro sweats. Heightened by the presence of fat tourists, this lovely little inconvenience is also brought on with the onset of nice weather. I don't begrudge the warmth of the sun on my shoulders as I head off towards another day toiling under the fluorescent lights of my office, but I do begrudge the little dribble of sweat that starts to run down my back somewhere between Courthouse and Rosslyn. Come august, it's a veritable river, and I need a second shower by the time I get to work.

4) Pale gams. Metrosweats can be somewhat avoided by wearing skirts, as they promote positive air circulation. That said, skirts come with a problem of their own: my pale, pale legs. Homeless men take a break from their panhandling to laugh at me/avert their eyes lest I blind them. I hear that pale is the new black. Well that would be fantastic were it not for the fact that in addition to being pale, I'm splotchy. Of all that I could have inherited from my ancestors, fiery red hair, freckled cheeks, doe green eyes, I got splotchy pale skin. Any efforts to tan said skin increasingly result in immediate sunburning. Yeah that's right, all that damage you all have done to the Ozone layer with your aerosol hairspray (I'm looking at you, Steve-o), it all comes back to me.

5) Cupcakes. You haunt my dreams. I'm powerless to resist your charms. Today, I ate one nearly the size of my head, and have been feebly trying to stave off a diabetic coma ever since. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

From your lips she drew the hallelulah...

2005-02-23T12:09:00.000-08:00

Things Of Which I Currently Can't Get Enough:

1) Reading other people's blogs while not writing my own.
2) Charleston: The perfect blend of friendship, delightful delectables, and a faint whisper of racism. Ahhhhh...the South.
3) The Daily Show: Honestly, I would give Jon Stewart a kidney if he asked. No, I'd give him two, and then I'd go roof someone and give him their two as well. When the Daily Show is a rerun, it's like a small piece of me dies. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I feel totally unfulfilled. I can no longer absorb news from anywhere else. Except for Bill Hemmer. He's dreamy.
4) Fitting things in my car: Skis. Nightstands. Goats. 1000 pounds of cashews. You.
5) Risotto: The hushed awe when you mention that you prepared a successful one. The smell wafting through the wretched halls of your dorm-like apartment building.
6) Expensive skin products: They never work. Yet I continue to buy more, spend more. Most recent purchase baited me with catchy packaging that includes the word "Apothecary" on the front. Apothecaries know their stuff. This could be the one.
7) Mr. Brightside by the Killers: So 80s, so heroin chic, so disaffected adulthood.
8) Edamame: So hairy. So full of nutrition. Soon, I'll start having you for breakfast.
9) The Sea of Okhotsk: The double K. Gets me every time.

Things Of Which I Currently Can Get Enough:
1) I-95: You take without giving. We're in a big big fight.

I wanna touch you all over

2005-02-07T19:02:00.000-08:00

Hello from the snowy peaks of Park City. I interrupt my blogging slumber to bring what I hope is an entertaining entry for you. The vacation is going swimmingly; the skiing is awesome (8 inches of fresh powder today), the hotel is fantastic, we end each day in the heated outdoor pool being served frosty beers by an adorable Aussie waiter...what more can you ask for? I thought to myself, "Self, what more can you do to make this vacation memorable?" I decided to get a massage. The first ever in my life. A stranger to all things decadent, I figured this was the moment to go for the gold and indulge myself.

I am a terrible candidate for a massage.

Here's why. (Reasons given in ascending order of contribution to this blog entry.) P.S. This is no offense to you Linda, really, I'm not sure you could have done anything any better than you did.

1) I can't relax. I am a big ball of tension all the time. Always looking, always judging, always worrying. You would think that someone like me would be a great candidate for a massage. Isn't that what massages are supposed to do? Relax you? Thus brings up the terrible paradox. I need the massage to relax, yet while I am in the massage, I can't relax. Why can't I relax? Read on.

2) I am too self-conscious. This manifests itself in two ways. I keep wondering through the entire thing what the masseuse thinks of me. I mean, honestly, she must see ten asses a day. Can you blame me for wondering how mine compares as she works my blubber around? Any self-respecting twenty something female would naturally feel the same way. Second, I am too self conscious to tell her when I want her to do something different, because I am afraid that little old me can't possibly know as much as she does about what's good for my achy muscles. I feel too self-conscious, in fact, to tell her that the hot stones she is currently using to work on my quad, while soothing and therapeutic, is in fact singing my leg hair.

3) I can't help but want to laugh at inappropriate times. This is the blogger's curse. Always on the lookout for something funny to write about, yet when said funny thing is encountered, you think about what you will later write, and laugh at it, failing to remember that you are still involved in the situation where others involved may not appreciate being laughed at for the sake of the five people who read your blog. A massage is rife with opportunity. You're naked and vulnerable. There's weirdo music playing that could be construed as easy listening K-lite 104.7 or, at times, the lead in to a porno. There's the fact that you end the massage as the human equivalent of a greased monkey. Towards the end, I was afraid of sliding off the table, out the door, down the hall, and into the cold, cold night. I still can't manage a door handle.

Perhaps the life of luxury just isn't for me...

The Agony of Defeat

2005-01-20T08:47:00.000-08:00

Today is officially going down as the WORST DAY EVER

Besides the obvious...
3:32 a.m.: Bizarre dream, restless sleep, cranky me.

7:30 a.m.: Attempt to get to work early to avoid tourist traffic, thwarted by having to wait 8 minutes for a train. 8 minutes! At 7:30a.m.! I didn't wake up early for this! Naturally, the train that finally arrives, crowded, cantankerous, and OH SO MUCH SPACE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CAR. A pox on those bottleneckers and their children, and their children's children...
(In other news, I've invented a new sport. It's called "murfing." Also: Metro surfing. You get onto a really crowded train where you are forced to stand, squished in a crowd of people, any number of whom are touching you in places you'd rather they didn't, and, being unable to grab a railing of any sort, are forced to sway in time to the braking and acceleration of the train and try not to fall down or cause a human avalanche, when, just for kicks, the diver brings the trian to a screeching halt between Rosslyn and Foggy Bottom cause he thinks it's funny. Extra points for yelling "cowabunga" or singing the wipeout theme.)

