A Bit Better

I saw Santa Clause this morning.

A man about six feet tall, wearing big boots and a red puffy jacket, sporting a white beard and a wind-burned nose, walked past me as I rounded the corner of 19th and K streets. He was jolly looking. A slight belly and a delicate grin. Almost a smirk. And we made eye contact, at which point his smirk blossomed into one of the most comforting smiles I’ve ever seen.

Now I’ve never been a huge proponent of the merit of “signs,” but this one struck me. In a city where few barely look up and where everyone seems to be in a constant rush, a sincere look can touch you, and can make you stop.

I actually turned around and watched him walk in the opposite direction for a few seconds. And then he magically disappeared into thin air. Just kidding! I don’t think he was really Santa Clause, but I swear to you he resembled him. Maybe he was an elf, like the ones in the mall.

In any case, that moment reminded me that a simple gesture can change someone’s day, perhaps even unknowingly.

Emerson...

To laugh often and much,
to win respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children,
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends,
to appreciate beauty,
to find the best in others,
to leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a
redeemed social condition,
to know even one life
has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Around the corner

I've decided to stop being a complete slacker... more posts to come. ASAP... by COB. :)

Disposal Cheese

I just realized that my disposal has a name. You know, the disposal, as in the thing that chops up all the food you don't want and flushes it down your drain. Yeah, mine is called, "The Insinkerator."

You too can become great

Person 1: I went to the concert last week.
Person 2: Oh, you too?
Person 1: You were there?
Person 2: No, why do you ask?
Person 1: You asked if I was also there, as if you were there too.
Person 2: No I didn't.
Person 1: Yes, you did.
Person 2: Let's just forget it. I'm tired.
Person 1: Me too.
Person 2: So, you too?
Person 1: Yeah man, why do you keep asking me if I'm also something that you are? It's really annoying.
Person 2: Dude, you need to chill.
Person 1: Oh yeah???
Person 2: Yeah!
Person 1: Well so do you!
Person 2: YOU TOO!

And so U2 continues to create controversy and incite deep thought... both on a bigger political level and on a very personal one, such as above.

Ha. Point? U2 makes you think. At least they made me think. My seat was in the upper level of the MCI center, to the left of the band. I could still see Bono well enough to be completely moved and affected by the music, which seemed to fill the stadium and rise above the distractions that dared to present themselves... such as the drunk people a few rows in front of me. How can you have a loud drunken conversation during "One?" Seriously... it's like using your cell phone in church. Disgraceful. Oh well. It's all good. After all, we've got to carry eachother... carry eachother.

Ok, so I got a little "into" the concert. But it was U2! Not only can they still completely rock out, but they have a higher purpose. Some say it was a little over the top, a little cheesy. Well, I say bring on the cheese! What's wrong with a little cheese when you're promoting human rights and an end to poverty? What's wrong with a little cheese when you're fighting for what should be such a simple concept? I say the cheesier the better. Well, except if you're lactose intolerant. Then you might want to take it easy on the cheese. But you get the idea. Take some lactaid and rock on.

Together, we can end malaria in Africa. We can support a greater effort for human rights for ALL people. We can end poverty and disease everywhere! We can all COEXIST.Yahweh, Mohammed and Jesus... together again. Sunday Bloody Sunday? No more! Peace to all my brothers and sisters of the earth! Screw Hillary. Bono and Edge 2008!

Haha, ok, so through my sarcasm I hope you can see that I also admit to a slight "over the top" element. However, you have to give them credit. You have to admit that their campaign is a noble one. And, without idealists and social activists, where would we be? Sometimes we need to be inspired, to be challenged. End malaria in Africa? Is he for real? Well, according to Bono, it's possible. So maybe you look into it. Maybe you go to onecampaign.org and look around. Maybe you sign the petition for human rights. Maybe you give some money. Maybe one kid, just one kid, in Africa doesn't die because he had the right medicine. Maybe you feel good about that. Maybe you let an old man take your seat on the Metro. Maybe you go to work on Monday with a better understanding that the world is not just in your five mile radius. Maybe this knowledge calms you down with a deeper sense of what is real. Maybe that calm actually causes you to smile.

Idealist? Maybe. Did Bono have lunch with W the day of the concert. Yep. Did I eat too much bad stadium food that night? Oh yeah. So nothing's perfect. But a little inspiration never hurt anybody. I'm a cheeseball, what can I say.

The Romantic Cynic

What have I become? I've been talking to a guy recently who believes in the fundamentals of romance. Cuddling up to watch a movie. Sitting by a crackling fire on a snowy night. Listening to waves crash on the beach. Etc.

I'll be honest, these things make me want to hurl. Can you say cheeseball?

But then I got to thinking... this guy is sincere, as far as I can tell. Have I just been conditioned by society to think that romance is dead? Am I that bitter? Do I really believe that if a guy were to do any of those things that he's only after one thing?

How sad is that? Am I really that cynical when it comes to old fashioned romance? I feel like Carrie on Sex & the City.

Instead of trying to just get over it, I think I've come up with the explanation. Especially living in a big city, where everyone is basically here for their profession (in one way or another), there is a strong emphasis on power and getting ahead. And for women, it's even more important to focus on that goal. We are trained in many circles to make that our number one priority... not to be distracted by foolish sidebars like romance. Romance makes you weak... romance makes you vulnerable.

That's it! Aversion to romance is totally a defense mechanism. If I allow myself to give into it, I make myself vulnerable to emotions that might distract me from what should be my goal. After all, I am not here to clean a house and be a baby factory. No siree. I must prove my worth in more important areas... like memo writing and budget management! Ha.

So I protect myself from being emotional, from being hurt... and I laugh at romance.

But this sort of thinking causes a paradox in my head. What is a relationship without romance? Just a friend of the opposite sex? Just the physical gratification?

Nah, romance is alive. We just have to let it back in. The more I think about it, the more I believe we can have the best of both worlds. Someone just told me not to give up. Keep trying. You get hurt, so what. Get back up. Try again.

I cry at the Mighty Ducks. I lose it during Hallmark commercials and Beaches. That is me. I love to see people love eachother... holding hands, a warm glance, a kiss when they think no one is watching. That is romance. And it's out there.

