The Bucks

Even the soothing sounds of Norah Jones couldn't break through the negativity. The line at the Bucks was out the door this morning. Caffeine addiction is a serious business, apparently. And our dealers wear seasonally colored aprons. Everything’s great if we can get it fast. But insert a bottleneck in supply chain? Madness. It was an interesting juxtaposition, I thought, as I stood about nine people away from my reduced-fat banana chip coffee cake. On one hand, I felt very wholesome and wintery. Norah Jones was singing I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. The smell of coffee and cocoa filled the air. There were sweet things all around me. But on the other hand, I noticed that no one was smiling. People were cutting in line and, very unabashedly and loudly, being told to take their place. There was tension. Depressing news was streaming silently in the background. And it was cold. Despite all this, there we stood. "I’m dreaming of a white... foamy latte."

Cracked

After a three month break, I'm back. Still in DC. Still observing life's little eccentricities. Yet I feel freer. I feel that sense of reality. And I am beyond happy. Unfortunately, I am no longer taking the bus. And the cold dark quittin' time of late doesn't allow me to bike either. Not that I mind, of course. This allows me to walk with someone wonderful everyday. And, as a result, I now observe life from sidewalks and street corners. Not a bad view, I must admit. Well, except for that butt crack I saw this morning. As we stood at the corner waiting for the light, he (i.e., "Butt Crack") bent over to pick up a small Starbucks bag. No doubt it was filled with some highly-sugared yet delicious treat. But wow. The sacrifices we make.

Break

Taking a break, yet logging all funny bus/bike happenings. Be back soon.

Pickup Lines for Bikers

So I biked home today. Today was not the worst of DC humidity, for sure. But it was a little sticky out there. I had just biked up 18th Street at a fast pace. I was slightly out of breath, my heart rate soaring. My tank top, slightly sweaty. I rounded the corner at Columbia Road and came to a stop sign. I was feeling athletic and sporty. Beyonce had just finished singing Irreplaceable on my ipod. All around, the moment was empowering.

And then, just as I caught my breath at the stop sign, I hear...

"Hey baby, can I have a ride?"

I turn to look. I am not excited at what I see. But, I have to admit, it was flattering. I smile one of those "in your dreams" kind of smiles and, just as I stand up on the pedals, giving myself a good boost of speed, I sarcastically say, "Yeah, sure!"

I speed away, never to see Creepy Stop Sign Guy again.

As I biked home, I thought, couldn't he have thought of anything better? I mean, really. There have to be about a million cheesy pickup lines in my head right now, all having to do with bikes. I won't list them here (children read this) but seriously. You've got handlebars, water bottles with nozzles, soft seats, hard seats, peaks, straps, curves, tune-ups, saddles, mirrors, the concept of going down, lubes, tubes, helmets... ok, maybe not helmets. But you get the idea. "Hey baby, can I have a ride," will not impress me.

Seriously?

It's one of those internal monologue phrases I say constantly. Sometimes I find myself just staring at people and, in my head, repeating over and over, "Seriously?" Like, is she seriously talking on her cell phone that loudly? Or, is he seriously scratching his crotch right now? (Both examples, by the way, happen all too often on the 42).

Now that I'm all hardcore and biking to work, I don't have as many reasons to question people's behavior. I think it's simply because I have less time to fully observe the psychoses that surround me on the bus. Because, you know, I'm on a bike. Going a lot "faster." And I have to actually "pay attention" to the "moving cars." Yada yada, etc.

Anyway, I did have a "seriously" moment today. As I'm coasting down to work, a biker passes me on a road bike. This is normal. Road bikes are faster than mountain bikes. I accept that. But it was his outfit that intrigued me. At first, I thought it could be Lance, which, you know, would be amazing. But, no, definitely not Lance. So why was he dressed like Lance?

Was there a triathlon today? A race of some kind? No, my friends, there was not. And he was definitely not the first multi-colored spandexed biker I've seen.

I mean, really, A) where do these people get these biker outfits, B) where do they get the balls to wear actually them, C) now that I think about it, where are their balls? and D) where could they possibly be going?

Don't get me wrong, I fully understand the concept of aerodynamics. But, in the middle of the city? In rush hour? I can't imagine showing up for work dressed like I just finished the Tour de France. Well, there might be one exception. And that would be Halloween, people.

I really do want to know more about these super intense, overly decked out, wannabe Lance's. Just roll up your pant leg like the rest of us! I mean, seriously.

Panties

Yes, I said it. I said "panties."

I really hate that word. Ever since Billy Baldwin said it in Sliver. You know, that infamous scene in the restaurant? It was never the word itself, but the way he said it. "And the panties?" Ack, I can barely even type it. I'm actually squishing up my face right now, that's how disturbing it is to me.

Ok, moving on. Oh, Jesus, not moving on yet. So I just looked up Sliver on Amazon, and you know what the "Plot Keywords" are for the movie, according to the site? As in, if you weren't sure what movie you wanted to buy, but you had a few general themes in mind, these words would lead you directly to Sliver. Wait for it... 1. Female Nudity, 2. Kissing, 3. Female Detective, 4. Pedophile, 5. Telescope, 6. Stabbing, 7. Sex Talk, 8. Beautiful Woman, 9. Male Nudity, 10. Knife, 11. Shooting and 12??? You know what the final keyword is? PANTIES.

Anyway, the whole reason I bring this up is because, on my bike ride into work today, I noticed the first of what is sure to be many hurdles in this new found passion of mine. Yep, you guessed it. Panties.