8:02 a.m.: Seek coffee from Starbucks stand in the Westin Hotel near my office, am greeted by a line 15 deep, which has nearly overwhelmed the sweet little asian woman who operates the stand, of fat midwesterners with circus clown makeup. Are you kidding?

8:04 a.m.: Nearly run over by the Four Horsemen as I attempt to cross M Street. As if the snow yesterday weren't omen enough...

11:30 a.m.: After a few hours of genuinely productive labor, I decide to reward myself with a trip to Starbucks to write early morning coffee wrongs. Armed with my Starbucks card and an equally intrepd coworker, I embark. I get to said coffee shop, I purchase said coffee, and because Starbucks is an evil yet irresistible empire, I am given a "sample" of their new "drinking chocolate"(gateway drug). I don't know how in the world Starbucks got away with making it socially acceptable to drink liquid fudge, I think it has something to do with the dainty little cup and sleek black lid they serve it in, as well as its fancy name Chantico (named for the Aztec goddess of hearth and fire, thank you barista!). Anyway, at this point, I'm starting to feel pretty good, so good, in fact, that I hope to bring my sample of Chantico back to work and share (hook)it with some coworkers. I reach my building. I try to access my ID to get past the security guard while precariously balancing my wee Chantico atop my latte. I have almost completed this delicate maneuver, when I spill the Chantico (crack) down the front of my coat, all over my ID, and in a nice chocolately puddle on the carpet in the main lobby of my building.

WORST DAY EVER.

Another Day Older and Deeper in Debt

2005-01-05T06:07:00.000-08:00

What's sporty and silver and goes well with Conchita?

I'll give you a hint...

zoom ZOOM zoom...

Yes, it's true.

I am now $14, 078 dollars more in debt than I was at this time yesterday, but I've got a sweet new ride to show for it.

I present to you, the Silver Bullet.

It was everything I dreamed it would be.

First song heard in the dealership after agreeing to buy the car: Dire Straits, So Far Away

First song heard in first drive of car: Pink Floyd, Money (ironic, no?)

It's like she knows me already.

Who needs a ride?

Old Anxiety

2005-01-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

That was what I always thought the name of the New Year's song was. I also thought the line of Bobby Brown's immortal "My Prerogative" that goes "strange relationships really get you down" was "strange awaiting ships really get you now." Amazing what blows your mind when you are twelve.

New Year's is a stupid holiday. Here's why:

1) False Hope: Both that the night itself will be just the best night ever and that the year ahead will be categorically better. I think it's safe to say after a solid 24 some years on the planet, that the year ahead is never better, only different, sometimes pleasantly so, sometimes not. What's worse is that even people with no business feeling optimistic about the new year are offered that glimmer of hope. I reference you to all of the homeless people in DC and surrounding areas wearing party hats and blowing kazoos. (Sidebar: There aren't nearly enough master kazoo players in the world. ) Chances are that if you are homeless today, you will continue to be so in the new yeaar, and probably have some more lice, hangovers and maybe if you're lucky, a heroin OD to look forward to. But your hat is really cute.

2) Contingency Plans: New Year's Eve is the holiday equivalent of the housing lottery in college. Everyone makes fifteen different tentative plans while refusing to actually committ to any of them. Before you know it, you've rented out your apartment complex's "entertainment" room for $700, with nothing to show for it. Good thing I didn't do that.

3) Danger: Why are Americans so stinkin arrogant? I don't know if anyone has noticed, but a vast majority of the rest of the world HATES us. Forget the terrorists, I'm certain that the French and the Russians are busy plotting our downfall as we speak. Yet, nevertheless, we insist on packing a gazillion people into Times Square on NYE all to watch a giant GE commercial fall down on top of some numbers. RIDICULOUS. We may as well paint a big bullseye via satellite so all the SAMs know right where to go. God forbid we lose New Jersey.

In other news, 2005 began for me with my first ever trip to a car dealership to procure myself a vehicle. It was every bit as amusing as I hoped it would be. My friendly sales associate, Kyun, and the Schmoops and I spent a pleasurable few hours at Rosenthal Mazda of Arlington. We bargained, insulted each others' houses and families, and the like. I've got an offer of $17, 400 on the table before T, T, T. I'm currently shopping it around, becasue as everyone knows, you gotta walk away. Chances look good that I'll be independently mobile by the end of the week.

She Giveth and She Taketh Away (Que Viva Conchita!)

2004-12-22T09:36:00.000-08:00

Already, she has proven herself to be a worthy adversary.

Evidence:
In her first two days out, she is to Gym Stalker what garlic is to vampires. You can't approach someone who is listening to music with headphones on. You just can't. It's one of the few immutable laws of social interaction.

In her first expedition to work with me, she shuffled immediately to "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard." Who knew that was such a fantastic song to listen to on the metro in the morning?

She did, also, however, let me know who's boss. I was distracted by her sassy green exterior as I tried to pass through the metro gates with my Smartrip card. As a result, I missed the target, and the gates promptly boxed me out, nearly crushing my pelvis.

More to come on my aventuras with Conchita...

Ode to a Metrobus driver

2004-12-17T10:25:00.000-08:00

Whenever I find myself without anything witty or creative to blog about, whenever the little hamster in my head stops moving the wheel, and curls up for a long winter's nap, I always know I can count on the bus for at least a few morsels of entertainment.

Last night: 38B from Georgetown to Rosslyn, Rosslyn metro stop.

I only need to go one stop past the mtero, and I contemplated just getting off there, but my feet were so tired. So tired! And so I sat.

On come a middle-aged black man, with a giant water bottle strapped harness-style to his right thigh. He sits down next to me, starts to gently rock.

No problems, I've seen worse.