My mom and I were part of larger conversation a few months ago. We started talking about marriage versus being on your own. Someone said, men, what good are they? Who needs them, right? And my mom turns to me and says, "I hope you find love. I know it's out there for you."

And so giving up is no longer an option...

Bring on that fireplace on a snowy evening! I'll get some champagne and strawberries. Just no heart shaped vibrating beds. That is one step too far, I'm sorry.

Speed Living

So I did it... I tried speed dating. Yes, it's true. And it took me a whole three weeks to write about it, not because of embarrassment, but more because I had to let it all sink in.

For those of you not familiar with the process... you walk in, sign your name, get a name sticker, apply your name to the sticker, apply a random number to the sticker and then apply the sticker to your "lapel area." That was great - right off the bat you're a number. Individuality denied. But that is the trick - to express your individuality through a sticker and several very quick four-minute conversations.

Best part of the evening. I go to the bathroom to, I'll admit it, give my hair one final once over before making about 20 first impressions. I'm in the stall and I hear about four girls, giggle sequences in full throttle, taking about the aforementioned name stickers. They decided that they'd get much more attention if they applied the sticker to their "breast area." No doubt that their method was a good one. Except they didn't take into account body lotion and perfume - two anti-sticker substances. Boy did this cause a problem. How would they ever get dates with no sticker? With no number? Bet they figured it out. Ha.

My friend and I (this was a bring-a-friend speed dating party) proceeded to the bar, did a shot and continued to ease the tension with a cool refreshing Miller Lite out of a very classy plastic cup. Nice job DC Young Professionals.

I won't bore you with every detail, but I'm sure you can picture it. Four minutes per "date." Move on. Four minutes. Move on. Four minutes. This is fun! Four minutes. Man, this guy is wasted. Four minutes. Man, this guy is a dork. Four minutes. Didn't I just talk to you? Four minutes. Another lawyer. Huh. Four minutes. Getting bored. Four minutes. Losing my voice. Four minutes. Haha. Your number is 69. Dude, that's awesome. Four minutes. Is that your real name? Four minutes. You came all the way from Maryland to do this? Loser. Four minutes. Is this over yet? Four minutes. Need another beer. Four minutes. I can't believe my friend left me with a guy named Sparky. Four minutes. You're old enough to be my father. Four minutes. Ding ding ding!

Yes, there was a bell. Like cattle, branded by numbers and herded with a bell. Was this really happening? Yes, yes it was. And I did this purely of my own volition. But I have no regrets. I met some "interesting" people, had some amuzing conversations. Like the conversation about late night highway construction. That was a real page turner, let me tell you.

Ah, the single life... full of ups and downs. And when you live in a face paced city, speed dating seems to fit right in. Speed dating stems from speed living, right? We are very caught up in the little details of life and we forget about the big important stuff, like relationships. So we try to squeeze them in. Four minutes, that's all we get? Sometimes it's better to take it easy... chill out... lathargic dating. That's my next adventure.

Who's the scapegoat? Find out quick!

The ravages of Hurricane Katrina are almost too horrible to comprehend. Entire towns underwater, thousands probably dead, the waste, the disease, the violence – and all seemingly handed to a population who couldn’t have had it any worse. They, along with many other poor communities in this country, were forgotten, swallowed up in Red states and other political jargon. The conservatives take care of their voters, right? Not so, we are learning. And why is that? I’d argue that it’s not a race issue at all. It’s all about the money and a disproportioned U.S. priority system.

Louisiana had asked for years for Congressional aid to fix the levy problem. No answer. In 2004, Congress did actually allocate a Gulf Coast Aid program. And where did most of that money go? You guessed it… little brother Jeb. Such a good kid. And so many affluent constituents! And how much money have we spent on an imaginary enemy in the desert? (I'm not naming names of course.) How many people have died for that in comparison to money and effort spent on very real domestic issues?

So the issue, at least in my opinion, is not about race directly. However, it is a fact that the majority of poor people in New Orleans are African-American. You can’t escape that. But I’d argue that even if they were white, the situation would be the same. It came down to poverty, lack of priorities and plain bad luck.

By “bad luck” I mean of all things, nature is the least discriminating. Hurricane Katrina would’ve destroyed the Gulf Coast no matter what – no matter who lived there or how much money was involved. Nature doesn’t see race. Nature doesn’t see partisan debate. So why do we?

The fact of the matter remains that there are people who need our help. For some reason, we are making excuses that cloud that idea. It’s absurd. I’ve heard the following over the past few weeks:

“They had their chance to get out, and they didn’t take it.”
“Now they’re playing the race card! Can you believe it?”
“They are savages. Shooting down the planes that are trying to help them.”
“Looting.”
“Stealing.”
“Ungrateful!”

The whole “blame the victim” game makes no sense. Hurricane warnings are a part of everyday life down there. No one knew that this would be the time the levy would break. I would’ve stayed too. And savages? Yes, the conditions are appalling at times, but these are human beings. We are all capable of the same good and of the same bad… hard to swallow, but it’s true.

Bottom line, they need our help. Let’s stop trying to find the scapegoat. Let’s stop debating just to hear ourselves talk. Let’s open our eyes to the bigger picture of the reality here… an unlucky natural disaster compounded with a slow government response and a very unfortunate population of human beings. By giving into the race argument, for example, we lower ourselves from what really matters. We’re wasting our energy on words that get us nowhere. Help now… do what you can, NOW. And let’s try to prevent this from happening again by getting our priorities as a country in order.

Like Apples and Oranges

I swear to god this is true. Public transportation is a funny thing, full of funny people and funny situations. This has to top them all, at least for me, and at least in a very long time.

It was Friday morning, early, about 7:30 a.m. I boarded the 42 headed south. I paid my $1.25, walked to the back of the bus, just past the back exit door, and took a seat next to a very nice Hispanic gentleman. Slowly, in my morning caffeine-not-quite-kicking-in-yet daze, I realized that the bus driver kept looking in her huge rearview mirror in my general direction. And she looked pissed!

Ask anyone who regularly rides the 42 from about 7:00 to 8:00 a.m. This bus driver is memorable. She exudes miserableness. Is that a word? Well, that's what she exudes.

