Giant Squid, Merry Christmas

Holy crap people! Not sure if you've heard, but researchers in Japan just filmed and captured a giant squid. You know, like a 20,000 Leagues type squid. Freeeeeaky.

Now scientists believe they are "more plentiful" than originally thought. Awesome. I'd like to point out that it was 24 feet long. That is about four people (or five people if you come from an Italian family) put together. Furthermore, the biggest giant squid on record was 60 feet. 60 FRICKIN feet. That is one huge ass piece of calamari.

What irks me most about this whole "capture" scheme is that A) they used a smaller squid as bait, B) it put up a fight and was hurt, C) it was not fully grown and D) it died.

Now I ask you. For what? It is the holiday season for crying out loud. I check cnn.com, innocently procrastinating on the last day of work before vacation, and BAM! Giant god damn squid. I may have nightmares. Not only are these things freakishly huge, but the image of human beings wrestling with it, as it struggles to sustain its short life, doesn't exactly scream Merry Christmas. Plus, they used a smaller baby squid as bait? WTF. Are squid such horrible creatures that they would eat their own young? Or are they that hungry? Maybe we should feed the squid instead of killing them. Here, big freaky squid. Here is some food. There you go. Now that's the holiday spirit.

But no.

Now I will live in fear every time I leave my apartment. I'll sleep with one eye open.

Message to giant squid:

Now hear this, giant squid! You will not win this battle! Your prehistoric freaky size will not scare me into a life of solitude in some land locked state! I will see the ocean again! And by god I will swim in it. I'm not saying I will ever swim anywhere remotely near Tokyo (I mean, I'm no idiot), but I will be swimming! Also, giant squid friend, if you see what looks like a boat overhead, run. Or swim. Or whatever it is that you do! Humans are not your friends. As much as I fear you, I respect you for your power. And from this sense of respect I feel I must warn you against our evil ways which we claim should be undertaken for the sake of "research." Just stay away from the surface. Oh, and stop eating little tiny versions of yourself. That's just sick.

The End. May the holiday season be a happy one for you. May you receive the gifts of love, happiness, good health and humor. And may you not live in fear of freakishly huge aquatic monsters.

Giant squid being captured with baby squid bait:












Characters from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, talking about how freaky and scary giant squid are:










Final thought:
"Think of it. On the surface there is hunger and fear. Men still exercise unjust laws. They fight, tear one another to pieces. A mere few feet beneath the waves their reign ceases, their evil drowns. Here on the ocean floor is the only independence. Here I am free!" --- Captain Nemo

Flow

I watched Hustle & Flow over the weekend, and I have to say, two thumbs up! Way up? Not so much. But they are up. Both of them.

Despite winning the award for the song "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp," I think the story exalted itself above your typical pimps 'n hos tale. It was a story about a dream... and a very unlikely dreamer. And I loved that. Too often we get sucked into the everyday routine and we don't allow ourselves to dream. Wanna be a rapper? Go for it. Wanna get your PhD? Do it. Wanna quit this city and travel around the world on a credit card? What better time than now.

Don't get me wrong. I don't condone shooting people to get this dream of yours. Shooting is bad. Exploiting women? Bad. But if you get the chance, I say follow your dream. Life is short, right?

Also, I have to comment on the dialogue in this movie. I consider myself to be pretty cool, pretty hip. You know. I listen to rap. I listen to R&B. But the first 20 minutes of this movie? No frickin' clue. I considered putting on the subtitles. But then I thought to myself, no! You can do this. Go with the "flow." And I did. Yay for me. But a warning to the rest of you... the ebonics are killer. I guess, despite my best attempts, I am white after all. Oh well. There's always hope for the next life.

Perspective

A few people noticed that I've neglected to write much lately. Thanks for noticing, by the way. It's nice to know you are liked, even if it's only by two people. Ha.