The bus driver suddenly grows skeptical of the transfer he was flashed moments before, and requests the man's presence once again at the front of the bus.

He walks to the front, a green wave of stench floating lazily behind, and proceeds to start yelling, about a foot from the dirvers ear,"THIS IS MY BUS! THIS IS MY BUS! THIS IS MY BUS! YOU WORK FOR ME! YOU WORK FOR ME! YOU WORK THIS IS MY BUS! THIS IS MY BUS!"

Now, I've had my share of frustrations with bus drivers before. The blatant lack of knowledge of a designated route, the passing by stops full of stranded commuters, the occasional not-so-passive racism, the last-minute braking...the list goes on. Despite all of that, at the end of the day, the guy probably just wants to do his job. He doesn't want to be insulted by every raving insane asylum reject on the streets of DC. He doesn't want to arbitrate Starbucks-fights among the well-to-do. He doesn't want to accidentally shave off the rear-view mirror of a double-parked accord on Wisconsin Avenue. Scratch that, sometimes he does.

There's no creative ending to the story, other than to say that thankfully, my stop was next, and I didn't have to stick around to find out what exactly HE does with HIS BUS.

But Mr. Metrobus Driver, I salute thee.

Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo...Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo...

2004-12-13T07:07:00.000-08:00

I thought it would be fun to recap the past week's events in the style of Jeopardy. Won't you play along?

Things That Smell Like Pee for $200
-Who is the old lady sitting on the bus in front of me last Wednesday night? (Don't know, but she could be of former Gtown ER dead lady fame...I definitely didn't see her move.)

Things That Might Soon Smell Like Pee for $600
-Who is the guy next to me on the elevator this morning? (It's Monday morning and the guy wreaks of bad scotch, like it's oozing out of his pores. Either he had a real wild weekend or those long hours at William Cutler Pickering Hale and Dorr have really gotten to him; regardless, he'll piss himself by 4 p.m., guaranteed.)

Yoga Breakthroughs for $200: DAILY DOUBLE!
-What is that had by yours truly last Wednesday night (Before the pee-filled bus ride home; I finally got my knees into my armpits! Trust me, it was hot.)

Words That Make Your Tummy Hurt for $1000
-Rancid. (Ick. )

Stores Where You Are Least Likely to Have a Positive Checkout Experience for $800
-What is CVS? (If you can count on nothing in these dark times, count on the employees of CVS to make your day infinitely worse. I apologize if I sound elitist, but honestly, it's as though they actually seek out the slowest individuals who don't have a serious visible handicap to work the counter. This morning, a man cut in front of me in line and tried to return a newspaper. The sales clerk was baffled as to how to handle the situation, and employed the speak-progressively-louder-tactic to try to understand the situation. I'll demonstrate:

Crazy Man: I'd like to return this newspaper.
Sales Clerk: You want to do what?
Crazy Man: I'd like to return this newspaper.
Sales Clerk: You want to do what?
Crazy Man: I'd like to return this newspaper.
Sales Clerk: You want to do what?

You can imagine where it goes from there, and it doesn't involve him fixing the cable.)

On similar theme:
Things That Annoy the Bejesus Out of You and Make Your Neck Veins Pop Out for $400
-What is when sales clerks hand you your change, bills and coins, and your receipt all into you hand at the same time? (Why must they do this????? I can't negotiate all that stuff in one hand, while trying to open my wallet, while trying to pick up my bag, while trying to get out of line so that the other man who smells like pee behind me will stop yelling! I fnayone has a proven tactic to negotiate these tricky waters, I'd love to hear it. Please help stop the madness!)

FINAL JEOPARDY:
Things You Never Want to See Again in Front of The Salvation Army Building on Pennsylvania Avenue

Wager: The Whole Shootin Match
What is a homeless man jerking off? (Double ick. )

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2004-12-01T07:42:00.000-08:00

You probably think I'm talking about Christmas. I'm not. Well, sort of. I am indeed referring to this delightful time of year that happens to coincide with that string of days between Thanksgiving and December 25. Whether you like it or not, people are just happier and more festive this time of year, with some exceptions, whom we shall refer to as "scrooge". Some people are happier than others. The happiest people of all, in my opinion, are the poeple in charge of putting out free samples at Fresh Fields. Free sample deliciousness abounds at Fresh Fields year-round. But for some reason, during the holidays, you can tell that the free sample oompa-loompa-esque workers at Fresh Fields put an extra bounce in their step, an extra twinkle in their eye, and an extra helping of tastiness in that little paper dish for all to enjoy.

Top Ten Free Samples at Fresh Fields
10. The entire deli counter: It is your proverbial oyster. Everything there for the taking, from a heaping spoonful of curried chicken salad to homestyle mashed potatoes to the chicken caesar pasta salad we all know and love so well. I've never felt so free.

9. The mint chocolate oreos: These only come out every once in a while, but when they do, stopping to twist an oreo (no matter that it is gluten free and vegan) and dip it into some Horizon organic milk is like stopping to relive a sliver of your childhood right there in the grocery store.

8. Vegetable stir fry: Even if you don't like vegetables, what could be better than walking into the grocery store and having the delicious smell of garlic and soy sauce coated snow peas greet you as you begin your shopping experience? Hunanpekingyourfoodishere.

7. Chips and Salsa: Nana's Cocina, te digo gracias. This entry has more to do with the location than anything else, the chips are usually stale and there often isn't much salsa left. But it's exactly the pick me up you need after you've struggled through vegetables, sea food, meat, and the dreaded grain aisle.

6. Lobster bisque: Such a delicacy! And it's just there, ripe for the picking. Nothing low class about my grocery store.

5. Spiced nuts: A definite holiday delicacy, not to missed as you round the corner through the cheeses. Crunchy pecans covered in butter and sugar? No one will notice if you take an extra cup...or four....promise.

4. Pineapple: What mysetery of international trade is this? Fresh, ripe and juicy pineapple chunks in this wintry economic climate? We few, we fortunate few...