When it comes to jeans, women tend to wear low riders. When you're walking, or even sitting, it's fairly easy to pull them up when necessary. However, when you're flying downhill on a mountain bike, trying to catch the green light so you don't have to start pedaling again from a standstill, it's nearly impossible to perform the casual "pull up."

To the many cars, pedestrians and most especially to the bus patrons that may have traveled behind me today, I say this. I am very, very sorry for the somewhat inappropriate showing of my panties this morning. I am embarrassed and ashamed. But, at the same time, I hope you enjoyed the pink and white stripes.

On a Break

Oh, this is hard. So I got a bike recently, and even more recently built up the courage to ride it through city traffic. So, for now at least, I am taking a break from the bus. I am also taking a break from drama, alcohol and sex.

These are all very extreme choices, I know. However, I don't propose that any of them are permanent. Or even completely under my control. Like if it snows, for example.

In any case, I was riding to work on my badass mountain bike (that's right, you heard me) when I felt a car approaching from behind at a really aggressive speed. I look over my shoulder and notice that it's a Z3. I am not impressed. So I continue, riding steadily along the right side of the road. He eventually passes me, all like "I'm the shit, get out of my way bike girl." I let him pass and watch as he speeds down 19th street.

Cut to five seconds later. Angry Z3 man is stuck behind a line of cars at the light. I pass him in my little makeshift bike lane. I give him a little smile. And I'm sure I made it to work before he did.

I still don't know why people have cars in this city.

Unfaithful

I never thought I'd do it. I never thought I'd stoop low enough to rationalize it. But today, I almost cheated. I almost cheated on the 42.

I was running late. It's become my m.o., unfortunately. I waited at my stop, stared at a few people (unbeknownst to them of course), read the top fold of the Post through the dispenser, fiddled with my "Recently Added" playlist and got my $1.25 ready. Finally, at long last, a bus appeared in the distance. Through the hazy sunshine, I saw its top approach. As it got closer, I realized it wasn't my beloved 42. It was a ... wait for it... H1.

I'm familiar with the H1. It's a rush hour bus with a limited schedule. Not as popular as the 42. of course. Believe it or not, it used to be my "bus of choice" back in the day when I worked a few blocks over. But today, it seemed like a scandal.

Do I board, I thought? Do I cheat on the 42 and abandon stability for a single morning? I didn't consciously want to do it, but it was so tempting. The H1 is actually a little faster (because it avoids the Circle), it's aesthetically pleasing, and, let's be honest, it gets the job done. Thoughts of the past filled my head. Never once did I want for a seat. So comfortable. So secure. And all those special mornings, when it came right on time...

But just when I was about to abandon my morals and step up into that bus, I thought, no. The 42 is probably right around the corner. Wait for it.

So I did. And you know what? I got to work exactly on time.

Three-legged Dog

As I stood at the bus stop this morning, I noticed a dog crossing the street with his owner. The dog had three legs, two in the front and one in the back. His owner pulled him by a leash across the crosswalk. The dog could barely keep up, hobbling frantically behind.

For reasons I won't go into, thoughts of confusion and sadness plagued me this morning. As I was sinking deeper and deeper into a mild state of depression, I noticed this dog. And I thought, "Well, despite all my troubles, at least I'm not a three-legged dog."

I felt a little better after that.

42 Tries to Kill Me

Unfortunately, I did not take the bus today. Believe it or not, I've been really looking forward to it. In this heat, are you kidding? Any opportunity to travel in some AC is just unbeatable. Well, I take that back. Laying on the beach would definitely beat AC on the bus. But, since I must go to work (I gots the bills), I prefer to show up not looking like a drowned rat. You understand.

However, today was different. I had an off-site meeting in a building very close to my apartment. It was quicker to walk and, since I was running late, that's what I did. And, boy, did I sweat. It was really sexy.

Anyway, as I crossed Columbia Road, at a crosswalk I'd like to point out (eh hem), a 42 practically ran me over. It's true. I saw him at that stop sign. The bastard. When I noticed him, he was just closing his door. Already a few steps into the road, I went for it. Any regular pedestrian in DC knows that you just have to, especially at the really busy intersections. There is no time for hesitation.

I swear to you, before I could blink, the bus was two feet from my head. I repeat, two feet from my frickin' head. I walked as fast as I could, but all the stuff for the meeting was weighing me down. The driver, now almost in the crosswalk, was pissed that he had to stop.

I gave him a look and scurried across, which, incidentally, caused me to sweat even more. Again, sexy.

I curse the 42 today. Trying to kill me is totally not cool. After all that I've given you!

Early and Out of It

It is rare that I arrive at work early, especially on a Monday. But today required me to do just that. So, promptly at 7:30, I closed the door to my apartment. It was really frickin' early. My body was in shock. I honestly cannot recall one funny thing that happened on the bus today. Around 10 this morning, after a tall "bold" from Starbucks, I thankfully regained consciousness. More to come tomorrow.

Angry Young Career Women

All too often, I see the same person. Not literally the same person, but, you know, that person. The woman who boards the bus in a rush, as if walking faster down that aisle will get her to work sooner. She sits down at the first available seat, blackberry in hand, and immediately starts emailing. You wonder how she hits the keypad accurately. She is carrying a "Journal" (to the lay person, this means the Wall Street Journal) under her arm, a grande latte in the other hand. She sports a darkly colored, conservative outfit. She is beyond uptight. She is wearing sunglasses, not because it's sunny on the bus, but because she probably has no realization that they are still on her head. She is skinny, and stiff. She is zoned out. She is... wait for it... the DC career woman.

