You Proud Confection!

Oh, yes, there is more!

Maya Angelou for Butterfinger

Froot Loopies!

Oh, man. I've been searching for this SNL skit forever. Finally, as I was procrastinating getting dressed this morning, I found it. No disrespect to Maya Angelou. I view this as a "tribute."

Maya Angelou for Froot Loops

Go Home, Weird Upstairs People

Living in the city has its ups and downs. A big up is the energy here. Another big up would be easy access to fun bar-like activities. A big down? Definitely having upstairs neighbors.

I try to be calm. I try to understand. I mean, everyone has to walk around, right? Some people walk. And that's fine. Sometimes people wear shoes. I get that. Sometimes people move furniture. Also understandable. But Jesus! Don't tell me you have to move furniture at 4 in the morning.

I've been dealing with these people for two years now. The great thing is that they are not always here. Apparently they have several homes. I say, "Good for you! Why don't you spend more time at them? DC isn't that great. Go! Travel! Explore the world while you still have time!"

But no. They've decided to spend more time in DC these past few months than ever before. Wonderful.

If they had a normal schedule, that'd be so much better. But they get up at frickin' 4 in the morning. Have I mentioned that? And they seem to partake in major remodeling at that time, which, you know, makes perfect sense. I think Martha Stewart once said, "If you decide to remodel your apartment, try doing it at 4 a.m. There is no better time to move big pieces of furniture. And you should do this everyday."

Also, they definitely do not have rugs. In some buildings, there are rules about the percentage of floor space that must be covered by rugs. But not here. Oh well. Note to others: rug coverage rules are key.

If they were normal people, it'd also be so much better. But they're not. The man is abnormally tall and creepy. The woman is petite and timid. They never talk to each other. And they always wear the same clothes. The same white clothes. Like they are in a cult. A cult that pays them to live in a cool DC apartment and stomp around like it's their job.

One time I wrote what I thought was a very nice note. Taped it on their door. Nice envelope and all. The process was primarily pointless in the end. There's been no change in the incessant stomping. So now I've resorted to the baseball bat / ceiling technique. If you don't know what that is, let me know. I'd be glad to relay the strategy to you.

All I can say is thank god for earplugs, a floor fan and a newly discovered "soothing sounds" CD, all of which help me sleep.

In the past year, I've achieved a new sense of calm in most things. Sometimes I think, what would Buddhism say about this. A true Buddhist doesn't get riled by much. You cannot control external happenings. You can only control yourself.

So I try to control myself and ignore the banging and the stomping in the middle of the night. I try to just let it go.... chalk it up to a couple of weird-ass people with weird-ass schedules. But, you know what? When I can't sleep, it's nearly impossible to stay grounded. Go be weird somewhere else! Why here? Why me? Go home, weird upstairs people!

Good Genes

Those of you who know me know that I've spent a good deal of time lately going to the dentist and an oral surgeon. In my newfound zeal for getting and staying healthy, I decided to take care of my mouth. Gum disease runs in my family. So now I go to the dentist every six months (crazy), I got my wisdom teeth removed (all four of them) and I'm planning some "dental work." The dental work is not super critical, but it will help maintain healthy gums in the long run. Plus, it's a little piece of vanity that I can embrace in the process.

I was talking with one of my friends about this today online. We started musing about family traits, things passed down from one generation to the next. Although she is a third child, we concluded that she is not the product of a mid-afternoon soiree with the milkman. (Side note: the milkman/third child theory has its holes, but is founded in scientific fact.) She looks too much like her dad. I'd prefer to have more definitive evidence, but if that makes her feel better, then so be it. I, for one, know for a fact that I am the product of my mother and father. Although, I have to say, I have picked up all of my personality traits from my mom's side. Alla famiglia!

Then my friend said the funniest thing to me.

You gotta take the good genes with the bad - you can make a mean pasta sauce, but you pay the price with your gums...

And then I thought to myself, you know, she's right. But I wouldn't have it any other way. I love my family. And I love my heritage. Not everyone can cook Italian food. So what if I have dentures by the time I'm 40. Gnocchi is totally gum-able.

Wisdom Teeth

Again, I delay. All too often I claim that I will post more, that I will post "every other day," etc. Blah blah blah. Don't think I'm not aware of these empty promises. It bothered me for quite some time. But then, in the height of my recent drug-induced state of consciousness, I realized that it really doesn't matter. I'll post when I want to, damnit.