3. Carving station: What is this? The holiday buffet at HoJo's? No, friend, it's just your excessively friendly meat department worker ready to carve off a slice of roast beef for you to feast upon as you consider the merits of the sage and apple chicken sausage versus the spicy italian. (Get them both! And eat them raw! You know you want to...)

2. Honey butter: Under NO circumstance should you EVER even THINK about waiting until NO ONE is looking and taking the DESIGNATED honey butter knife, scooping up a SCANDALOUS amount of honey butter onto it while BLATANTLY DISREGARDING the pita bits immediately to your right, and placing it DIRECTLY into your mouth, SLATHERING it around on your tongue, and having a the teensiest fraction of an orgasm. You should never do that.

1. Parrano: When the party is over, and the Brie and the Arina Goat Gouda have done their tequila shots and left you drunk in the corner wondering where your purse went, Parrano is there. When it's raining and the line for the bus is twenty-five deep, and no one has their change out or god forbid their smart trip card when the bus finally shows up, Parrano is there. When the metro is packed and you end up with your face in some old man's armpit the whole ride home, Parrano is there. When the holidays are over, and all of the holly-go-lightly free samples are once again safely tucked in their boxes and shrink-wrapped away in their tupperwares for a long winter's nap, Parrano will be there to take you home. Thanks for the memories.

You Know It's Too Early for the Christmas Spirit When...

2004-11-22T07:02:00.000-08:00

At 8:48 a.m. on a Monday morning three days before Thanksgiving, you emerge from the Foggy Bottom metro station to hear peruvian panf lute ensemble playing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

?

An Open Letter to the Gym Stalker

2004-11-22T06:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Gym Stalker;

Seeing as how today was the third time you have randomly stopped me on the street in the wee hours of the morning to make idle chit chat, I thought it was time we have a little discussion.

Why do I call you Gym Stalker when I've never even seen you in the gym? Well, everytime you have stopped me, you have been heading towards the gym while I have been heading away, and you always open our friendly little conversations with a comment about my fitness habits. Today, it was, "So, are you training sport-specific, or just general fitness?" I didn't really know how to answer that. While I'm flattered that you think I'm some kind of athletic Goliath, I really only get up to run 3 miles, and throw some free weights around (shout out to the Gym Talker!) and go home so that when I eat like a pig every day, I don't gain weight too quickly. But thanks for the compliment.

You seem to be pretty attracted to me in the morning when we meet, and quite frankly, that surprises me a bit. After all, one of my eyes is stuck shut with sleepy sand a little bit, I smell like WSC stale sweat, my teeth have that layer of morning film, and god only knows what my breath must smell like. But thanks for taking notice, I'm really flattered.

And how about you, you not-so-hulking-mass-of-sketch? I'm guessing you're about 42, 43 ish, and because you told me this morning that you "fly for the airlines" for a living, I'm also guessing that the late 30-something waitresses you have stashed away in cities across the country think you're pretty hot. Are you based in Dulles and trying to start up something more serious, or are you just trying to add me to your list? Or more likely, are you eventually just trying to get me to go out for a drink with you so you can cut me into little pieces and feed me to your pet iguana, Federico?

I wanted to congratulate you on giving me the same feeling at 7:30 a.m. this morning that I usually have at 2:30 a.m. when I get home from a bar, after having a bunch of drunk lecherous men try to "accidentally" rub their genitals on me all night. That was awesome, man, really.

Signed,

Not Looking Forward to Seeing You Again

The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

2004-11-09T10:21:00.000-08:00

Hooray! I too am kermit! There's no way we should not be roommates, SCS. Although, if the Schmoops tazkes this quiz and turns out to be any muppet other than Anima, then I will no longer believe in its predictive ability.

In other news, a strange thing happened today. For anyone not interested in gross bathroom humr, please go back to reading the Financial Times or whatever other boring publication you read.

So I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, when suddenly, an UGF (unknown gaseous female) in stall #4 RIPPED one big time. I mean big time. I don't know if you've ever spent time in a female bathroom, but if you have you know that females are champions at PD (poop denial) especially in the professional setting. We (I) have been known to wait for HOURS until the bathroom is empty to do our business, lest someone hear anything even remotely unlady-like. And I'll tell you, everyone in the bathroom at the time had no idea what to do. It was like everything had changed, like the world and everything that is good and right about it was suddenly gone. Women ran screaming in all directions, one clung to the ceiling and screeched like a cat. It was crazy. Honestly.

OK, OK, I'm sorry I had to write about that, but honestly, I got nothin today, and I'm trying really hard to avoid the blogless pit of despair. I promise, after today, no more bathroom talk.

Dies Irae

2004-11-05T10:24:00.000-08:00

What has awakened me from my blogless slumber? What has roused the sleeping giant that is my wit and intellect? What has commanded the small hamster inside my brain, the one with a slight limp, to jump on its rusty wheel and ride again? Why, after failling to tell you about the rest of my trip to New Orleans, (alot of rain, alot of food, and some convicted felons chasing a poker chip on a bull's head) about my recent promotion (meritocracy, ho!), and about my twenty-four year old boyfriend trick-or-treating with my fifteen year old brother, (he dressed as a wizard, huzzah!), have I risen from the depths of mental dormancy?

I'll tell you what.

Maybe it's the fact that most people who voted used the criterion, "What would Jesus do?" to help them decide for whom to pull the lever.

Maybe it's the fact that people are more afraid of women kissing than they are of terrorists blowing up their families.

Mostly I think it's the fact that we as a nation have decided it's better to elect people who EAT BABIES than to elect people who understand the meaning of the term deficit.

Honestly.

On Tuesday, I was among the smiling be-stickered.