Life has been crazy, as they say. Lots of ups and downs. The ups are almost euphoric. And the downs can be debilitating. It's been so extreme that I considered the possibility of being bipolar. But then I remembered that the periods of mania vs. depression tend to last longer than a few hours. At least that's what my Intro to Psych book said.

It's in the down periods when I find it hard to write much. It's easier to watch a movie, go the gym or, I'll admit it, drink. Anything to keep my mind occupied.

This has been a great coping strategy for quite some time. Repression, baby. Gotta love it.

Until this morning.

I received an email from someone I knew very briefly. In it, she described her very sudden struggle with cancer. It was one of those shockers that made you say things like, "Why the good people? Why someone so young? Really, of all people. It just doesn't seem fair."

But as I read this email, I realized that she is doing great. Beyond great actually. She has a very promising prognosis and a wonderful family. But more than that, she probably has the strongest, most positive attitude of anyone I know... cancer or not. And I say that in complete honesty.

Her optimism, enthusiasm and gratitude made me stop and think. It's not just that I might be upset about things that don't matter much in the end. It's not just that. Because I believe that many of these things do matter. But I realized that by dwelling on these things, I could be missing other, possibly fantastic things. Like, for example, the number of times I've used the word "things" in this paragraph.

Her story also made me contemplate the whole "it happens for a reason" theory. But that's another post, for a later date. For now, I want to thank this person for putting life in perspective for me. Perfect timing. I know you have a lot of support and inspiration already, so thanks for being that for me today. You rock, as always.

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.

My Narrow Mouth

I have always hated doctors. With a passion. You can trace this back to many things in my childhood, of course, but let’s not go there. Let’s focus on the positive.

So I recently chose a new dentist, which, by the way, is the worst of all doctors (haha, this may not be so positive after all). I have always feared the dentist and have always dreaded going. I have very strong opinions about what goes in there. For example, I believe that the reason my gums bleed is because, “I obviously have very sensitive gums, more sensitive than most.” But, in reality, I know that it’s because I don’t floss enough. Still, that doesn’t stop me from grunting, “Owww... what the hell?” when they poke at me, usually followed by, "f'in bitch," in my head. And then I add a good solid roll of the eyes. I believe that oral hygienists have the compassion of twigs.

I am so horrible as a dental patient, it’s almost embarrassing. I say “almost” because I haven’t yet reached the point of rational thinking. I still HATE the dentist and all that he stands for. I still think the equipment is barbaric and cruel. And I still think people who go into the dental profession must have some sick twisted idea of humanity. And it’s called sadism.

With that said...

I went to the dentist yesterday for a follow up appointment, some x-rays and a discussion with the doctor about additional cosmetic work. I have to say, if I must endure the dentist, I found the place to do it. This place has scented candles, soothing music, water, juice and a food massager. And, they LOVE me. What can I say, I know how to turn on the charm when necessary.

Throughout the whole experience – the x-ray chair, the regular chair and the three or four hygienists that worked on my mouth – there was a distinct theme. I’ll let you be the judge. You ready for this? These are actual quotes, no joke.

During xrays:
(The hygienist didn’t speak English very well.)
“Oh boy! You have small mouth! How supposed to get it in there?”
“You can’t open mouth wider than THAT?”
“Mouth so small! How you have mouth so small?”

During the consultation with the doctor:
(The doctor was amazing, but loved to hear himself talk.)
“You don’t have a lot to worry about actually. You have great lips. And you present well.”
“What I’d like to do is widen your smile. Like Julia Roberts. Your mouth is really narrow, but it’s deep.”
“You have excellent bone structure. Very healthy. Very healthy.”

During the goopy-mold mouth impression:
(This hygienist was curiously giddy. I think she snuck into the nitrous room actually.)
“I can’t seem to fit it in. Your mouth is so tiny!”
“I want to use the child version on you because your mouth is so small, but then we wouldn’t be able to get it all the way back. Your mouth is narrow, but it goes back far!”
“You have to be quick with these things. Sometimes it gets hard before you even get it in the mouth.”
“Brace yourself. I’m about to pull it out.”