I saw such a woman on the bus today. She sat down across from me, completely unaware of what was around her. She frantically entered digits and letters into her blackberry. She never looked up. She was wearing a black dress and tennis shoes. She was, let me tell you, H... O... T... hot.

(Disclaimer, the previous sentence was meant to convey sarcasm, because, as much as I try, I cannot imagine this level of anxious energy and rigidness being attractive.)

In fact, I wondered how women like that get dates. How do you enter into relationships with people, romantic or otherwise, when you don't even look them in the eye? How do you go out to dinner if conversation is constantly being interrupted by a vibrating mobile, um, thing?

As I contemplated these thoughts, simultaneously thanking the lord I am not like this, I felt the sudden urge to throw something at her. I don't know why, but I became really frustrated. I wanted to shake her and say, "Wake up, you self-absorbed little snot. There is life to be lived! Put down the blackberry and pick up an ipod!"

I wanted to be the Julia Roberts to her Richard Gere. But then I thought, that'd be a little weird. A, I'm not a prostitute, and B, I'm not gay. But man, if I could've run her toes through the grass this morning, I think the world would be a better place.

Helping the Booty Caller

I made it to work today and realized that I forgot to get something in my apartment. So I decided to take a cab home, get "the thing" (it's kind of personal, so you understand) and cab it back super quick. All was going according to plan. I got "said thing" and started to look for my cab ride back downtown. However, like an angel from heaven, a southbound 42 appeared.

I ran to the stop, reaching for my wallet and getting my $1.25 ready. It was the middle of the day, so the line was essentially, me, a guy... and another guy.

As we board, guy #2 says to me, "Hey, does this bus go to the White House?"

I immediately notice his attire. He was wearing a t-shirt that was a little too small for him, but you could tell it wasn't really meant to be tight. And his pants were definitely suit pants. Striped, in fact. His shoes were suit shoes. His hair was messy. It didn't take a genius to figure this one out. It was a girl's t-shirt! And they were suit pants! Could it be a midday walk of shame!?!?!

But why go to the White House?

All of a sudden, excited in my curiosity, and like the Helpy Helperton that I am, I say, "It sure does! It actually passes the White House. You'll see it from the bus!"

"Awesome," he says, "thanks so much. How much is it? A dollar?"

So, I'm thinking, walk of shame, yet from out of town. A long-distance spontaneous relationship, perhaps? Then, my mind wandered, and I thought, how romantic! He obviously just had to see her (or him, you never know) so badly, that he hopped on a train from New York, said, screw you work, knocked on her door, surprised her with a rose he constructed from the front page of the New York Times, and then they had the most amazing night ever.

I had to help this boy. The story, although completely in my head, was just too good.

"Actually," I say, still playing the role of Helpy, "It's a dollar twenty-five!"

I get on first, and as I'm finessing my bill through the machine, I hear him mumble something about not having exact change. I turn around and notice he has a dollar bill, but no quarter. So, I say, "Do you need a quarter? Here! Take one of mine!"

"Oh man, thanks so much," he says, "that's so nice."

We both board the bus. As I reach my stop, I say, "Have fun," and that was that. I was proud to be a part of that boy's story, even though, you know, I totally made it up.

Mean Cab Woman Goes Down

This was the scene this morning. Me = running late. Bus = not one in sight. Game time decision = wait and be even later, or splurge on a cab ride to work.

I went with the cab ride.

After about 10 cabs passed me by, all full with passengers, a driver finally stopped. He already had a passenger in the back, and usually I just wave these guys by (for 12 bucks, I'd like some personal service, I mean, really) but I decided to go for it. Who knew when the next one would come.

So I get in the front seat and instantly found myself missing the people of the 42.

Cabbie: Where you going?
Me: 18th and N please.
Mean Woman in Back: (huffing noises)
Cabbie: Ok, we go now.
Me: (taking my seat in the front) Great, thanks.
Mean Woman in Back: Oh Jesus! (more huffing, breathing noises)
Me: (sensing the tension) You can drop her off first.
Mean Woman in Back: Um, no, he can't. I'm going to Southwest!
Cabbie: It's ok, I drop you off first (meaning me). On the way. On the way.
Me: (timidly) Ok.
Mean Woman in Back: It is not on the way. Jesus Christ.
Cabbie: (increasingly annoyed, and louder) It is on way! It is on the way!
Me: (always trying to keep the peace) You can drop me off wherever. Just in the general area would be great.
Mean Woman in Back: (shuffling around, breathing heavily, adjusting the window up and down, up and down)
Cabbie: (at my stop) It's $10.80.
Me: (very uncomfortable) Great, can I have eight dollars back?
Cabbie: (just before he essentially pushes me out the door) Sure.
Me: (sarcastically) Thanks so much! Have a great day! (looking in the back seat at this woman who obviously needs some lovin') And you have a great day too!

She didn't know what to do. I loved it.

Baby Whisperer

Just when I thought I couldn't ever help anyone, something amazing happened today.

I had a rough morning, lots of crap on my mind, lots of things happening. Everyone was in my way, not because they were too slow, but more because they were too fast. I wished the world would just slow down. Little things were getting to me. I locked my door, glanced over at the bus stop, and, predictably, a bus was there, and it was leaving. I would have to wait for the next one. This happens a lot, but today, it seemed worse.