So here it is.

Things I learned while on Percocet:

1. getting all four wisdom teeth removed at one time is a HORRIBLE idea because I am not exaggerating when I say that it FRICKIN KILLS

2. however, had the pain been less, I would not have had the joy of meeting my new best friend, whom, for the sake of anonymity, I shall call "Schmercocet"

3. Schmercocet is like a cloud, like a white puffy cloud, floating in the sky

4. clouds are both puffy and fluffy, two very different, yet equally fun to contemplate, words

5. while hanging out with Schmercocet, all the colors of all the sorbet, yogurt, pudding, jello and ice cream flavors in your refrigerator meld into one brown muck - yet you keep eating them, because, my dear friends, that is all you can eat

6. having a mom there to help you is ideal because, first of all, she makes you soup, and soup is good

7. mom is nice... and she is small

8. when mom eats an apple right in front of you, you feel jealous because you are convinced that there is no frickin way you will ever eat an apple again

9. she shoves this in your face by placing an entire bowl of apples on your coffee table... she says it's for decoration, but you see right through that

10. the next thing you know, your friend Schmaroline stops by and drinks a few beers out of your fridge

11. beer and Schmercocet are not friends

12. when mom leaves, you are sad

13. although Schmercocet is now your best friend, you come to realize who your other good friends are by the call log on your cell phone... you may think you're remembering their messages, but you're not... the call log is key

14. brushing your teeth is a challenge

15. daytime TV is a joke, so you resort to CNN, which becomes instantly addicting and you think you're paying very close attention, but, again, you're not

16. if one more person calls me chipmunk, I swear to God

17. you have strong urges to sing, but it hurts to sing... you sing in your head... and you are very good

18. your brain functions seem simultaneously acute and numb at the same time... wait, that's redundant... wait, that's redundant

19. you crave the use of your back teeth, but wait! you have none! AHHHHHH!!!!!

20. you learn not to be a hero... Schmercocet is a necessary - temporary - slice of heaven

Ground Zero

I woke up this morning with one of the worst hangovers I've had in a very long time. Yesterday was Adams Morgan Day here in DC - a day to celebrate the diversity of people and cuisine in this area of town. It's also an excuse to drink in the afternoon.

Adams Morgan Day is one of my favorite days of the year. I've gone to every one since I've moved here, and never have a bad time. This year, I got to spend it with some of my favorite people in the world. Good friends, both old and new. There were several moments when I just thought to myself, god I'm lucky.

And then I had a moment of grief. Of pure down. I was thinking of one particular person that I couldn't see, that wasn't there with me. This moment hit me like a ton of bricks. Probably incited slightly by alcohol, but even through the haze, I knew it was real. I felt stuck in time. Frozen. And then, before I knew it, it was late. And I was drunk. I had succeeded in repressing my sadness for a good three hours. Felt good at the time, but I'm sure my liver would disagree with me now.

It was like I blacked out of reality.

Sometimes when that happens it forces you to face the reality even more strongly than before. In the end, you either have to stay frozen or come out and deal with it.

Today was hard. This morning I was bombarded with images and memories of 9-11. Great. Another bit of reality for a Monday morning, I thought. Just what I need. In a small show of rebellion, I turned off my TV. But I couldn't escape it.

Ironically, I work in the same building I did on September 11, 2001. One floor up, but it's the same building. The same coffee guy. The same sidewalk. And the weather even seemed strikingly similar. It was eerie. And, to top it all off, I decided it'd be an awesome idea to listen to Les Mis on my way to work today. Smooth move, let me tell you. I've Dreamed a Dream? On My Own? Empty Chairs at Empty Tables? What the fuck was I thinking?

I could recount all the details of that day, but I won't bore you. There was screaming. Running. Chaos. I knew several people who were more closely affected. I remember not being able to call my mom because all the phone lines were out. I remember not eating, losing weight and just being utterly shocked. For months.

But one story that sticks out in my mind is actually a story of kindness.

I had just started working downtown, and didn't know which direction would take me back to my dorm. After finally making it out to the street, pushing my way through the mob, I realized I was alone. None of my coworkers bothered to see if I was ok to get home. The streets were crazed with both cars and people. Everyone was running. It was about 9am on Tuesday. I was so scared, and with no cell reception, I had no way of contacting a familiar voice. I started walking. I must have hailed about five cabs. They all refused to give me a ride. They were trying to get home too.