So, in the end, given the obvious hilarity of the above quotes, this past dentist appointment wasn’t so bad. It’s amazing how a little sexual innuendo can make any situation funny... and, in the case of the worst doctor in the world (i.e., the dentist), sexual innuendo can make it tolerable... especially when you’re laughing on the inside, unbeknownst to anyone else in the room.

I also learned that although my mouth is abnormally narrow, it’s deep. And I have nice lips.

Flux

Flux is such a great word. Totally underutilized. I feel that lately my life has been in a somewhat surreal state of flux, which, by definition, means flow or change (or bodily discharge, fyi, but obviously I'm avoiding that particular meaning, at least for this post).

I've always been the type of person that avoids change at all costs. Moving to DC was the biggest change I had ever hoped to endure. I'd go to school here, get a job here, meet new friends, live here, breathe here. Forever. FOR. EV. ER. Thank you Sandlot.

But what I failed to realize was that change would happen around me and directly to me. And that I'd be powerless to stop it. People move away. Schmadri, Schmenny and Schmatie (names have been changed for the sake of anonymity), for example, three of my closest and dearest friends, three people that know me better than most, have already moved on. And several more are about to. My job has changed... twice. My apartment... once. My hair... a lot.

People in this city are constantly saying that DC is "so transient." It's become a cliche at this point. "Oh, nobody is actually from here. It's so transient. You know." ... "Yeah, man. Word."

Well, finally I've accepted this state of change, this state of flux, for what it is. One of the tenets of Buddhism is that life is always in flux. There are no constants. And if we believe that something is constant or always this way or that way, we are fooling ourselves. And we create what Buddhism calls "dukkha," which is essentially when you feel like shit. Ha.

People will move away, and I will miss them. But I have the power to keep in touch and to... pause... "visit" them. I mean, really, it's not like I have to wait for the next horse and buggy to pass through town. Everyone has their own path. Right now, mine is here. And it'll be interesting to see where others' paths take them.

Also, change is not necessarily negative. I'm so happy I'm on job #3 now. I love it. And if it weren't for job #2, I wouldn't be here. Scmatie, Scmadri and Schmenny are all in great places now. We'll always have a strong bond, and I am so very happy (and hopeful) for them. And change can be cyclical too. Schmaroline and Schmusan, yay for your return. And I love this apartment. And my hair, well, it's a work in progress. But that's kind of fun. It's in flux, so to speak.

According to a Buddhist saying, we are not corks in a river, as many proverbs teach, flowing with the tides and the waves. We are the river, changing, adapting and then changing again. As for transiency, I say bring it on. It's what makes life interesting and fun. I'm a river, damnit. Next post: why tubing is frickin awesome.

Madam's Tomorrow Night

How can you resist the Madam?

Well, perhaps you can. I mean, it's possible. But in any case, as you may know, RAINN is hosting charity happy hours at Madam’s this summer. And you CANNOT resist THAT! Plus, you get to hang out with cool people (eh hem, excuse me, cough) at a very cool place.

Madam’s is donating $1 from every drink and 20% of food sales directly to RAINN’s programs, including the National Sexual Assault Hotline.

The next happy hour will be from 5 to 9 pm on Thursday, July 20, which is (eh hem) TOMORROW.

There's one more on August 17, FYI.

Going out anyway? Go out for a great cause.

See you there. Don't be a loser. ;)

More info about RAINN can be found at www.rainn.org.

More info about Madam’s Organ can be found at www.madamsorgan.com.

Madam's Organ
2461 18th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20009

Being Real

Don't you wish sometimes that people would just be real? Just completely and utterly honest. Not so much with actual facts, but more on the emotional side of things. I do. And I'm not saying that I'm the perfect model of honesty. I tend to withdraw, close up, become emotionally removed. But lately, I'm getting better. And in getting better... in seeing things for what they are... I'm opening up. And I'm happier.