In any case, I began to get really paranoid that she was looking - wait, scratch that - scowling at me. I mean, this woman could stare you down into submission, I tell no lie.

Finally, at about Connecticut and R streets, she swings herself completely around and says, "You know you're not eatin' oranges on this bus! You KNOW you're not eatin' no oranges on MY bus!"

Everyone looked around like, "Are you eating oranges? I'm not eating oranges, are you?" I'll admit, I smelled something citrus, but I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from.

Then, at the Dupont Circle stop, she actually got up from her bus driver seat and proceeded in my direction, scowl in full force. I had no trace of an orange, or any kind of fruit for that matter, so I felt safe. But, deep down, I feared I was being set up. Did someone plant an orange on me? I was so scared, I'm not kidding.

A sigh of relief! She stopped a few rows in front of me, pointer finger extended, and started beating into this poor guy. The conversation went like this:

Driver Lady: I told you not to be eatin' no oranges on this bus! What do you think you're doin', eatin' oranges on this bus?
Scared Russian Dude (please try to picture a thick Russian accent): Excuse me?
Driver Lady: You best not be eatin' no oranges on this bus! Do you HEAR me? How many times do I have to say it?
Scared Russian Dude: Is it a crime to EAT???
Driver Lady: On this bus it is!
Russian Dude (now sarcastically): So, now it is a crime to eat?
Driver Lady: ON THIS BUS IT IS!
Russian Dude (now mumbling to himself as Driver Lady sits down and resumes the trip): Blah blah blah Russian slang blah blah blah.
Random Passenger #1: You mean you can't let the man eat? Look at him! He's hungry! Why y'all be trippin' over an orange? Shit... it's 6 in the morning and y'all trippin' over a hungry brother who just wants to eat. Sheeeeet y'all.
Russian Dude: You see??? You see what they are doing to you! They are taking away your freedoms one by one. In Soviet Union, people killed for eating oranges! Crime to eat on a bus... (Russian mumbling again)
Random Passenger #2: It's a rule, just follow the rule. The woman said you can't eat oranges on the bus, so don't eat oranges on the bus!
Random Passenger #1: Y'all, it's 6 in the morning! And y'all is trippin' over an orange. Shit.
Random Passenger #2: A rule is a rule. It's not an infringement on your rights. Just eat the orange 10 minutes later when you get off the bus.
Random Passenger #1: The man is hungry now! What the fuck, y'all.

Awkward silence. Then I got off the bus, at my usual stop, although I was so incredibly tempted to stay on. Only in DC, I swear, could you get into a very public political debate with complete strangers about personal freedoms - incited by an orange.

Blog Break - Tribute

"Missing You"
- Tina Turner

Everytime I think of you, I always catch my breath
And I'm still standing here, and you're miles away
and I'm wondering why you left

And there's a storm that's raging
through my frozen heart tonight

I hear your name in certain circles
And it always makes me smile
I spend my time thinking about you
and it's almost driving me wild

And there's a heart that's breaking
down this long distance line tonight

I ain't missing you at all - missing you
since you've been gone
away
missing you
I ain't missing you - missing you
No matter what I might say

There's a message in the wire
and I'm sending the signal tonight
You don't know how desperate I've become
and it looks like I'm losing this fight

In your world I have no meaning
though I'm trying hard to understand

and it's my heart that's breaking
down this long distance line tonight

I ain't missing you at all - missing you
since you've been gone
away
missing you
I ain't missing you - missing you
No matter what I might say

there's a message that I'm sending out
via telegraph to your soul
and if I can't breach this distance
stop this heartbreak overload

Middle Path and New Car

It’s been way too long, way too long. It’s been, what, two weeks, since my last confession? Man, sometimes my Catholic upbringing definitely scares me.

So anyway, these past few weeks have been nothing short of completely nuts. I’ve been getting to work around 7:30 everyday, still staying past 6:30, trying to workout as much as ever, also trying to relax, go out with friends, make weekend trips, keep in touch with family, stay grounded, stay healthy, sleep enough, eat enough, not eat too much, not drink too much, stay cool, manage more responsibility at work, move into an office, establish a candy bowl so people visit me, be there for other people when they need me, throw a party, clean my apartment, do laundry, did I mention stay grounded?

That’s the hardest part.

And, sometimes, it takes a day like this past Sunday to really make you stop… and think. It was one of the hottest days of the summer so far. Typical DC humidity, heat index over 100. Plus it was a Sunday, so on top of the standard hangover that descends upon Adams Morgan’s streets on such a morning, it was hot as hell. No one was out. And if you were, you weren’t talking. And you moved reeeeeeeaaaal slow too.

It takes a day like that to physically slow you down. How crazy is that? Do we really live in a society that does not allow us to think? To slow down? Are our lives that hectic that we can't enjoy the present without the constant worry about the future? I would argue that the answers are all "yes." Because if we did, in fact, slow down, we'd fall behind. Other people would gain advantage and we'd end up in the dust. Crazy materialism. Crazy capitalism.

It was at that moment that I found myself in a used bookstore, searching through the Eastern philosophy section. I decided I’d become a Buddhist. Yeah, you heard me right. That was the answer! No? Not the answer?

Life is suffering, says Buddhism. But we can all still be happy by avoiding our cravings and our desire for material possessions. We must live a simple life. We must try to modify our “wanting” so that all we want is to continue to exist. Then we hit the enlightenment, and all is well. Then we have more time for others and we learn to live one day at a time, enjoying what is the “present.”

Interesting… but I think the most interesting concept in Buddhism is the “middle path.” Bear with me on this one. Buddhists talk a lot about wisdom and compassion. One extreme is when you’re an emotional fool (too much compassion) and the other extreme is when you’re super smart, but kind of a dick (no emotion at all). The correct way is somewhere in the middle… hence “the middle path.”

And that’s my new goal. Call it Buddhism if you want, but whatever it is, I hope to attain it someday. It involves things like open-mindedness, flexibility, wisdom and patience. I’d like to add “new car” to that. Ha. Maybe I'm not really cut out to be a true Buddhist. To be continued…

Freakville

Did you ever have one of those days when you wake up and automatically think to yourself, “Today is a good day. Today, I am in a good mood.”