So I waited, and boarded the next one. Did you ever have one of those days when you wished you could just scream? Why is it we don't? I guess we wouldn't want to disturb the peace. And get arrested.

As I sat there, wishing I could just let it all out, I noticed a baby across from me. I was in that section of the bus where the seats face each other. Anyway, the baby was crying. Loudly. Instead of being annoyed and turning up my music, I was somehow calmed by it. I thought, man, this kid is lucky! So I looked at him and smiled. I might have actually stuck out my tongue.

The baby stared at me, suddenly stopped crying, and gave me a little smirk.

I had quieted the child. Could I have magical baby-quieting powers? Kids always seem to respond to me, but this was utterly amazing. Am I the baby whisperer? I feel like they should hire me to ride city buses and make babies stop crying. Could be a lucrative business... hmmm...

Nah, in actuality, I think the need to release emotion connected us. Sure, his emotion might have been more of a basic human one, like, for example, "I miss my bottle," but still. Lucky little bastard. Thanks, kid. I think we helped each other.

Bus Infection

Sometimes I forget how a positive attitude, or a moment of kindness, can be infectious. It’s especially powerful when it happens on a city bus, where all too often I find we’re simply unaware of each other completely.

Today I didn’t have a seat. This is not unusual. Yet, as I stood there, in the middle of the aisle, one hand raised and clasped to the bar above me, about three people offered me their seats. I refused all of them, just in case an older person boarded at the next stop. Or a pregnant woman. Or a kid. Kids are surprisingly unstable on moving buses. In any case, I remained standing.

Two stops later, an older woman sitting near me stood up, looked directly at me, and gestured toward her seat. This woman had to be at least 70. She was cute, dressed up as if she was heading to church on a Sunday.

I was thinking, ok, there is no way I am taking this woman’s seat. I started to give her my, “Oh, no thanks, please, you sit,” hand motion, when our eyes met. In that brief moment, I felt like it was really important to her that I accept her offer. Even though I was perfectly fine standing, I decided to take the seat. As I made my way through the aisle, she headed toward the door. I sat and the bus stopped. She took one step down, turned around, and we exchanged a smile.

What I hadn’t realized at first was that she was departing at that next stop. She knew she wouldn’t need the seat too much longer, and, for some reason, she really wanted me to have it. She had singled me out.

That brief moment really touched me. I felt undeserving. Yet I noticed how my mood changed. The day, at least so far, seems better. I also noticed how I seem to be holding more doors, stalling more elevators and engaging in more friendly conversation. Infectious.

Enraged over Empanadas

Ay dios mio. Today's bus ride was hell. Not because it was slow. And not because I didn't get a seat. No. It was because of a single scent. A scent that taunted me all the way down Connecticut Avenue.

I recognized it instantly. Far too many nights in Adams Morgan had concluded with that scent. The 3 am stumble. The long line. The excitement of choosing among spinach and chorizo and Jamaican. And then the realization that no matter what you choose, you will walk home happy, reaching into that tiny bag of goodness. The steam escapes. The scent draws you in. Before you know it, you're home, you're full, and you're dreaming of a woman named Julia. I think you know the treat of which I speak. Oh yes. It's none other than... the glory of... the empanada.

Empanadas are the perfect food, or at least one of several perfect foods (I'd also suggest the meatball, soy milk, chocolate pudding and, of course, sushi). An empanada is just so tasty. And self-contained. It's beautiful.

Anyway, the scent crept down the aisle of the bus and directly into my nose. My head perked up, and I wondered, who's the asshole who brought the warm empanada on the bus? I mean, really. Did he not realize how torturous this was for all of us? Especially passengers who may have, hypothetically, been to a spin class at 6:30 in the morning and were really really hungry?

I'd like to make a motion. Under no circumstances should bus patrons be permitted to carry warm, aromatic, delicious food items on the bus. It's just not fair. If I ever find you, empanada man, let me tell you. All I know is, you better keep one eye on that empanada of yours.

The Sundress

I've always thought that women got a poorer deal in the "morning routine" department. It's not that we're high maintenance, it's just that we have more to do. Right?

Well, perhaps not. As I boarded the 42 in the ungodly heat this morning, I realized that maybe that assumption isn't true. Of all the women on the bus, I bet about two thirds were wearing sundresses. The sundress is perhaps the easiest of all things women can wear. It literally takes two seconds to slip on. Put on a little makeup, toss the hair a bit, slip on the sundress, and then bam. You're lookin' cute and you're on your way to work.

Plus, you brighten up the days of everyone else along the way. It's just a happy outfit. It's cool, quick, and happy. I gotta get me some of those. Next pay check.

Little People

There were little creatures milling about on Columbia Road today. At first, I couldn't identify them. They seemed to be people, only shorter. And smaller. Instead of briefcases, they had brightly colored packs, which they wore using both shoulders. Some were smiling. And some were slightly unstable, although I don't think they had been drinking.

I searched my memory. Where have I seen such creatures before? Somewhere in my past... hmmm... ah yes!

They were children! But what were they doing on the 42?

It's always odd to see kids among young professionals, and I have to say it's really refreshing. But seriously, was it "Bring Your Kids to Work Day" or something? It had to be. Either that, or kids are smarter and more productive than we think. They are now infiltrating our coffee shops, our job markets and our public transportation. Survival of the fittest is working against us, people. Beware.

(FYI, I really do love little people... and I'd like to see more of them on the 42, if possible. They seem to make everyone a bit nicer.)