So let's talk about what's real.

Today, I made a pact to update this blog more often. At least every other day. That is my goal. And I will do it, by god.

Let's see. What else? Ah, I quit smoking last week. And then, in a somewhat predictable drunken moment, I bought a pack and I smoked. So the reality of that situation is that I haven't completely quit. But I've quit enough to feel better. To breathe better. To focus. And I love that.

And lest we forget the oppressive heat. I know it's not just DC, but it tends to be worse here. There is no breeze. There is no water. Only humidity. And smelly sweaty people.

I ate some pasta tonight that I made over a week ago. If I get sick, I have only myself to blame. But it was still good.

I watched Must Love Dogs on HBO. Great cheesy movie.

And now here I sit, finishing a glass of wine, wondering where my John Cusack is. No. Wait. Strike that. Wondering where my Christopher Plummer is. Christopher Plummer in the early years, of course. This is the first night in a while that I haven't gone out. And I'm enjoying the quiet. I'm thinking about my wonderful friends, my family and my sister. Boon, the will power I have at this very moment not to have a cigarette is for you.

Here's to being real.

Waking Up to Clear Skies, Fuzzy Head

Finally! After about a week of rain, the sun is finally out. Seriously, that was insane. If you live here in DC, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I was almost ready to call up my good buddy Noah and load up the animals. Save the monkeys! Haha.

Side note, if that actually did happen, and we had to choose which species to save in order to prevent their extinction, can you imagine the chaos that would ensue? Don’t let the dirty monkeys on the ark! No homosexual monkeys either. We only have room for a few select Hispanic monkeys (but only after they undergo a time-consuming and expensive ark admittance process). And if you’re a Muslim monkey, forget about it. But if you’re a Christian monkey, extra bananas for you!

In any case, we are all very grateful that the Great Deluge has seemingly ended.

It was a gorgeous morning. And even though I was hungover, and awakened too early by my noisy upstairs neighbors, I felt refreshed by the change in weather. I was so happy, in fact, that the swarms of tourists did not affect me. I barely noticed the uptight businessmen and the unnecessarily fast-walking businesswomen. I barely even noticed my hangover. I took my time in the crosswalks. And my ipod provided a fun beat. Yeah, I’m that girl dancing on the corner. Life is good today.

Wow

In a way, I feel like this photo sums up these past few weeks...














Simply absurd.

Life throws curveballs all the time. This I knew. I just hope that like Connie's performance, my life will somehow show an inkling of humor amidst the craziness.

We shall see.

More to come soon.

I am Geisha

Although I've never seen Memoirs of a Geisha, I am fascinated by the scene in the teaser that shows her walking down the street, staring into the eyes of men passing by. She is proving her Geisha prowess by trying to completely overpower them with her stare. One man is so distracted that he falls off his bike.


So this has been my new mission. Over the last several weeks, I've been trying to perfect my "stare" and get men to fall off their bikes. It's not so easy.

DC is the perfect venue to practice though. Bike messengers are all over the place. And Rolling Thunder was this past weekend. I tried what I like to call "the spell" on a few Harley's, but no luck. I think I need to own the regular bike market first, then perhaps graduate to motorcycles.

Once there was a little man on a little bike. You know, the bikes with wheels half the size of normal wheels? As a side note, I never understood why someone would choose wheels so small. It takes you twice as long to get places. In any case, I figured this would be an easy target. But no. The guy was wearing headphones and I couldn't make eye contact. Either that, or the little wheels made his bike more stable... closer to the ground... therefore incapable of being thrown off balance by my geisha stare. Yeah, that must be it.

One time I came so close, I swear to you. Regular bike. Regular guy. He was coming up the sidewalk and I was walking down. So I turned on "full stare mode." We made eye contact but I think the sweat dripping from my face was a turn-off. It was a really hot day. I don't think geishas sweat. Oh well.