Well, I had one of those mornings this morning. It was great! I felt invigorated. I felt like Tom Cruise – just full of unexplained irrational energy.

So I made coffee, played with my new cell phone (which, by the way, ROCKS), read the news online, took a shower, ironed my shirt (I know! Amazing!) and decided to treat myself by not making a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. No, today was a good day. Today, I would get lunch at Cosi.

High on life and the prospect of hot baked bread, I left my basement apartment, remembering to turn off the AC (who needs to pay for 11 hours of unappreciated electricity?). I locked the door behind me, and proceeded to the bus stop.

Little did I know what would await me on that short walk to the 42.

I exited my little patio area, made a quick left, a quick right, another quick left…. and BOOM! Smack right into what can only be described as Freakville. I kid you not. What stood before me was a sight indeed. And it took me right down from that “this is a good day” crap.

I had run into two people, a mom and her son. The son was about 5 years old and was riding a very low-to-the-ground tricycle. The mom was walking very slowly behind him. Sounds normal enough, right? Oh no. No no no… these people looked EXACTLY like the mom and son from The Shining. No joke.

Now, if you had a kid that looked like that, why in the world would you give him the same haircut? Seriously! I was so scared, I really was. AND he was riding a tricycle! Was this some kind of sick joke? Why give him a tricycle??? Are you purposely trying to fuck with people’s heads?

I’m extremely serious about this. It was as if they froze that child in time and 25 years later decided to freak everyone out. Well I guess the kid doesn’t have to worry about a Halloween costume this year. However, he will get no candy from me, that’s for sure. Where do you get off ruining my good day? Redrum!

By the way, The Shining and most other Stanley Kubrick movies, are excellent films. I’d even categorize Eyes Wide Shut as an excellent film. Although, I am currently boycotting all Tom Cruise movies for obvious reasons. I know movies, Tom. I know them! You don’t understand movies like I understand them, Tom! I have the research!

Wabi Sabi

Having only lived in my apartment for about six months now, I am still trying to find my own sense of style --- some sense of continuity amid the random college leftovers, arbitrary items from Pier One and presents from Mom. (Shout out to Mom… thanks for the Asian influence! Next entry explores my newfound interest in Buddhism.)

So in my search, I came across this new design trend. It's "the new Feng Shui" they say. And it's supposed to be simpler. Not as structured. And it’s called Wabi Sabi.

This Japanese philosophy celebrates the beauty of imperfection, and I think that's a fantastic idea. See that pile of laundry... it's really quite beautiful. That dirty plate in the sink. Gorgeous.

Ha, seriously, it is interesting, so I'm passing it on to all you interior designers. It sounds so nice to me... the concept of making your home a "peaceful" one, not necessarily trendy. But, I guess the philosophy is actually becoming trendy itself now. Damn media! Well, anyway, it's worth looking into. Plus it's really fun to say... WABI SABI!!!

For example:

Guest: "So where did you get that cool chair, I love it. It just screams humility."
You: "Wabi sabi! Ask no questions! Only WABI SABI!"

At which point you start loosing friends. Not only is your place a mess and full of dilapidated furniture which you call “antiques,” but now you’ve become obsessed.

http://home.ivillage.com/decorating/0,,7wwpxmf5,00.html?nlcid=c%7C466,21325

The Great Coffee Debate - No, the Other One

Thought I’d take a break from thoughts on media and religion, and start talking about what really matters in life - coffee. Each day presents new challenges, new faces, new experiences (which is great). But there are also a few consistencies that help establish stability (also good). One of these regular daily occurrences, and the one I would argue to be most important, is none other than my friend, an invigorating cup ‘o joe.

Coffee literally fuels my day, every day. I make a four-cup pot in the morning and typically stop for some extra goop on my way to work. Like most people in this city, coffee is a part of my life. I enjoy the aroma. I enjoy the people I meet in the coffee shops. I enjoy the caffeine. I enjoy the short reprieve on my walk to work and the realization that ok, now I am ready for this day. And I enjoy the power of personal choice associated with a cup of coffee. Do I want milk today? Sugar? Espresso? Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But it’s definitely up to me. I can start my day off with a rock-hard decision. Feels good.

Until…

I decided to get some treats for my team at work this week. So I stopped in the Krispy Kreme around 7:45 a.m. for 48 donut holes and, of course, a cup of coffee for myself.

Me: “48 donut holes, please.”
Lady: “What kind?”
Me: “Um, half chocolate, half regular.”

[Donut counting takes place]

Lady: “Ok, here you go.”
Me: “Great, thanks! And can I get a tall of your bold coffee. That’s it.”
Lady: “A what?”
Me: “Just a tall coffee, please. The bold flavor. Thanks.”
Lady: “Excuse me, but we don’t have ‘tall’ coffee.”
Me: “Um, ok.”
Lady [now with attitude]: “You’re not in Starbucks.”
Me: “Ok, sorry.”
Lady: “I used to work there though. Those bitches.”
Me: “Huh.”
Lady: “So you want a small?”
Me [checking the menu above]: “Yeah, small. That’s good. Thanks.”

As I walked to work that day, carrying my donut holes and coffee, I realized several things.

One, the bitchiness of that lady’s ex-coworkers is apparently contagious.

Two, maybe I was wrong about the whole “personal choice” and “rock-hard decision” thing. Maybe I’m completely powerLESS when it comes to coffee. Could that be true? Have I been brainwashed by the big bad Starbucks? Not every coffee shop has tall, grande and venti? WHAT??!!? Maybe we’re all puppets when it comes to coffee choices. We think we rule our own destiny when we say things like, “I’ll have a grande skim hazelnut mocha, sugar free syrup, no whip, extra shot… and can you leave the top off?” But what we fail to realize is that we’ve been trained to say that. It’s totally a false sense of control. Come on people. You’re spending over three bucks on a small amount of liquid when you could easily just get a plain coffee, add your own milk and there you go. “But it tastes so good,” right? “They make it just the way I like it.” Oh no, they tell you how you like it.

My confusion in Krispy Kreme was a real eye-opener for me. Of course not everyone serves tall, grande and venti! Man, the effects of this homogenized society. Not good.