Summery Guy Opts for Corduroy

The bus was super crowded today, forcing me to stand. But it was all good. I turned up my Dreamgirls soundtrack and tapped my foot to the beat of "Patience," a song that instills its very name and makes the unnecessarily long commute seem short. And full of soul. Anyway...

I stood behind a man who, despite his outfit, seemed very "DC in the summertime." A) he resembled a frat boy, as many people in DC do (blah), and B) he was blond and nicely tanned. Despite his summer-like appearance, he was sporting a corduroy jacket. A brown corduroy jacket. And his shirt was buttoned all the way up, accessorized by a tightly-knotted necktie.

Now, I'm no fashion expert, nor do I really care about the latest trends, but corduroy? It's such a warm material! And it's 95 degrees out! This is crazy, I thought. Even if you have no other options in your closet, and you have an important client meeting today, surely just a dress shirt would be a better option. Then I thought, well, maybe he's not actually hot. But he was! Sweat was literally dripping down his entire head.

What motivates people to do what they do, I wonder. Crazy summery-looking corduroy guy, I feel bad for you, but that is your choice. I just hope you didn't pass out on your way to work today. Yikes.

Other Side of the Tracks

Today, I woke up, went to the gym, got ready for work and then grabbed my car keys. Yep, that's right, you heard me. I said CAR KEYS.

I wish I could say I owned a car, but, alas, it was only a rental. I drove it downtown to return it, sadly saying goodbye to my short stint of travel independence.

Interestingly, I drove down Connecticut, the very same route of the 42. I passed about a million buses, proving to myself that the 42 really is frickin' slow. But it was a positive moment. My windows were open. I bounced from 99.5 to 107.3 to 93.9 to 97.1 and back again. Yes, I am not afraid to admit I listen to soft rock. Anyway, I felt free --- unbound by the rules of bus.

It was bitter sweet though. I wanted to swerve in front of the 42 and say to my fellow passengers, "Get in! I have working air conditioning! And music! And an express route to your office! Revolt against the inconsistencies and poor quality of DC public transportation. Join me in this sexy Chevy Cobalt! Ok, now who's with me?"

Haha, everyone would be like, who's this freak show? They'd turn up their ipods. Pull the cord. Stop requested.

Beyonce Boards Bus

It can't be true. The most successful and most talented modern R&B diva certainly wouldn't voluntarily choose DC public transportation. But, for a brief moment, I would've sworn to you that Beyonce boarded the 42 today. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Or the product of listening to the Dreamgirls soundtrack for the 87th time yesterday. Or that extra Tylenol PM I took last night. Who knows. But if it wasn't Beyonce, this woman needs to start a second career.

I was completely mesmerized. Could I be so lucky that Beyonce herself would not only board the 42, but board the very bus I so happened to choose this morning? I wouldn't put it past her. After all, she is, ultimately, amazing. In my head, perhaps fuzzy from sleeping pills, I envisioned the following monologue. I would say something to the effect of:

"Hey Beyonce. What's up. My name is AO. I'd like to say my name. It's AO. You must be riding the bus for the very same reason I am riding this bus. You have bills, bills, bills. I get that. Right here, Beyonce, right here (at which point I would do that two finger-eyes thing). We'll be ok though. You are a survivor. And I am a survivor. We're gonna make it. What. Hey, this is totally like deja vu, you know? Hello? Are you not paying attention to me? Why don't you listen? To the song here in my heart.... (at which point I would start singing, Beyonce would recognize my irreplaceable vocal skills, I would get a record contract and then Beyonce and I would become best friends. I would be her confidant, her rock. We'd travel the world, harmonizing and talking smack about Brittany. We'd be crazy. Crazy in platonic love.)."

Too bad that was all in my head. I don't think I'll be taking a sleeping pill tonight.

Broken Cord

The ways human beings interact with each other in a group setting is endlessly entertaining to me. And also very informative.

Today, for example, I chose a seat toward the back of the bus. You know, where the cool people sit. No joke, it was me, some guy who looked like the token bad boy (I’m surprised he wasn’t smoking out the window) and another guy who probably was just getting home from an all-night drug-enhanced party (he was passed out, yet very stylish).

A few stops along, I realized that the “Stop Requested” indicator was not working. Normally, when you want to get off, you pull the cord. The indicator lights up and alerts the driver. Sometimes, on the fancy schmancy buses, a freakishly sexy voice repeats the request.

From the back of the bus, I noticed that every time someone wanted to stop, he or she would pull the cord. And, every time, nothing would happen.

Again and again, they would try. One woman asked the guy across from her to try the cord on his side of the bus. Still no luck. One by one, every person on the bus pulled the frickin’ cord. And nothing.

It was as if each person secretly said to himself, “These people are so dumb. Obviously, if I try to pull the cord, it will work. Because I am amazing.” Just like in an elevator, when every person who gets on presses the "lobby" button, people believe that their magic touch will somehow speed up the process. It doesn't.

Get over yourselves, people! The cord is broken!

Crotch in Face

I realize that sometimes the bus is crowded. I realize that sometimes you have to squeeze by fellow passengers. I also realize that the center aisle on the average bus is not necessarily wide enough to fit two people, side by side, comfortably.

However.

None of those things are an excuse for shoving your crotch in my face.

I was innocently sitting in an aisle seat. I was listening to gospel music. The music of God. It was probably the most wholesome moment of my entire day. And then BAM. Crotch in my face. I looked up, my head tilted to the side, and WHOA THERE. Whoa. There.