Another time there was a cute bike messenger in my elevator at work. He was a foot taller than me, dreads, headphones, body odor... the works. I knew it'd be harder to make him fall over from a standing position, but I tried nonetheless. My fantasy is that my stare would be so incredibly strong that he'd just lose all function in his knees. Then I'd help him up and say, "I'm so sorry. I can't control it." But he must have been listening to a really good song or something. 'Cause I got nothin!

So life must go on. I'll keep trying. I'm not giving up. Some day, years from now, you'll see a story in the Post that reads, "DC Bikers Can't Stay on Bikes: Plague Sweeps the City." That'll be me... geisha power perfected... but without the dominant controlling element. I will be the cool independent liberal geisha. Watch out.

Porkchops

I was reviewing myspace profiles for work (I SWEAR it's part of my job) and I was reminded of how wonderful a porkchop tastes with a little applesauce. Porkchops and applesauce... it's just so right. And definitely not done enough.

Summer Happy Hour Series - Just Do It People

How can you resist the Madam?

RAINN is hosting happy hours at Madam’s Organ this summer that will help raise money and awareness for the fight against sexual assault. Plus, you get to hang out with cool people at one of the coolest bars on the strip.

Madam’s Organ is generously donating $1 from every drink purchase and 20% of food sales directly to RAINN’s programs, including the National Sexual Assault Hotline.

The first happy hour will be from 5 to 9 pm on Thursday, May 18.

Other dates include June 22, July 20 and August 17 --- all are Thursdays.

Going out anyway? Go out for a great cause.

See you there. Don't be a loser. ;)

More info about RAINN can be found at www.rainn.org.

More info about Madam’s Organ can be found at www.madamsorgan.com.

Madam's Organ
2461 18th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20009

Books Are Cool

I did it! I finally read a whole book, in its entirety, cover to cover, yes sir, finito!

It's been a while since I've read a real book that wasn't about Buddhism or Clay Aiken. Haha. Yes, gotta love life's extremes. I used to blame my lack of reading not on illiteracy or failure to comprehend complex themes, but on lack of time. "I'm in PR. I read all the time you know. News online, news in print, press releases, research. I'm sooo busy reading all day that all I want to do is drink a beer and watch some TV when I get home at night."

I now realize that all that is pretty much... um... bullshit.

I realized this when I turned on the TV one night to find Let's Make a Deal on NBC. Howie Mandel, what happened to you, man? Really. Walk Like a Man was such a good movie. Pure quality. Ha!

So I decided to read my book for a new book club I joined. I was hoping originally that the act itself, of joining the group, would inspire me to read. Not so much. I didn't even attempt to buy our first assignment. I was such a slacker.

But I did manage to read The Year of Magical Thinking, our most recent selection. I definitely recommend it. Kind of geared toward the female reader, but a great story. Especially if you've experienced loss in your life, it's an excellent examination of the human mind in a state of mourning. If you've never experienced such a loss, and I don't believe I have, it's a little harder to relate, but still interesting.

Anyway, I finished the book. Yes it was an easy read. Yes it was a chick book. But I did it. And, by god, I will do it again! No longer will I hide behind a cloak of poor excuses. No longer will I "spin" my lack of reading and blame it on my job. And, finally, no longer will I quote this...

- Am I supposed to be a man, am I supposed to say it's okay, I don't mind? I don't mind. Well, I mind! I mind big-time! And you know what the worst part is? I NEVER LEARNED TO READ!!!!
- Is that true?
- Yes, everything except the reading part.

ps: Seriously though, props to Howie Mandel. He deserves all the credit in the world for Bobby's World. For real this time.

Smelly Elliptical Man

Most of the time I'm ok. Most of the time, I avoid what has, on a few occasions, forced my face into a look of disgust for an entire evening... or longer. But tonight, I had no choice. I had no other option. If I wanted to stay at the gym and complete the workout that I had looked forward to all day, I had to do the unthinkable. I had to... it's almost too painful to relive... I had to work out next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I've done it before, one time. But that was before I knew the horror. And I kid you not, it's pretty frickin' horrible. I've been camping, I know what normal body odor should smell like. This is beyond that times a really high number.