On Wednesday, I was among the mournful be-suckerpunched. An informal poll among my friends and coworkers has revealed that we all did the same thing on Wednesday night. Feeling like our boyfriend had just broken up with us, we skipped going to the gym, we went home and put on ugly comfy clothing, and we ate half a pizza and more Halloween candy than we care to admit, and we watched the Bachelor and Wife Swap. (A brief sidenote....what is it with Halloween candy this year? It's like I can't escape it. Every time I turn around, I see another one of those stupid plastic pumpking brimming with Snickers and Pay Days and Reese's. Some would say this is my fault for continuing to buy said plastic pumpking at Target every year. I say to those people, "shut up.")

Maybe we felt like we needed to get more in touch with the America that voted the Four Horsemen back into office. I'm not sure it worked.

Anyone for Cyprus? I hear it's lovely there this time of year.

You Have to See it it's the Daily Show

2004-10-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

SCS just sent me a camera-phone photo of Jon Stewart, and I honestly have never been more jealous of ANYTHING in my life. EVER. I can't believe I'm not there.

Take me back to New Orleans

2004-10-12T06:46:00.000-07:00

Thursday, 10.7: Arrival 8ish, pick up sleek and stylish yet functional Dodge neon from my good friends at Enterprise, check in at the Renaissance hotel. (Side note: For those of you who don't know, I have a slight OCD about sleeping in hotel sheets. Luckily, I can admit that I have a problem, and so the Schmoops packed a sheet to take with us to avoid any mishaps. Sketch factor at the Renaissance was low, though, so we're in good shape.)

Meals consumed: Dinner, Mother's for home-cookin' N.O. stlye. It's a cafeteria-style deli where you order at the counter and the sass comes for free. Schmoops and I each had a combination platter that included red beans and rice, crawfish etouffee, (no idea how to spell that one) jambalaya, potato salad, and greens. It was honestly a giant heaping mound of food that defied any plate in the land to bear it's heft. And it was, of course, delicious. But the dinner was no match for the bread pudding we had for dessert. It was really butter and sugar masquerading as bread pudding but no matter, it was, again, delicious.

We leave Mother's to walk around a bit, and I have to unbutton my shorts to keep from popping.

Observations:
1)I thought the Schmoops and I were going to have a nice romantic weekend alone together, but it turns out that we had an unexpected traveling companion by the name of TROPICAL STORM MATTHEW. Thanks for that, really. More to come on the weather...
2) The people of New Orleans are honestly disgustingly nice. All of them.

This is the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius

2004-10-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

I just figured out hot to do that cool thing with the hyperlink where the word isn't actually the same as the link. This is awesome. Shut up the Schmoops, don't make fun of me.

Things That Are Gross: Part 1

2004-10-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

A long dark hair on a bright white toilet seat.

Bend me, shape me, any way you want me

2004-10-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

Overheard at last night's yoga class, (I swear I'm not making this up):

"Feel your muscles hug your bones."

"Tuck your tailbone in."

"Center your shins."

"Let your inner thighs reach upward to the sky."

And the real kicker:

"Tuck your knees into your armpits."

(Yes, I know you are trying to do this at home right now, don't be ashamed.)

And we wonder why I have a hard time keeping a straight face during class. Having said that, I really feel that I turned a corner with my downward facing dog this week.

C is for Chocolate Cake

2004-10-05T08:34:00.000-07:00

Honestly, children in my family get an extra dose of the adorable gene.

An Open Letter to the Gym Talker

2004-10-04T13:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Gym Talker;

Hey man, what's up? I saw you at the gym this morning while I was there. I see you alot at the gym in the mornings. You're really serious about working out and getting huge. I know from the conversation you were having with your buddy who was all the way on the other side of the gym that you have a really important job as a second year associate at a super prestigious law firm in downtown DC, and you have to work, like, 7 days a week, cause you're so important. So if you don't work out in the mornings, you don't get to work out at all. Plus, if you tried to work out in the evening after you get done, your girlfriend would get pretty pissed off cause you two wouldn't get to spend much time together, what with your important job and all. And seriously man, she's pretty freakin hot, so you don't want to piss her off too bad.

That's a pretty sweet cutoff tank top you had on yesterday. It really shows off your biceps, and I know you've been working those pretty hard lately. That was awesome how last week you were doing a 3-set with 85's and you went for the 4th rep anyway cause you're so strong. Not that I was counting or anything. And don't worry, I'm not mad that the weights were so heavy that you fell of your weight bench, and smacked yourself in the face and threw one of the dumbbells four feet to the right and almost hit someone and almost broke the mirror. That was just so awesome that you could do 3 reps. I'm so glad you had enough strength to yell across the gym to your buddy to come and move some weights cause they were so heavy.

I know from your conversation with the trainer that you went to Syracuse too. It's awesome that you wear those mesh shorts a little high so you can show off your school pride AND your awesome hamstrings. Seriously, you can really put up some weight when you squat. And you were a serious baller back when you were in school, I heard you say how awesome your frat was and how fucked up you guys used to get. It sounds like you really threw some awesome parties. I know you're pretty pissed that their football team sucks this year, cause you used to hang out with all the guys on the team, and they used to be pretty awesome too. They're a young team though, so maybe things will pick up next season. Maybe if you can get a Saturday off from your awesome job some time, we could watch the game and have a few beers. That would be awesome.

Man, it really sucks to get up and work out. I would totally rather be sleeping underneath my 8 gazillion threadcount sheets at home than be heaving these little dumbbells around searching for a deep burn in some part of my flabby body. But seriously, getting to come to the gym and listen to you talk about yourself really makes the time go by much faster, and it's a great way to start my day. That's really cool that you're leading your fantasy football league right now, but I can't believe that you don't even have enough time to check your stats while you're at work. Keeping your firm afloat must really take alot of effort. I'm sure that the partners totally agree that you're awesome, and you're right, there's no way you won't make partner by Christmas. Maybe you could give me your number, and I could leave you a voicemail with stats every once in a while in case you don't have time to check yourself. Okay, okay, I really just wanted to get your number, cause you're so strong, and smart, and awesome. I know you have a really hot girlfriend, but maybe we can work something out anyway.