To the man whose crotch I so intimately have come to know, I say this. Be aware of your crotch. Be aware that there may be an innocent young woman sitting, listening to gospel music, completely unsuspecting of what awaits her. Be aware that, although your crotch may be fantastic in other situations, this is neither the time nor the place to shove it in someone's face. In fact, the general rule is, let the face come to you.

Don't get me wrong, I love that area of a man's, shall we say, ensemble, but again, time and a place, people. Time and a place.

White Pants

My bus experience has taught me that it is never worth the risk of sitting down in a bus seat while wearing white pants. Please don't ask me to relive it. It's just never good. Never.

So today I stood. Standing on the bus has its benefits. For example, you are generally the first one off. You also get to feign the whole, "I'm so cool, I don't need to sit" thing. Look at me not falling over! Punks.

Balance on the bus, as in life, is all about the bend in the knees. If you're completely straight, unwavering and stiff, all it takes is one sudden stop and you're on the ground. However, if you maintain flexibility and you are open to the curves in the road, you tend to flow with them. Plus you just look cooler. I mean, really.

Cologne

It's no secret that men like cologne. It's also no secret that South American men, in particular, really like cologne. What baffles me is that a South American man, from my neighborhood, could be dressed in clothes as if he's going to build a house, or perhaps paint a house. He could be dressed in these clothes, yet he will apply more cologne than any man I've ever met at a black tie function.

One such man approached me on the 42 today. I was sitting down in a window seat, listening to some Counting Crows song on my ipod, and I got the whiff - the whiff of the South American hombre. I realize I'm playing into a stereotype, but, at least within the confines of the 42 world, it's true more often than not.

I know some people are bothered by this, but I'm not. To me, it's a very pleasant smell. And you know what it says? It says, I'm proud of myself. I'm proud of my life. I'm proud of my body. And I'm going to dress it up with a little fragrance. I don't care if I'm on my way to build a house. I care about how I smell today.

It's really a beautiful thing.

So this man approached me, and I said hello. He was very nice. We had a little chat. He got off at Dupont Circle. And his pride left me feeling proud to have met him. I also sneezed a few times, but that's ok.

Cab... or Lunch

Yesterday, I was running so late. Mom was in town and she had successfully distracted me with freshly brewed coffee, cereal and lots of hugging.

Even though I believe in the power of the 42 to decrease my commute by half (on a good day, no rain or snow, and provided the driver is not completely apathetic), there was no way I was making it on time. So I opted for the cab. Two zones, a gas price hike and a rush hour surcharge later, I was there. In New York, I bet that trip would cost maybe five or six bucks. In DC, try $10.80, a nice even $12 with tip. Jesus. Even a Cosi salad would not set me back quite that much. Good thing I got a delicious free lunch at work yesterday. I might have starved otherwise. Lesson of the day, being late in DC is expensive. Time is money, people. Time is money.

Top Gun Guy

Finally aboard the third bus that passed my stop (apparently everyone and their mother was riding the 42 today), I chose a seat next to a man who, at first glance, appeared fairly normal. He was in his 20s or 30s, dress shirt, decent pantalones.

Anyway, he had a briefcase. And he had an ipod. He was like every other guy who ever rode the bus. Until! All of a sudden I realized what song he was playing on his nano. It was the theme song from Top Gun. And it was loud. So loud that I instantly recognized it. Yep, without a doubt, he was totally rocking out to the Top Gun theme music. His leg was moving to the beat. He loved it. He was inspired. He was ready for another day.

So now, when life gets me down, and I have trouble motivating myself to get to work, I too will rock out to Top Gun. I live in Washington, DC, baby. And I have the NEED for SPEED. Ok, that's totally not me, but I appreciate the creativity in song choice. Thank you, Top Gun Guy. You go get 'em!

Smelly Bus

This morning was the haziest morning of the year, so far that is. I was all comfortable in my apartment, even with the small amount of AC I allow myself to use (it's frickin expensive). And then I stepped outside. Jesus Christ. It was like walking into a sauna. I decided to take the good 'ole 42 to avoid looking like a drowned rat by the time I got to work. You know I love the 42. It is a glorious bus. But when it's hot and sticky out, and it's crowded, let's see... how do I say this. People smell.

I was convinced that deodorant was invented by a passenger on public transportation in the summertime. He saw the need, and he addressed it. But, of course, I had to confirm. Turns out that deodorant was invented by someone from Philadelphia in 1888. It stopped odor by inhibiting the growth of bacteria. Sweat is not normally smelly - it's the bacteria under your arms that makes it rank. Ew.

Of course, it was the city of brotherly love that gave us this wonderful creation. Less smelly people = more brotherly love. People on the 42, please ponder.

Psychic Street Lady

Deep in thought (i.e., not paying attention) I took a different route home. I passed a psychic woman on 18th street, selling her palm reading services. I stopped. She said, in an accent I could not recognize, "I see something deep inside you. Come here! Let me talk to you." The pushy directive was not convincing, so I kept walking, although I did take her little printed advertisement.

FOR OVER 20 YEARS HAS SUCCEEDED IN HELPING SO MANY OVERCOME ALL OBSTACLES IN LIFE, LOVE, CAREER, HEALTH, STRESS, SUBSTANCE ABUSE, DEPRESSION, AND MORE. DON'T LIVE IN FEAR OR DESPAIR AND TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR FUTURE NOW.