I arrived at the gym, some good country music on my ipod, just about ready to switch over to the dance genre, and I spotted him from the corner of my eye. A short little hairy man. Actually kind of cute. But looks are deceiving!

So I do my ladies room routine, take off my fleece, all that stuff. And I return to the cardio area. Prime time at the gym. God damn it. Not a treadmill or elliptical in sight, except, of course, the one free machine next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I waited 10 frickin' minutes. Nothing. Oh god, I thought. Not again. Please, god, no. I'll do anything. I'm sorry I curse. I'm sorry I'm not a good little Catholic girl anymore. And I'm really sorry I organized a family karaoke party on the day of your son's resurrection, the holiest of all holy days! But why this? Did I really deserve this?

Reluctantly, I boarded my machine for what was sure to be 30 minutes of grimacing. And it was, no doubt. I tried to distract myself with some Cher, a little Madonna, DJ Sammy. But I couldn't stop the waves of his god-awful scent from filling my nostrils. I thought, well maybe he's European. Perhaps. Maybe he can't afford deodorant.

But you know, after all my over-analysis of this incredibly smelly man, I took a closer look. And he was smiling. Very jolly guy. And despite the fact that he could clear a room after five minutes on a cardio machine, he was loving his life. And then I thought, good for him! Wouldn't want to share the sauna with you, but, smelly elliptical man, you keep smiling. Be proud of who you are. 'Cause you know what, even though I'd rather hang out in the elephant pen of the National Zoo in the dead of August than be next to you in the elliptical line on a cool spring day, you rock. Amen.

The Simple Life

I was speaking with my cousin the other day over instant messenger. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her "Lana."

We started reminiscing about the good 'ole days growing up on our grandparents' lake. Playing regular hide and seek. Then playing our suped up version of hide and seek (which was pretty intense) and inventing all kinds of things. As Lana recalled our genius idea to sell skipping rocks, I was reminded of how simple life had been.

We were probably between the ages of 8 and 15, collectively, at the time of these adventures. We created a club called the BDC (I will not reveal what those letters stood for as I took an oath). We had club colors, and a club song. We - my cousin, my sister (whom I shall call "Schmadri") and I - were the primary members. Occasionally, we'd let in an "honorary member" such as my grandfather or Sister Whatshername. Yes, there were nuns in my childhood. Lots of them.

We conducted intellectual experiments such as bug collection and classification. I don't remember what book we used to "classify" the bugs, but there was definitely a system, no doubt.

Our advanced version of hide and seek included a series of clues, each one leading to the next until you found the hiding BDC member. This took a great deal of patience on the part of the hidden person, believe me. Those games would last a loooooong time. I remember one game when my grandmother was a special "real life" clue. She got a kick out of it. And so did we.

We had planned to sell drinks at a slightly cheaper rate than my grandfather's restaurant. The concept of putting him out of business of course never crossed our minds. We were just proud that we thought of the idea.

And the skipping rocks? Apparently Lana had a bag full of them, which we individually tested for smooth and long-lasting skipping capabilities. Our slogan - "Pre-tested. Guaranteed to skip." Who in their right mind wouldn't buy something with that solid of a guarantee?

We had it made. Those summers were some of my most fun times ever. And then we grew up.

I've been thinking a lot about the complication of everyday life, now that I'm older. What changed? Was there a turning point? How did I go from selling rocks to paying rent? How did I go from feeling free and secure... to feeling free and really really worried?

Recently, I've come to realize that it is useless to stress about things out of my control. And that's really comforting. I've been able to let go of a lot. And my body feels calmer.

But I can't escape the fact that life is frickin' complicated now! Back in the day, there was no rent. There was no "life plan." There were no relationship issues, no long-distance friendships, no deadlines, no major heartaches...