Three, I started to contemplate the meaning of tall, grande and venti. And I realized that the brainwashing is even worse than I originally imagined. Why? Because it’s not even a logical order. Let me explain.

The real sizes of coffee cups, at Starbucks as well as other coffee shops, are 12 oz, 16 oz and 20 oz. That’s pretty standard for “to go” coffee. “Venti” actually does mean “20” in Italian (shout out to my heritage!). So, in logical order, the 16 oz should be called “sedici” and the 12 oz “dodici.” But no! What the hell? They try to act all cool with the Italian word, but don’t really follow through. Posers.

Furthermore, if the 12 oz is “tall,” then the next should be “taller” and then, you guessed it, “tallest.” But this baffles me too, because shouldn’t “tall” be one of the bigger sizes to begin with? And then we should have a “short” and maybe a “holy crap he’s huge” size.

You get the point. Not only are we conditioned to think that tall, grande and venti are normal, but the conditioning is not based in any sort of logic. I’d like to thank you, bitchy lady in Krispy Kreme, for bringing all this to my attention.

By the way, the donut holes in Krispy Kreme are like heaven in a little ball of sugar and fat. Mmmmm….

Mary Magdalene

Just wanted to point out that Anne Bancroft passed away recently. It's a sad day for us all really. With such groundbreaking performances as Mrs. Robinson and Anne Sullivan, she made a strong mark on American cinematography. However, the role that changed my life had to be her depiction of Mary Magdalene in Jesus of Nazareth.

As a Catholic school girl (don't get any ideas, I really was a Catholic school girl, and honestly very innocent, until reality set in, but that's another story) ... anyway, as a Catholic school girl, I was forced to watch Jesus of Nazareth at least 100 times in grade school and high school. Every chance we got, we watched that frickin' movie. I'm sorry, did someone say brainwashing cult? Don't get me wrong, it's a great movie - far superior to the overly scary Mel Gibson version, by the way - but perhaps slight overkill in my early upbringing.

The character in the movie that always struck me was Mary Magdalene, played by Anne Bancroft. (Note: I had no idea who Anne Bancroft was at the time, and it’s really not relevant, but provided a good segue for this post.)

Mary Magdalene had a bad rap, you know, being a prostitute and all that. But she was cool. She knew how to hang with the apostles. And she was one of the few major female characters in the Bible. Too bad she was a whore. Looking back, I wonder who my role model was supposed to be… the immaculate Mary, mother of God, born without original sin? ‘Cause that’s totally attainable. Ha. Or maybe Mary Magdalene, the sinful, yet forgiven, prostitute. Hmmmm…

So I’ve always leant towards the prostitute, not because I consider myself to be one, but maybe because she wasn’t perfect, and I knew I was far from the Catholic perception of “perfect.” Plus you know she was hooking up with the big JC. Come on, people. He was half man and half god, right? And I think we can all figure out which half was which, if ya know what I’m sayin’.

And also, the best song in Jesus Christ, Superstar is “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” sung by none other than my favorite, the original Eminem. You go Mary Magdalene. That song rocks out.

So I was convinced that Mary Magdalene was to be my role model. A sinner, yes, but she was transformed. She saw love and compassion in the eyes of Christ and turned her life around. She, amazingly, didn’t need to sell herself anymore because she joined a cult that provided food and shelter I guess. (Sorry, I’m going to hell, I know.) She was a devote follower. Despite her wretched sins, she was forgiven. Ok, I could deal with that. Until…

I read recently that Mary Magdalene was not a prostitute. WHAT?!?!? I know. Apparently, there are a lot of scholars out there who say that nothing in the New Testament says she was a whore. This is what we know:

Luke writes that Jesus casts seven demons from her, after which she joins his disciples and provides for them. Then, she witnesses the crucifixion from the foot of the cross, after the male disciples fled. She witnessed Christ’s burial. And she was the first witness to the resurrection and was sent by Jesus to tell his other disciples of his return, therefore called the “Apostle of the Apostles.”

Those are facts. Well, as much as the Bible is able to provide facts anyway. So how did she get this awful reputation? Answer: at the end of the 6th century, Pope Gregory the Great gave a sermon in which he characterized Mary Magdalene as a prostitute. Possibly incited by rumor already out there, but still. Way to knock us down, Pope Man.

Many are using the facts about Mary Magdalene as reasons to ordain women in the Catholic Church. If she was the first person that Jesus appeared to after the resurrection, then she, and women everywhere, must be worthy. I’m not going to get into that argument, but I have to say, the story of Mary Magdalene is now more inspiring. She was not a “fallen woman” or a “harlot” as Pope Gregory the Great would have us think. She was a strong leader. And little Catholic girls everywhere should know that... I mean, if we're going to brainwash them, might as well try to use the truth.

http://www.danbrown.com/media/morenews/time.html

Deep Throat

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"That's the man!"

There is a program in DC called "Street Sense" (www.streetsense.org). Basically, Street Sense is a monthly newspaper that educates people about homelessness and local poverty issues. They hire "vendors," who are typically homeless people, to sell the papers. They pay 30 cents per paper and sell it for one dollar, making about $50 bucks a day, or more, depending on which area of the city they claim.

It's a great cause, and many of the issues raised in the coverage are worth reading. Plus you feel good contributing. The vendors work hard, sometimes in really cold or really hot conditions. And they never complain. After all, this is part of their livelihood and their attempt to get back on their feet.

So I'm walking to work yesterday, and I see a vendor on the corner of 18th and K. I've seen this guy before, an older gentleman probably in his 70's. Wrinkled black face and hands, not many teeth. But always a smile. And a big, "STREET SENSE! GET YOUR STREET SENSE! NEW COPY! STREET SENSE!"

Only this time he looks different. Ah ha! I figure it out. He’s wearing a suit! And not your typical suit ... this one is from way back in the day. It was light tan and would've been perfectly complemented by a top hat, bow tie, cane and a flower in the lapel. And maybe some big band music. No, wait, blues. Yes, blues is much better. This guy has style.

He looks so cute all dressed up that I have to buy a paper.