What? You're going to another rep? That's crazy. I mean, I wasn't counting or anything last time, but you must have done, like, a thousand. Do you need a spot? It's way too heavy for me, but maybe I'll just stand off to the side and watch. You've got such awesome form. OK, I gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow morning...

Metriquette

2004-10-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

In case you thought that the way people behave when taking public transportation in DC was random, think again. Behavior on the metro during rush hour is governed by a complicated set of laws and mores that dictate how commuters treat one another. Examples:

1) Metrowind. It's perfectly acceptable to jockey for position and stand on the platform really close to the edge during the summer time in order to avail yourself of that hot, humid, slightly rank flush of air that precedes the metro's approach in the hopes that the beads of sweat racing each other down your back may at least slow down or perhaps disappear so that when you get to the office, your coworkers don't wonder if you have a glandular problem. Normally, the drivers honk at you if you stand too close to the edge, cause you might fall in front of the train and delay everyone in getting to their jobs, but in the summer, they know what you're doing and will leave you alone.

2) Smassault. This is the sanctioned use of your Smarttrip card as a weapon to punish those people who, during rush hour, sit in the outer seat and leave the inner seat empty. You are permitted to use your Smarttrip card to sever their ear lobe.
*This same rule applies to people who use the available seat next to them for their bags. However, you must first ask the bag, in the snottiest tone possible, whether or not it is comfortable before severing the owner's ear.

So anyway, the other day, I found myself in a bit of a Metriquette dilemma. I'm sitting on the bench in Clarendon waiting for the metro, and there are two other people also sitting on the same bench. A fourth individual, a man, comes over and sits very close to me on my left. I move my purse more on my lap to clear a bit more room for him (I may actually have been slightly violating example 2* above, but the rules are slightly less clear regarding benches on the metro platform as opposed to seats within the car). He, noticing my gesture, looks askance at me, and says "It's really fine there, you don't have to move it" in a rather snarky tone. I realize that he is being snarky because he thinks that I moved my purse away from him because I, resident of luxury apartment living in the center of Arlington yup, thought he of shabby sneakers and scruffy hair, wanted to steal my purse. My brain is burning because I want to tell him that I really just wanted to make some extra room and that I'm not suspicious of him at all, that in fact, I hang out with homeless people and drug addicts all the time. But I can't, and then the train comes. So now, somewhere in this metropolis of ours, is some guy, who thinks that I'm an uptight preppy bitch. And it's KILLING me.

My Sun Salutation Can Kick Your Downward Facing Dog's Ass Anytime

2004-09-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

As some of you may know, I'm now in the business of yoga.

I've tried it before, but that experience was limited to me sitting in the back of a darkened gymnasium in the Yates complex at Gtown, (bring your makeup, if not your athletic convictions!) trying hard not to laugh as an aging, stringy-haired hippy tried to coax we self-esteem-lacking-bud-light-guzzling-social-climbing-jane-hoyas into our best cobra poses. When she would chant at the end, it always killed me; holding the laughter in provided a better workout then the yoga itself. I was so immature then.

But now, dear reader, now, things are different. I've got a job. I've got responsibilities. I've got a need to get to know my inner self at times other than those spent on the toilet, taking a fulfilling crap. Yeah, I just said that, you didn't imagine it.

Anyway, I've once again taken up the practice of yoga, every Monday night from 6:15 to 7:15 pm on 31st street in Gtown. It's quaint little place overlooking the canal (stench of dead bodies) and the busy streets of Gtown (cabbies yelling in Urdu). Very peaceful, really.

Things I'd like to get out of yoga:

1) Ability to touch my toes without cheating and bending my knees and feeling judged by everyone in the gym around me.

2) A downgrade in my daily level of back pain from "sharp hot poker" to "soothing pins and needles."

3) A sense of calm in this crazy, crazy world.

Things I've gotten out of yoga thus far:

1) The knowledge that, during the course of a class, in fact my underwear CAN go places no underwear has gone.

2) The ability to contort my belly fat in a way that makes it look like the smiling face of a Japanese warrior.

3) An enhanced sense of physicial inadequacy given that the woman who teaches the classes is honestly the most perfect female specimen ever invented.

I'd like to think that yoga will make me look like her, but really I still giggle whenever the class gets remotely spiritual. I'm only two weeks in to an 8 week session, so maybe things will improve. Or maybe I'll just continue to giggle in the back.

My Weekend at the Beach in Haiku

2004-09-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

Wave tumbles over.
Salt invades my sinuses.
Bathing suit adjusts

Old lady sits, suns.
From where did that tan line come?
Breasts, gravity brawl.

Hot sand seeks crevice.
What is that I feel between?
Exfoliation.

I've got an experiment for you, SCS!

2004-09-14T09:12:00.000-07:00

As our only bus-riding commuter, you simply HAVE to try this.

P.S. I totally agree with my namesake quoted in the article, I would absolutely throw up if I had to try this.

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/09/14/nyregion/14subway.html?hp

On things both disgusting and refreshing

2004-09-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

Today: In constant repayment to my aunt and uncle who have helped me move at least 20 times over the course of college, I found myself in the wilds of Fairfax county (a pox on your speed limit enforcement!), enjoying the simple pleasures of walks to the playground and the occasional snotty nose. I go to leave after the return of my aunt, only to find that my six-year old cousin has set up shop with an iced tea stand at the end of the driveway. While I, always a fan of the entrepreneurial gusto in any incarnation, cheer the creativity of choice of an iced tea stand over the conventional lemonade (lemonade! so blase! so bourgeoise!), I can't help but think that his business model was flawed, given that they live at the end of a cul-de-sac.

I digress.