Finally, one cab driver stopped and asked me where I was going. "Georgetown," I said. "Please." On the verge of tears but still with survival instincts in full force, I had found my ride. I remember the driver being a woman, middle aged, white. Unusual to say the least. She said she'd take me because it was on her way home.

I remember talking about what we didn't know. Were we bombed? Were there still other parts of DC at risk? Did her cell phone work?

We drove along what I think was the Whitehearst Freeway. I remember looking at the river. And I remember seeing the smoke from the Pentagon. I never knew the Pentagon was so close. But at that moment, that is all I could see. A huge funnel of smoke. And it seemed only feet away.

By the time we got to campus, I was shaking. I don't remember many details of the conversation I had with the driver, but I do know that she was my angel that day. She asked me about my mom. About my work. She called me "honey" and mentioned something about getting home to see her own family. At that moment, I realized that Georgetown was not on her way home at all.

I don't believe you can compare one person's grief to another's. I don't pretend to know what it's like to have lost someone in the towers, in the Pentagon or in Pennsylvania. But I do know what grief is, generally speaking. And I know what it's like to lose someone. Or the idea of someone. I bet you do too.

After the debauchery of last night, I wondered if we have to hit bottom in order to see reality. How far into grief do we have to travel to start on the upslope again? Seven beers? Twenty beers? Ground Zero?

All I know is that I'm so grateful for those that support me in this journey. Those who give me a ride when no one else will stop. Thank god for my angel cab drivers...

Storm a Brewin'

Admiral Boom: Good afternoon to you, young man. Where are you bound?
Bert: Number 17. Got some parties who want to see it.
Admiral Boom: Enter that in the log.
Mr. Binnacle: Aye, aye, sir.
Admiral Boom: A word of advice, young man. Storm signals are up at number 17. Bit of heavy weather brewing there.
Bert: Thanks, Admiral. Keep an eye skinned.
Bert: Here we are, 17 Cherry Tree Lane. Home of George Banks, Esq. Hello, Hello, Hello. Admiral's right, heavy brewing at number 17 and no mistake.

10 points to whoever guesses the movie.

Speaking of heaving brewing, there is STORM a comin'! DC will be under a flood warning by the day’s end, on account of Tropical Storm Ernesto. But I’m not scared. I love this stuff. I’m like Lieutenant Dan on the ship. You know.

I say, bring it, Ernesto.

BRING.

IT.

And again, I have to apologize to my regular readers. Haha, all two of you. I know I broke my promise of posting every other day. There’s been some, how do I say this... shit. But all is better now. These last two weeks have been strange, but I haven’t forgotten to notice life’s little idiosyncrasies. So I have a lot to catch up on. Word.

Why We Crave the Bad

I've been wondering a lot lately why we crave what is obviously not good for us. Why do I reach for the hidden box of cigarettes? The bikers and struggling musicians? That last beer before the night's end? The french fries? The chocolate fudge sundae? An extra trip to the ATM? The unattainable? The incapable.

It might be the thrill. You know. The thrill of being "bad." Making out in the bushes behind a crowded street. Feeling like a bad ass at a local bar. Going 90 on the highway. These are all things I do! And I'm a rational, logical person. Right? How does it all make sense I wonder.

Deep down, I know what's good for me. I know that I'm ingesting toxins into my body with every puff, with every bottle of Magic Hat. I know I risk getting another hundred dollar ticket every time I go above 65. But, yet, that doesn't stop me from surpassing 85. Every time. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME???

I had a recent chocolate craving. No, strike that. I had a recent "get the hell out of my way or I will frickin' kill you if I can't find a piece of god damn chocolate around here" craving. Don't worry, I was successful. Thank god. Anyway, I wondered why. I'm really not a huge dessert person. It definitely isn't that time of the month. So what did I really need?

After some extensive research (ok, a few google searches, you caught me), I discovered that there are, in fact, studies that show that chocolate is like sex. Cocoa releases serotonin, dopamine and something called phenylethylamine. Essentially, they all make you feel, shall we say, "excited." Now, you'd have to eat a frickin' 18-wheeler full of the stuff to really get, shall we say, "excited," but still. Point taken.

Second point: there is nothing wrong with feeling excited! Sure, the rational side of me says, "Date the nice boy.. the safe boy.. order the salad.. you don't need alcohol to have fun.. and save money, make a frickin' sandwich today!" but where's the fun in that?