I grab a dollar bill and make my way over to him. This is the clincher right here. As he hands me the paper, he starts saying, repeatedly, "That's the man! That's the man right there! Mmmmm hmmmm. That's the man alright."

Now, I'm thinking, I'm a girl. I mean, I know I have short hair and everything, but I think I'm undoubtedly of the feminine gender. So I'm confused. I almost say, in my defense, "Sir..." And then I was hoping he'd recognize a girl's voice and let it go at that. I'm also thinking, well, maybe he thinks I'm SO cool that he can include me in his super cool circle of friends, who all, by default, call each other "man?" Sometimes I call my friends man or, more likely, dude so that would've been ok.

So he continues saying, “That’s the man!” Just as I convince myself that I am, in fact, “the man,” I almost reply, “Thanks, man! Just trying to help you out, you know how it is.” But then I realize…

He’s pointing to a picture of himself in the paper itself. He’s the man! He had been featured in the “vendor spotlight” and was so proud to see his picture in print, it was adorable. He just wanted to share his excitement with me.

So, I felt like schmuck, but I was so happy to see his face light up like that. Also helps to explain the special suit. Deep down, though, I feel like he was talking to me. I feel like we have a bond. And I AM the man.

Stamps

So I try to do something for the greater good and this is the response I get:

"here's what i think of your request...see below"
--- From an anonymous, funny, yet bitchy good friend of mine

ORIGINAL EMAIL, SENT BY ME, WITH ANONYMOUS FRIEND’S INPUT IN CAPS

We all need stamps. For an extra $1.60, you can have your stamps and fight breast cancer at the same time. The government actually helps us do this. Plus, $9.00 is a nice even number, compared to the awkwardly changed $7.40 you'd pay for regular (and might I add, boring) stamps. $1.60 CAN GET YOU A BEER AT THE RIGHT BAR ON THE RIGHT NIGHT; IT PAYS FOR 1/2 A PACK OF SMOKES; YOU CAN GET 1/2 TANK OF GAS...WELL, YOU GET THE POINT

Background information (www.curebreastcancer.org):
Despite some wishful reports, breast cancer is on the rise worldwide. In the United States alone, as the baby boomer generation ages, the National Cancer Institute (NCI) predicts that 480,000 women will have been diagnosed with invasive breast cancers by 2017. While similar statistics are not available internationally, there is every reason to believe that such dramatic increases will be global.

The Breast Cancer Research Stamp was issued in 1998 at a White House ceremony following two years of congressional lobbying. It was the first semi-postal (a stamp priced above its actual value) in United States history. To date, more than 600 million stamps have been sold, raising more than $50 million for breast cancer research.

The stamp depicts Diana, the huntress and goddess of fertility, reaching behind her head to pull an arrow from her quiver to fend off an enemy, in this case, breast cancer. The image reflects the same position that a woman assumes for a breast self-exam and mammography.

What you can do TODAY:
1. Go out and purchase some of these stamps. IS THIS CHICK NAKED? CAN I REALLY PUT PORN ON MY MAIL?
2. Forward this to all your friends and urge them to do the same.

Top 10 things you can do with stamps:
1. Pay your bills ALL I CAN SAY IS ONLINE BILL PAY (WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN)
2. Send letters to people (ah hem.... ) EMAIL WORKS JUST FINE
3. Create cool collages STICKERS CAN WORK JUST AS EFFECTIVELY. THAT OR A DECK OF CARDS
4. Use as tape in emergencies HOW DOES THAT HELP IF I'M TRAPPED I A BURNING CAR?
5. Promote breast cancer awareness and help fund research for a cure OK. I WON'T TOUCH THIS ONE
6. Decorate your notebook DON'T LOOK GOOD ON COMPUTERS...HMMM
7. Discreetly stick to someone's back because you want to "ship them far away." People will be amused LOL. BEST REASON OF THE BUNCH
8. Collect them ALONG WITH YOUR COIN COLLECTION
9. Give them as presents. Everyone loves a good stamp EVERYONE LOVES A GOOD...HMMM...USE YOUR IMAGINATION
10. Promote breast cancer awareness and help fund research for a cure (purposely repeated) YES, GREAT CAUSE

Many of us know women and their families who are forever affected by breast cancer.

"It takes so little to do so much..."

So, in the end, it's still a great cause and I fully support buying these stamps. By the way, I do not own a stamp collection.

Crazy Exhibitionist Boxer Lady Bears All in Women’s Locker Room

I’ve never seen anything like it. And, believe me, I’ve seen a lot. I go to a gym where people tend to “show off” quite a bit, but this lady has gone a step too far.

As background, I started taking boxing and kickboxing classes at my gym every week. It’s a great workout, and I love every minute of it, as well as the good night sleep I get afterwards. I’ve become somewhat of a regular. People recognize me, the instructors make fun of me, it’s great.

There is a woman who attends the Tuesday night kickboxing class every week, and, judging by her rather large, yet well-toned, exterior, she’s been a regular far longer than I have. She has her own gloves, just like I do, but hers are for actual boxing, like the version where you hit people. [side note: I prefer hitting bags, not people.] She wears actual boxing clothing, which is very cool, but also somewhat revealing – pretty much a sports bra and loose pants. And if you’re a “truly cool” boxer, the pieces of your boxing outfit should undoubtedly match. Hers do.

This woman has shown up to class with black eyes and bruises on her arms. Nothing to be alarmed about. No need to call social services. I think she’s actually boxing – in the ring. I saw Million Dollar Baby and I ain’t gonna do it. I ain’t gonna do it, Boss!

So you’d think there would be some mutual respect going on between the instructor and this woman. Our instructor is the coolest guy ever. He’s actually a middleweight champion. But, no. He barely talks to her. I should’ve known something was up.

Now that you have the background, let’s get right down to some good ole fashioned exhibitionism.

At the end of every kickboxing class, we take off our gloves and do some stretches. Then we clap for the instructor and start to gather our things. Meanwhile, the music still plays just because they haven’t turned it off yet. Most people are thinking, I’m ready to go home, get me some water, etc. Not crazy exhibitionist boxer lady. No, she starts dancing to the music, in front of the wall of mirrors, staring at herself.