Recognizing how clearly adorable this little scenario is, I fork over a nickle (a nickle! inflation is such a bitch!) for an iced tea before I hit the road. I notice that there sems to be something floating in my cup, and as any good Naderian consumer, point this out to my cousin. Having chosen the comparative advantage of superior customer service, he proceeds to plunge his entire fist into my cup to remove the offending debris. A fist, mind you, that only hours earlier had been seen catching minnows in a nearby lake, picking a nose, picking other places, catching spiders, eating goldfish, and generally carrying on in the way that only the fist of a six-year-old can.

Suffice to say, the offending debris was removed, and it was the best glass of iced tea I've ever had.

It begins.

2004-09-12T15:49:00.000-07:00

There's only one time each year when ALE, of his own free will, initiates a shopping trip. That time is early in September, when careful consideration is given to the selection of the years Redskins jersey.

Patrick, you gave it your all last season, and for that we thank you. You survived another season of the fun-and-gun-gone-duck-and-chuck. We want you to rest and prepare yourself for that time in the not-too-distant-future when Mark Brunell retires to a life of Ensure and Cialis commercials.

Lavar, it's your time to shine, on the field, and on my back each and every week. And shine you have today. Although we wish you had put just a little more hurt on Brad Johnson with that last sack.

Here's to spending entire days on couches. Here's to Gibbs-o-vision and 50 inches of high-definition love. Here's to having your toughest decision be between ordering pizza or ordering Chinese.

But most of all, here's to the Redskins.

Now I Know What Stroke Victims Feel Like

2004-09-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

So yesterday, I paid a visit, once again, to my dentist (he of previous finger-sucking fame) to have two cavities filled. First off, let me say that he did a bang up job, because I didn't feel a thing the entire time, despite my persistent need to white-knuckle the chair. The few hours I spent afterwords at work were hilarious though, as the left side of my face was totally numb. I managed to get one third of my yogurt safely down the hatch during lunch, and the other two thirds somewhere near the bottom of my shirt, and I had quite an amusing lisp. Good times. I go back next Tuesday to do two cavities on the right side, and I have to say, I'm kinda looking forward to it. I think I'm developing a platonic crush on my dentist.

In other news, SCS's glowing tribute to my last stand at 3900 brought a tear to the eye. She was good to me, I'll not deny it. The wood-paneled work-out room, the constant repainting and renovation of the doors, the guy we used to ride the bus with who bears a striking resemblance to Willy Wonka, the more than ample closet space, and of course, the roommate I could always count on for scathing literary reviews, late-night viewings of Lebowski, and the odd Romeo's calzone, ahhhhhh good times. While I may not miss the funk or the eternal darkness, I'll miss the man behind the magic.

Cost of hiring movers: PRICELESS

2004-08-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

Honestly, it was the greatest decision I've made to date in my life. It's August in DC, it's a gazillion degrees outside, and there's a surprisingly unwieldly couch ( couch that defies the ability of any man-made elevator to accommodate its heft) staring down a vertical climb of two flights of stairs. And there's me, pointing to the movers, and saying, "I'll see you on third floor!"

While it is the end of a golden era at 3900 (the new one there brings to mind the title slouching towards bethlehem...) it is the dawn of luxury apartment living at The Clarendon (a.k.a. a DEEEE-luxe apartment on the east side, of arlington, that is...)

Good article in the NYT today....

http://nytimes.com/2004/08/30/opinion/30herbert.html

Como Agua Para Chocolate

2004-08-23T15:51:00.000-07:00

So, one of the perks of my job is that we get free breakfast every day. There's a frighteningly nice Filipino woman who facilitates the arrangement of a virtual cornucopia of bagels and muffins each and every morning. Usually, I stay away from the spread because if I don't it will make me fat. Today, however, as the "11a.m.-hour-and-a-half-until-lunch" hungriness set it, I decided I would traipse up to the common room to see if by chance there were any breakfast leftovers to be had. I figured that if He saw fit to leave something there, than it was my duty to eat it. As it turns out, there was half (oh! glorious half!) of a chocolate muffin. Now, I don't mean a chocolate chip muffin, which I generally find to be gross, because one shouldn't mix media when it comes to chocolate chips, in my opinion. I mean a chocolate muffin. As in chocolate cake. Really, it was pure delicious chocolate cake masquerading around in muffin shape, pretending to be socially acceptable as a breakfast food.

This means that henceforth, my employer has sanctioned the eating of chocolate cake for breakfast.

Maravilloso!

IT WAS A CREATIVE PREMISE

2004-08-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

I don't care what vitriol and invective you might find in the land of orange life savers today, I liked M. Knight Shananananana's The Village. It was an admirable attempt to elevate the traditional fable to cinema, and for that I applaud it. Was it full of stilted dialogue? Perhaps. Was it impossible to tear my eyes away from Joaquin Pheonix's lip scar? Nearly. (Did he suffer from harelip as a child? Do people still suffer from that?) Even still, it creeped me out a few times, and really, as a true fan of the scary movie, that's all I ask. SCS is a film snob. So there.

In other news, on my way to the movie yesterday, I saw two men wheeling a rack full of suits up the street that could only be sold in all of those sketchy stores up Wisconsin. You know the ones, they have names like "Dominaci" and they sell six button suits in colors like cantaloupe and chartreuse. Where were they coming from? This can only be further evidence of some kind of front, becasue I feel positive that they are all owned by the same person, and that they just juggle the inventory from store to store depending on which day the tax man shows up.

Just when you thought the Japanese finally got into normal porn...

2004-08-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

Overheard during the commentary on this evening's all-around competition in women's gymnastics:

"The Romanian team [that won the women's all-around at the Sydney games] fell upon further controversy when it was discovered that three Romanian team members accepted $40,000 to appear in a naked Japanese gymnastics video."

Maybe it's something about the order of the modifiers in that sentence, but it somehow seems as though naked Japanese gymnastics videos are a well-known subgenre.

Am I missing something?

And does anyone else believe that maybe, just maybe, the human interest stories of the Olympics shouldn't bring up the porn exploits of the athletes during primetime?