The release of serotonin is a natural phenomenon. I believe that certain activities were meant to do this. Sorry, dear friends at the Vatican, but it's true.

I've been trying to convince myself to get past the lack of excitement - the lack of serotonin - in a few situations recently. I try to convince myself that, in the long term, this will make me happier. But, at least for me, I need a little spark. I need to feel weak in the knees. I need to feel like my family might not approve. And, god damnit, I need another french fry.

The Urge to Dance

Did you ever just get the urge to break it down on the sidewalk? I did. This morning. It surprises me because it was raining, I was under my umbrella and it was muggy as hell. But my ipod was turned up and I couldn't control the urge.

I was at a red light. The red stop hand forced me to stand still, waiting for the white walk man to appear. Some mellow reflective song ended. And then, as if the gods planned it, just as I was allowed to cross the street, just as the white walk man showed his face, Aretha blurts out "This the House that Jack Built."

It was a long walk signal. Now, in DC, the walk signs tell you how many seconds you have to cross. This particular intersection gives you about 75 seconds. I thought, you know what, I could totally take my time and dance across this street! I could do all my moves that I normally do in my head. I could twist around, throw in a little shoulder action, a little hip action, and give these stopped cars a show!

So now my new obsession is to dance across intersections. Wouldn't this make morning commutes so much more entertaining!? I mean, seriously, why not? The cars at the opposite light can't go anywhere, and I have all the time in the world to dance across!

I think Washingtonians would be so much happier if this actually happened. We all have ipods already. And we're bobbing our heads. I say, let it out, people! You know you want to! Dance across that intersection! Don't let societal norms hold you back! Jackson 5, Aretha, Whitney, George Michael, techno remixes, Rent Soundtrack... whatever! You feel it, you go for it.

Haha, ok, so I've had some wine. But this thought actually did cross my mind this morning. Think about it. I picture the opening scene of Austin Powers when they all dance in unison down the street in cheesy outfits. The new DC... just you wait.

Creepy Old White Guy

Lots to catch up on! Sorry for breaking my "every other day" blog posting promise, but I was on a mini vacation and have just recovered and transitioned back to real life. Incidentally, I wish the beach was real life. I wonder if I could survive there on an artist's income. I would be a very tan, very relaxed, artist.

Anyway, fast forward to yesterday afternoon. (Or rewind, depending on where you started.) In an effort to maintain my newly achieved tan through September, which is the date of a very special wedding, I decided it'd be best to lay out in the local park by my apartment and catch some rays. I do this often, bringing my "park blanket" and a book or my ipod. Sometimes the Post. Sometimes I get a sandwich. Sometimes I get all crazy and get an Italian sub. Those are exciting days.

So yesterday, I get all my supplies (sandwich, book, etc.) and I pick my spot on the grass. I position my flip flops and my bag by my hand so that, if I fall asleep, it's less likely that someone will steal them. I apply some tanning lotion, roll up my tank top, and prepare for the ultimate in local DC relaxation.

Until! All of a sudden I notice a man walking towards me. I immediately stereotype him as a "creepy old white guy." He walks around the tree a few times, and then lays down on the grass not too far from where I am. This would be normally ok... if the park was crowded. But it was NOT crowded. I'm thinking, grrrreeeeat. Pervert.

I ignore him, glancing up every now and then to see him staring at me. His shirt comes off (ew, FYI) and he lounges on one elbow facing me the whole time.

I refuse to move. This is my park too, damnit. And there are people around, so I don't feel like I'm in any immediate danger. So I stay there. I eat my delicious sandwich (props to So's Your Mom deli). I make a few phone calls, try to read my book, etc.

Finally, though, I had to give in... not because his staring got to me, but because he started saying things. Out of nowhere, I hear, "You're so beautiful. I want to take you home with me." It was so faint, I thought for a second that I must have imagined it. But it was real. And it was very VERY creepy.

So I moved to a another spot in the park. And after a few minutes, I peered in his direction to see that he had left. Apparently he felt rejected.

Creepy old white guy, here are some tips. Don't be so creepy! This is not a good way to get girls. Keep your shirt ON. And wait until at least a few conversations have transpired before you start whispering sweet nothings from across the grass. Did you really expect a positive response? Has anyone ever been like, "Sure! I'll come home with you! Better yet, why don't you come over to my place? Creepy old white guy, you're awesome!" Well, maybe it works for you once in a blue moon. But not today.