She dances as if she’s in a strip club and she, herself, is her only audience. It’s as if no one is in the room. It’s not like fun, I’m with my girlfriends, kind of dancing. It’s seductive and sexual. It’s almost dirty. To make it worse, she makes faces into the mirror like she’s actually having sex. I wonder what’s going on under those baggy pants now that I think about it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good seductive dance with myself in front of a wall of mirrors on occasion, but I don’t think I’d do it in front of 20 people at the gym. Save it for your cat, lady.

And the icing on the cake. The other day, as I was walking out of the ladies locker room, I spotted her. You really can’t miss those muscular arms. I’m surprised that’s the first thing I noticed actually, because she was COMPLETELY naked. And she was drying her boobs with the HAIRDRYER. Who does that? And why would you do that? Maybe her boobs were especially wet that day. But wouldn’t you know, she was doing it in front of a mirror.

When you get right down to it, I don’t mind outward signs of anyone’s sexuality. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. However, I am totally distracted by this woman. Am I jealous? Am I jealous that she is able to be so openly exhibitionist? Do I secretly want to be one? I don’t think so… I guess crazy exhibitionist boxer lady bothers me because she obviously gets off on her own body, and that, to me, seems sort of self-absorbed. But, hey, she’s not hurting anyone, right?

Just you wait. Crazy exhibitionist boxer lady, if you ever read this, this is NOT about you. You could totally kick my ass and I, in no way, wish to offend you. Now go find a mirror and rock out. You go girl.

FYI ---

Exhibitionist (n.)
1: someone with a compulsive desire to expose the genitals [syn: flasher] 2: someone who deliberately behaves in such a way as to attract attention [syn: show-off]

I couldn't resist

I know I said I would avoid political commentary, but this was just so interesting and upsetting to me, that I had to pass it on.

US accused of trying to block abortion pills
Sarah Boseley, health editor
The Guardian (UK paper)
Thursday April 21, 2005

http://www.guardian.co.uk/print/0,3858,5175920-103681,00.html

The US government is trying to block the World Health Organisation from endorsing two abortion pills which could save the lives of some of the 68,000 women who die from unsafe practices in poor countries every year.

The WHO wants to put the pills on its essential medicines list, which constitutes official advice to all governments on the basic drugs their doctors should have available.

Last month, an expert committee met to consider a number of new drugs for inclusion on the list. They approved for the first time two pills, to be used in combination for the termination of early pregnancy, called mifepristone and misoprostol. In poor countries where abortion is legal, doctors currently have no alternative to surgery.

The Guardian understands that the US department of health and human services has been lobbying the director general's office at the WHO to block approval of the pills, in line with President George Bush's neoconservative stance on abortion.

While the availability of pills might make abortion easier and could increase the number choosing it, the experts want them listed to reduce the deaths and damage caused by surgery. Every year, 19 million women have unsafe abortions - 18.5 million of those take place in developing countries. An estimated 68,000 women die as a result of botched or unhygienic surgery, while many others suffer long-term damage, including sterility.

The WHO's own department of reproductive health proposed the addition of the abortion pills to the list.

In a review of the drugs for the committee, a Brazilian professor of pharmacology, Lenita Wannmacher, wrote: "There is great concern about the effectiveness and safety of surgical methods that may be less effective and may increase the risk of infection, uterine perforation, cervical laceration, incomplete evacuation, haemorrhage, miscarriage, future sterility and even death."

The risk of death from abortion in developing countries is 100 times higher than in countries such as the UK, where mifepristone has been licensed since 1991. The pills were licensed in the US in 2000.

The WHO committee, which included two British and two US experts, recommended unanimously that the pills go on the essential medicines list. But although the director general's approval is usually a formality and the changes are published within days, more than a month has now passed.

On March 23, the director general's office wrote to committee members asking if they had considered a warning that mifepristone can, in rare cases, carry a risk of serious bacterial infections, sepsis and bleeding. The committee members replied that all side-effects had been considered, adding that the risks of infection and bleeding from surgery in poor countries were far greater.

One committee member told the Guardian that all the evidence on the risks and benefits of the pills had been on the WHO website for months.

A spokeswoman for the WHO director general's office said there had been delays because "we had some questions and sought clarification."

Asked whether there had been any contact between the US department of health and human services and the director general's office, she said: "I can't answer that. I just don't know." She said a decision would be made within days.

The Circle of Life

As the great Sir Elton John once wrote, it’s the circle of life, and it moves us all. Through despair and hope. Through faith and love… was that before or after the baby lion watches his own father get killed by a, what was it? Stampede of hyenas? Or was it Jeremy Irons? I don’t remember. But it was not good. Disney movies are scary.

Anyway, I had a revelation this morning that I thought I’d share. There has been a lot of change in my life recently. Out with the old and in with the new. Connecting the past to the present. Finding peace in an otherwise crazy situation. Making plans. Breaking plans. Dealing with separation. Finding new hobbies, new friends. Rediscovering old relationships. Moving on. Caring more deeply than I thought I could. You know how it is, it’s just life. Anyway, my revelation.

The circle of life is somewhat deceiving, at least to me. I believe that we are all connected and I believe in action/reaction or cause/effect theories, but there is a slight difference in how I choose to live my life. The circle of life suggests a sort of fatality, a predetermined destiny. Once you find your place in this world, you do your thing and that’s that. The rest will fall into place around you, in the “circle.” You’re kind of moved along in the rotation.

Not me. I make my own destiny. My life is more of an octagon or a trapezoid even, with a huge diagonal line down the center, just in case I want to go from Point D to Point A and I don’t have a lot of time. I can eat tofu if I want to (not likely, but just making a point). I can choose not to have children and that could be ok. I can cancel all my plans and risk my job if that meant taking care of someone I love. I can be a really good person… and yet not believe in a particular religion. I can order an extra greasy burger and fries, with a diet coke on the side. I can take off for the weekend with no real agenda. Or I can carefully plan a single evening. I can paint a wall in my bedroom fluorescent green if I wanted to… not that I would of course.

The point? I think I finally realized, in a really conscious way, that life is not about falling into “the circle.” It’s about enjoying whatever shape you make it out to be. And it was at that exact moment when I decided to become a geometry teacher.