TIASTAAFBR

2004-08-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

I challenge, thee, o conventional economic wisdom, for this morning's commute to work proves that, while there may be no such thing as a free lunch, there IS a such thing as a free bus ride.

Poor WMATA, after going through all of that trouble to install SmartTrip readers on all DC metrobuses, the damn thing wasn't even working. Ergo, those traveling avec SmartTrip cards, were treated to a free bus ride, while those traveling sans (embrace technology, all ye nations!) were taxed.

Oh WMATA, you're a cruel, cruel mistress!

Honestly, are we not fat enough?

2004-08-16T08:09:00.000-07:00

That said, anyone want to go to Krispy Kreme?

http://money.cnn.com/2004/07/21/news/midcaps/krispy_kreme/index.htm

Things I Saw on the Bus This Morning

2004-08-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

I think SCS will agree with me on this being noteworthy:

An elderly gentlemen dressed in a dazzling blue and white seersucker suit, with yellow oxford and multi-color paisley tie.

Show me seersucker and I'll show you a man who knows how to dress.

How much would anyone pay to see SCS in a seersucker suit?

I'd pay a lot.

Speaking of the bus, here is what are good friends at WMATA say in answer to the question, "What goes into deciding how frequently buses run on routes?"

Each local government purchases service from WMATA. The frequency of service is determined by the number of people riding and the amount of service the local government funds.

Two problems with this statement:

1) What do they mean by "local governments?" Does the hamlet of Glover Park have some say in how often buses run in its neighborhood? Does it have caucuses with other hamlets for those bus routes that span hamlet borders? If so, it's doing a woeful job, because as SCS and I can tell you, the buses don't run anything even approaching a state of efficiency.

2) The real answer to this question is that twice year, on the vernal and autumnal equinii (I don't care if that is the plural of equinox! It follows the same rule as chicken madnii...), WMATA sends a vestal virgin to consult the oracle at Delphi to determine bus routes in DC. I'm sure of it.

Things I Saw on the Bus This Afternoon

2004-08-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

1. An old man in full tuxedo. I would argue that bus ride at 2p.m. on a Friday afternoon is a cause celebre also.

2. An old woman dressed in head to toe eggplant (the color, not the vegetable) who, upon getting on the bus, surveyed the other passengers aboard with a keen eye, decided we were clearly not to her liking, gave us all the proverbial stink eye, and got off. I wouldn't want to ride the bus with me either.

3. A man who smelled of a urine so strong it made me gag.

4. A taxi cab fender bender, where upon getting out of their cabs to survey the damage, both taxi drivers gave each other a knowing smile and a shrug, got back into the cab, and went their separate ways. The tourists in the cab that was hit were utterly confused. Wait til they try to ride the bus!

2004-08-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

The next Olympic sport: Watersliding
The next gold medalist: ALE.
Let the games begin!

Games That Make Me Feel Stupid

2004-08-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

Who knew the Op/Ed page of the New York Times had such a crazy, free-wheeling, fun-loving side?

Having said that, I can't do any of these.

http://nytimes.com/2004/08/12/opinion/12PUZZ.html?hp

When good hugs go bad...

2004-08-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

Is it me, or is McCain's left hand creeping a bit too close for comfort?

http://nytimes.com/onthetrail?hp

Oral pleasure

2004-08-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

Four. Count 'em. One, two, three, four. That's how many cavities I will get filled on two additional visits to the dentist on August 31 at 11a.m. and on September 7 at 9a.m. Some might say that it serves me right, having not visited a dentist in, oh, say, two years. I say boo to those people. Dentists are for wussies.

Having said that, today's trip to get my teeth cleaned spurred me on to think about sounds that make your skin crawl, and here's what I have come up with:

1) Metal on teeth. What are teeth made out of anyway that they make that awful, awful sound when scraped with sharp metal objects?

2) Liquid hitting pavement. It reminds me too much of the time I threw up in Dublin outside of a crowded pub with all glass windows, forever staining a pair of sneakers that I wear to this day. You'll note that after throwing up, I proceeded straight into the Trinity campus pub and did a shot of Jaeger. Rock star.

3) Dry erase markers on paper. The AB is obsessed with using dry erase boards, but often rooms lack dry erase boards, so we end up writing on flip charts, and there's something about the sound that the marker makes moving across the paper that makes me want to pull my eyelashes out one by one. That sound is, however, mitigated by the delicious delicious smell of the orange marker.

A final note: next time you're at the dentist, when his fingers are in your mouth, close your mouth. Don't bite, just close your mouth and refuse to let him pull his fingers out. He really likes that.

Show me the way to go home

2004-08-09T08:38:00.000-07:00

I would rather be left in open water myself that be forced to again endure the 90 minute torture session that was this film, sometimes the Onion knows what it's talking about. THe only thing remotely scary about it was knowing that ALE is currently swimming with the fishes with his people down in Puerto Rico. Don't get left behind the schmoops!

http://theonionavclub.com/cinema/index.php?issue=4031#review5

My quest for the next great horror film continues, perhaps this will stand a chance:

http://www.apple.com/trailers/wb/exorcist_the_beginning/large.html

2004-08-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

Open up and say "ahhhhh!"

you and me babe, how about it?

2004-08-06T02:26:00.000-07:00

You laid down the gauntlet, SCS, and I have accepted.

It's already been brought'en.

Here's to hoping that this blog doesn't suffer the same defeat that my current friendster profile suffered, doomed to the tragic existence of a puppy gifted at Christmas, popular for a month, then banished to a life of melancholy at the local pound.

What exactly does the public demand, SCS? Does it demand more information about erectile dysfunction? Pics of mullet-ed men performing the climactic ritual? Tickets to a Redskins season opener? An airlift of smart-tip cards to the hungry DC masses?

How about a link to the fancy pants apartment I'll be moving into in a month...

http://www.clarendonapt.com

Here's to hoping that a sophisticated urban community with amenities that work hard and play hard does, in fact, bring happiness.

I'll get a kitten if it's the last thing I do.