I would eat Cookie Crisp for breakfast and mac n cheese mixed with Chef Boyardee for lunch. Diets? Never heard of 'em.

We would dive for golf balls in the lake, over by the golf course. The concept of tan lines wasn't even a thought. Just good clean fun. Oh, and an occasional angry man in pastel plaid.

I wish I had some great conclusion, but I don't. I guess life changes, and we change with it. Lana, Schmadri and I grew up, at least a little. :) We have a new bond now. We are the young women of the family. It's an exclusive membership. And we pretty much still rule. For real.

Love Notes? Or God Notes?

I write this post with some hesitation - not because of what I will say, but more because, in doing so, I will have to admit that I listen to "Love Notes" on the local soft rock station. Yes! It's true! I like soft rock! Please don't judge me.

Anyway, after rockin' out to some quality Bryan Adams, Delilah, who is the host of "Love Notes," interjects with an on-air interview. You all know Delilah, I know you do! I am NOT the only one. That soft, melodious, reassuring voice... haha. Little did I know that she had an agenda.

A woman calls in with, of course, a dedication. She wants to send a song to her husband because their marriage is falling apart. She says that her husband is never home. He's always out with the guys. He comes home very late and he's always drunk. He doesn't spend enough time with his wife and their young child.

Sad, right? You know what Delilah's advice is? Pray. Yep, pray. These are rough times, she says. But surround yourself with people who love you, see a counselor if you can, wait... and pray. He'll grow up. It'll get better. I'm like, what the f***?

Keep in mind I had just listened to Goodbye Earl on my way home, so I'm in a completely different frame of mind. Praying is great, don't get me wrong, but I think there are some other, possibly more effective, solutions. At least she got the word "counselor" in there.

During the same broadcast, in between some Shania Twain and some classic Phil Collins, she comments that she is here for us to find "our path" and our meaning in life. How do you wake up in the morning? What do you live for? Live for HIM. I'm thinking, for who, exactly?

Upon further research on her Website, I learn that she's not so much an outward religious fanatic, but rather somewhat closeted. A 16 year old girl wrote in, asking what do because she was pregnant and she was scared. Delilah's first tidbit of advice, "Take care of that baby!" Seek medical attention, and then decide if you want to consider an adoption service. I'm thinking, yes, adoption is wonderful, but there are other options - other "choices" - before that step. And this girl needs to at least be presented with them.

I have no problem with God. In fact, this past year, I've found great inspiration in the music of Yolanda Adams and Kirk Franklin, who, by the way, is a self-proclaimed Jesus freak. I'm not against spirituality. I'm just against the misrepresentation of choices, and the truth.

But I still support soft rock.

There She Is, Your Ideal

What does it mean to be a princess? Is it a good thing? Or a bad thing? Does it mean you are of a noble class, a lady? Or does it mean you are of the spoiled kind, a pompous brat? Why do little girls want to be princesses? Is it because they want to feel special and adored? Or is it because they just... want?

Odd questions, especially coming from me. I was a tomboy and a nerd (actually I prefer the term "dork" because there is, at least, some element of cuteness there). I played with legos and blocks. I liked the occasional stuffed animal. But Barbie? Ewwwwww. And princesses? Um, yeah, no.

So, 20 years later, I'm walking to work. It's a great spring morning. I get my coffee and yogurt loaf and I'm about to enter my building. Then I hear the popular DC sound of sirens. Police cars. The motorcade. Again. I'm a little curious, and not in a huge rush, so I stop. Is it Cheney? I hope not! I'm wearing my camouflage bag and I forgot my bullet proof vest today.

No! It's not Cheney! It's not Rumsfeld. It's not Dumbshit. It's... the Cherry Blossom Princesses? Holy crap, it's totally the Cherry Blossom Princesses. In a bus that says, appropriately, "United States Cherry Blossom Princesses."