Freaky Yogurt Loaf People

Tuesday morning. The sun was shining, about 45 degrees and slowly climbing to the predicted 70 for the day. I was strutting my shades and feeling “all cool ‘n shit.” People were generally happy, taking more time than usual on the walk to work given the beautiful weather. Things were looking up, and I was feeling chill. I decided to stop in my favorite coffee shop for my signature “tall regular coffee.” Start the day off right.

The people in this place know me well. I frequently stop there for the aforementioned regular coffee, and often add on a “yogurt loaf” to my order. For background, the yogurt loaf is a miracle of modern baking technology. It’s about 5 x 4 x 2 inches, individually wrapped in plastic wrap, and is surprisingly 97% fat free. You can get the marble flavor, lemon, or, my fave, cappuccino chocolate chip. Full of sugar, granted, but whatever, it’s good.

Anyway, I had already had breakfast, so I just ordered the coffee. As I’m paying, I glance over to where the basket of yogurt loaves usually sits on the counter, hoping I wouldn’t be tempted to get one (I’m trying to avoid the double breakfast). There was no basket, so I casually say to the friendly girl at the register, “What? No yogurt loaves anymore?” to which chaos quickly ensued.

As if I just fired a preemptive gunshot from the front lines, the workers in the coffee shop quickly sprung to attention. There were four of them, apparently previously hiding under the counter, I’m really not sure. It’s kind of blurry. The girl at the register started pacing back and forth and the other three ran to the back to search for the yogurt loaves. I tried to stop them by yelling an original, “Stop!” No one seemed to hear me, they were so determined. It was seriously insane. It was only 8:00 a.m., and I was confused.

The only way to actually bring to an end to the great crusade for the yogurt loaf was to literally scream, with my hands actually up in the air in “stop” positions, “Please stop! Not today! I don’t want the yogurt loaf today! Thank you so much, but I was just asking! NOT TODAY!!! STOP!!!”

Register girl finally stopped pacing and heard me. Because I already had my change from the coffee purchase, I just snuck out. There was nothing else I could do. A few of them were still scurrying about trying to find a piece of yogurt loaf. I hope they found one, for their sakes. I just laughed the rest of my way to work…

http://bkfoods.com/loaves.html

PS: A shout out to Uncommon Grounds, the Georgetown coffee shop, who sold yogurt muffins (very similar product) when I went to school there. I’m not sure if they sell them, but that’s what got me hooked. Little did I know that when you start to work downtown, muffins morph into loaves, and loaves produce irrational obsessive behaviors, but it’s all good.

Not funny, yet I laugh

If one more person sends me this Easter bunny rap thing, I might do something drastic. I have received this forward from several people over the last few days, and, every time, I think, yay, a personal email. And then, almost inevitably, it's the god damn bunny rap.

I can only describe it like an accident on the side of a highway. You know it's bad, but you can't stop looking. Oh, and there's a freaky bunny rapper singing on your radio too.

Check it out. I guess it could be somewhat entertaining, if the bunny was actually cute, and not the size of a horse. However, I have to admit, it makes me laugh. So keep 'em coming! You know you want to send it to me... you know you do.

http://i.flowgo.com/greetings/rapeasterbunny/rapeasterbunny.swf

Mr. Turkey Meatball, I salute you

It was a long, stressful day. I went out after work to meet someone and unwind a little. Three vodka cranberries, two and a half hours and no dinner later…

Yet another bizarre cab ride home. Some cab drivers are super nice, some are completely cold and then some are just plain weird. This guy fell into category #3. He decided to impart upon me his philosophy of dating and relationships. I’m thinking, well this should be good! I could use some advice. Who couldn’t… you know? Well, it wasn’t as enlightening as I had hoped. He ended up telling me that, in essence, nothing matters when it comes to dating. Looks don’t matter, personality doesn’t matter, humor doesn’t matter, chemistry doesn’t matter, money doesn’t matter, religion doesn’t matter, etc. He went on and on. What’s your point, I asked. Nothing, no point, was pretty much his answer. So I should just give up on dating then? Great. Ok, how much will that be?

Very anticlimactic, and depressing.

So I walked into my apartment, my stomach craving some sustenance and my head full of bad cab driver memories. There was nothing in the fridge, so I opened the freezer. Aha! Millions of turkey meatballs! It was like a moment of intense clarity, a light at the end of a tunnel, and, of course, the perfect 10 p.m. snack. Mr. Turkey Meatball (pseudonym Aunt Judy), thank you for YOU. You are a life saver. And not the fruit-flavored candy, either. No, you are the kind that actually “saves lives.” I need you on that wall (random movie quote). Your fried turkey and vegetable goodness simply hit the spot. Both my stomach and my head salute you this morning. And I salute you forever. Mr. Turkey Meatball, this one’s for you...

No day but today

Benjamin Franklin once said, “You may delay, but time will not.” Well, Benj, I hate to break it to you, but I did it. I totally delayed time.

This story proves the danger of too much routine and stability. February 26th, February 27th, February 28th and then we have February 29th, right? According to my notes from work, yesterday was, in fact, February 29th. I went through the ENTIRE day thinking that it was still February. And the notion of a leap year never even crossed my mind. It was just that the day before was February 28th, so naturally it must have been February 29th. Scary.

I’m completely aware of the date now. Today is March 2nd. It’s pretty cool to be a day further along in time, but I’m not an advocate of this method. I feel a little jet lagged to be honest. Next entry, the meaning of the term “jet lag.”

Drumroll

Friends, family, colleagues, random mean dude who said I should have sex with Al Franken… I am back. It’s been a while and I regret being such a slacker for the past two months, not really because I’m disappointing my fans – all, eh hem, three of them – but more because I actually enjoy doing this!

Round 2 of AO in DC will not be without changes, however. I’ve decided that the world is too consumed by negative energy. Why should I contribute to that? I will not abandon my sarcasm, but my hope is to focus on the positive side of sarcasm. I’ve also realized that my partisan thinking was doing absolutely no good. All political parties have their evil moments, some more than others… ok, an occasional jab at a Republican or two. We all know there is no such thing as cold turkey, honestly.

So stay tuned. My next post will be very soon. In the meantime, I’ll give you topic. Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island… discuss.