Overcome "all obstacles in life?" That is quite the claim. Apparently street psychics have all the answers. And she sees something "deep inside me?" What, the Cosi salad I had for lunch? My inner soul? Blah.

Street psychic lady, you have nothing more to offer me than I can offer myself. Except for some entertainment I guess. Followed by a piece of jumbo slice.

And so it begins...

Today starts a new chapter in my blog. I've realized that what makes life truly interesting are the little things. Moments. Some funny, some sad and some poignant. Today begins a chronicle, a chronicle of observations. A listing of things that happen every day - to people like you and me.

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Super Intense Gym Guy

When you don't have to go to work, your life slows down a little. And it's wonderful. I find myself walking more slowly, looking around, thinking, observing.

I went to the gym this morning for a spin class, as is my Thursday routine, and I decided to hang out afterwards for some quick ab work. I found my spot and my favorite bouncy ab ball thingie (that is the technical term, FYI). As I stretched my back over the ball and took a calming deep breath, I noticed a familiar face walk into the room. Oh shit, I thought. Not today! Not on my relaxing no-work day! It was... DUN DUN DUN... Super Intense Gym Guy!

He found his spot directly behind me. Super Intense Gym Guy does not need personal space. And apparently he has no need to recognize mine. He had a jump rope. And a super large barbell. He jumped up and down as if he hated this jump rope. He had a look on his face like, "I hate you, you mother f***ing jump rope. And I'm gonna slam you into the floor every god damn time. You're not that heavy, but I'm gonna make it seem like it's really hard to lift you. Because I'm that strong. I'll show you what's up. God damn mother f***ing jump rope."

So while this scene is happening behind me, I'm trying to achieve my zen on the bouncy ball. Not so much.

He was doing intervals. So, after a few rounds on super intense jump roping, he picked up the barbell. Let me note that Super Intense Gym Guy is not that big. He's puny. A little guy, if I can be blunt. Anyway, he picked up this weight that was probably too heavy for him, and he proceeded to do curls. With every lift, I got to hear a, "Ahhhh! Oh!!!!," followed by super intense heavy breathing. He lifted that barbell about, say, seven times? May not seem like that much to the seasoned gym-goer, but to Super Intense Gym Guy, that is all you need.

And so it progressed. A round of super intense (and violent) jump roping followed by some super intense, although ridiculous, lifting.

After his interval training was over (a solid 10 minutes), he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror for a while. His breathing was heavy. He seemed satisfied with his morning workout. He looked at his strained muscles with such adoration, I wondered if he forgot to wear his contacts. I'm thinking, "What is he looking at exactly?"

Super Intense Gym Guy, I salute you. You are completely ridiculous and vain. But you have passion, and for that, you deserve some respect. Just stay away from my personal space. I'm not that impressed.

Tomorrow

My head hurts. It's been hurting all day and, out loud, I say I don't know why, but I do. Tomorrow things will change. For the better, I think. But something inside me is breaking. Have you ever made a big decision and although, deep down, you know that it's right for you, you feel like it's letting someone else down? Like you've let yourself down too? That is how I feel.

I got a letter from her yesterday. She expressed gratitude to me. She said I was there for her. But in the back of mind, I thought, I've let her down. I promised - and I swore - to myself that I would fight for her. I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to end it. I wanted to make a difference. Right now, looking back on the past year or so, I don't know if I've done anything at all.

I wanted to be stronger. I know things weren't exactly ideal, but when did I become selfish? When did I stop pushing? When did I decide, it's not worth it, or, I am worth more than this?

I know I'll be happier. But I'll always look back and, on a very personal level, regret quitting. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I let you down. I wanted so badly to fight to the end. And I chose another path. I will volunteer, but it won't be the same. I won't face it everyday. I won't speak it everyday. I won't be hurt everyday thinking of it. For the longest time, I needed that pain. Sounds messed up, I know. But I needed to feel like I was doing something about it. Even if it hurt.

Now I feel another kind of hurt. The hurt of giving up on a mission. The hurt of choosing to better my own life. Who knew the possibility of choosing a better path could be painful. But it is to me. I'm sorry.

I know I was a speck in the grand scheme. And I know that my own contribution was small, if anything. So in that way I can rationalize it. But my head still hurts. A lot. And I will go to bed tonight with tears in my eyes, thinking of you. And thinking of tomorrow.

And there you have it.

I’m Outdoorsy, I Swear

I’m having a hard time typing. Why, you ask? Because I fell. And my left hand is in a splint.

I wish I could say it was a tragic incident. Like, for example, I risked my own life scaling the side of a building trying to save an old lady from certain death. But no. It comes down to a simple tale of inappropriate footwear.

It was a gorgeous day. We were walking to the zoo. There was a trail. Oh fun! A trail, I said. I’m outdoorsy. Not a problem.

About five steps into this “trail,” my flip-flops decided that they no longer needed to carry me upright. And down I went. Right on my hand. Sunglasses and pride shattered, I sat for a good two minutes, trying to conceal the tears. And the nausea.

Now, I’ve experienced a good deal of trails. Hell, I’ve bouldered the sides of mountains. I’ve waded through flooded valleys. I’ve even hiked Tasmania. And this is the “trail” that defeats me?

If I was with my mother or my best friend, I think I might have milked it a little more. Or been more realistic. But I was with a guy. The guy I’m dating. Who, I might add, is very athletic. So what did I do? I gave myself those two minutes, and then I said, on to the zoo! I’m fine! What? There is blood streaming down my leg? Whatever. It’s fine! I'm an independent and strong woman, who, despite a possible broken wrist and a small gash on my leg, is totally and completely FINE.