FYI, according to the National Conference of State Societies Website, "the Cherry Blossom Princess Program is a weeklong cultural and educational opportunity for young women from across the U.S. and around the world. Women between the ages of 19 and 23 are chosen by the 50 state and 5 territory societies and the international embassy community for their leadership, academic achievements, interest in social, civic, community and world affairs... the Princess Program continues to spawn women of accomplishment."

Haha... spawn.

Anyway, it's like Miss America invades DC. Miss American dignitaries. Women "leaders" who are told to wear certain attire, certain colors. They all look the same. They all promote an image. They are our "role models." Role models in high heels and pastel gowns. Ha. The next Laura Bush? Condi Rice? Actually both of those women would be honored by the plastic hair styles.

Well, who am I to judge? I am friends with a former CBP, and she rocks. Shout out to Oregon.

But is this the image we really want to give our children?

I have a friend who is getting married and she refuses to be treated like a princess, even though we all insist she deserves it. No special treatment though. No silly crowns. No extra attention. Got it, ok. But in this case, I want to treat her like a princess. The good kind.

It's funny how we can accept something's good qualities and ignore the bad ones. I want to be a princess! But not in any bad way, of course. I will be a "good princess." A Princess Diana princess, if you will. But how do we separate? Maybe we just shouldn't judge at all. Who knows, maybe underneath all the hairspray and pastel there lies a princess who will change the world with a radical thought. Or maybe she'll just wave and make all the little girls smile. Or hurl. You know, whatever.

Stressing about Paper

What do you stress about? Oh, excuse me, about what do you stress?

Obviously, grammar would be one of my answers. Ha.

Lately, though, it’s been very refreshing to realize one simple thing – it is useless to stress over things that are out of my control.

In any given situation, I’m starting to consciously think, “Ok, what can I realistically change here? What do I want to change, or have the right to change?” Turns out that most times it comes down to ME. That’s it. I can’t change what someone says or how someone is acting towards me. What I can do is perhaps choose to leave the situation … or change the way I allow myself to feel and react to it.

In this crazy high-anxiety world, there is a tremendous peace in that.

It used to really stress me out when coworkers didn’t put the whole ream of paper in the printer. The point of a ream of paper is that it’s made to fit perfectly in the printer drawer. Just the right amount of paper. Sure, it looks like too much. But it’s not. Just put the whole damn thing in there, people. I swear to god it will fit. And you’ll be a lot happier because you won’t have an awkward extra bunch of sheets lying around.

That’s a perfect example of how my mind used to work. OCD. Scary. I know.

But now, even though I still support using the full ream, I know that I can’t change the way other people feel about it. What I can do is maybe add the sheets myself, if I feel so inclined. Or I can send out an email to the team enlightening them of my ream knowledge. But if they don’t care, what can I do?

I know reams of paper are not that important. But my other option for an example was “fear of death” and how we shouldn’t stress about dying because we have no control over it and can’t prove one way or another whether it’ll be good or bad. But, it’s a Friday, so I went with the ream thing.

Happy New Year

To all of my good friends, family and, yes, even the random mean guy who sends me nasty comments, Happy New Year.

New Year’s kind of baffles me to be honest. It’s just another night… and then another day. But, for some reason, we use it as an excuse to “start over” … to make the imminent New Year’s resolution. It’s funny how we need that. How we need to feel like everything has an end, and therefore a new beginning. The thought of trudging through life without certain periods ending and beginning is almost unbearable to us. We think, great! New Year’s is here! 2005 is over! 2006 is here! And, oh the possibilities…

Possibility is a great thing, don’t get me wrong. But it’s the build-up that gets to me. The expectations. We quite literally count down to a moment that is just like the moment where we started.

It’s supposed to be a magic “poof” kind of moment. Out with the old and in with the new! But, you know what? It’s still me.

So I wish everyone not only a Happy New Year, but a Happy Right Now and a Happy Forever.

Do you get my point? I’m not really sure I do. In any case, it was nice to see Dick Clark up and working again.