I toughed it out for more than four hours. That is how “tough” I am.

Despite the throbbing pain, it was a great four hours.

However, the next day, after a precautionary trip to the ER, I realized both the silliness of pride… and the importance of ice packs.

Golf Elbow

I went to the driving range yesterday. It was a very pleasant early morning bucket o' balls, let me tell you. The wind was soft. The sun was warm. I was hungover, but it didn't matter. It was the beginning of the nicest day in DC this spring.

Now I am not what you would call a "golfer." I took summertime lessons at my grandfather's country club when I was little, but that was many years ago. I was decent at the time, but I didn't give it my all. You see, I always hated the pretension of "The Club." Little people with plaid pants and flipped collars. Yuk. Give me an ice cream cone, that's what I'd be saying. A firecracker, perhaps? Any sort of sweet treat would do.

But I did love diving for golf balls in the lake. It was far more entertaining than the golfing itself. You could paddle boat over to the cove, dive in the shallow water and see who among you could snatch the most balls. And then you'd race back for another ice cream cone. Oh, wait. That might have been just me. In any case, golfing was never "my thing."

Until recently.

I've learned that everything in life is exactly what you make of it. I'm not going to let some future investment banker with a flipped collar tell me that golfing is pretentious. Not anymore!

Golfing is fun for me now. And I'm excited to get better at it. I've already mastered the sand wedge, so there's really not too much else I need to learn. No doubt, by the end of summer, I'll be on a tour. Augusta National? Piece of cake.

Now if I could just get rid of this golf elbow. [Side note: I looked it up. It's like tennis elbow, but it's called "golf elbow" because you get it after you've "golfed." Tricky.] Once I'm healed, it's back to the range. Watch out Tiger Woods. Watch out little Asian prodigy whose name I can't remember. Here I come.

Busy Week, Excellent Friday

This has been probably one of the busiest weeks of my life. Monday through Thursday were jam packed not with jam (although that would be fantastic) but with several events, both for work and play.

It was a great week though. Wouldn't trade it for anything. And the cherry on top is my day off today. I woke up in the best place in the world and felt comfort and peace in the absence of a plan. The day is mine. I could do nothing. I could do everything.

Only a few hours have past and, after an unfortunately necessary trip to the office for my sneakers (I feel a lot better now that I have them in my possession again), I have done two loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, went grocery shopping and made a delicious tomato soup.

It's a rainy day here in DC. Tomato soup seemed appropriate. I have to say, it's the best tomato soup I've ever encountered. And I've encountered my fair share, let me tell you.

Now, in keeping with my "lack of plan, this is a day for me" strategy, I am going to lay down and let myself doze in and out to the melodious voice of Paula Deen (of "Paula's Home Cooking" on the Food Network if you didn't know). It's my little guilty pleasure. She just made a homemade mac 'n cheese that makes me want to jump right through my TV screen. She's the best. I love her uninhibited use of butter and cream. And she makes me feel accepted, in a very maternal way. I'd like to give her a hug, I'm not going to lie.

Sorry to ramble. But I hope it proves the point that a lazy, plan-less day is sometimes the perfect end to a hectic week.

Smuckers

So I bought some jelly the other day. I'm trying to calm my addiction to the muffins at 7-11 by forcing myself to eat a breakfast of toast with cream cheese and jelly. Just seems healthier. One muffin a week. That is my new rule. Sorry, 7-11. I know I've been a valuable and loyal customer for several months now.

After perusing the condiment aisle at the IGA with careful thought, I finally decided on the Smuckers Simply Fruit. Turns out, it's quite delicious, not overly sweet. Good stuff.

I was looking at the bottle this morning, and, because of extremely effective marketing, their slogan instantly came to mind. "With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good."

Then I thought, does it? Does it really?

We all think of little cute children eating jam. Smuckers = little cute children.

But without the visual picture of the adorable TV commercial kids, I have to say that Smuckers could be something very horrible. Smuckers rhymes with suckers. Which reminds of an alien with tentacles. At the end of each tentacle is what I call a "sucker." These creatures, in the demented world that is my brain, are called "Smuckers."

Watch out! The Smuckers are coming! They don't just suck, they "smuck." I haven't defined what smucking is, but don't you agree it could be horrible? Who wants to be smucked? No one. That's who.

New slogan: "With a name like Smuckers, you better run the hell away."

FYI, this man is an alien if I've ever seen one. Check it out.

Holy Thursday, Batman!

I went to Catholic school for more than 16 years. Yes, it's true.

Surprisingly true, in fact. Sometimes it shocks me how anti-Catholic I can be. I seem to be a paradox when it comes to religion.

When they taught me about morals and values, I was listening. But bread turning into the body? Huh? We don't accept gay people? Women can't be priests, even if they follow the same rules? The pope man is infallible? Whoa! Rising from the dead? Mindless recitation of words written by humans? Passing the basket? Homilies about spaghetti dinners?

Don't get me wrong, I love spaghetti, but sermons about pasta don't exactly reach my inner soul.

Yet, at the same time, I love gospel music. I love stories about faith that turns people's lives around. I love the sign of peace. I love service for others. I love thinking about how I'm blessed, or lucky. And I love how a prayer's sole purpose can be to wish someone else something good (whether there are magical powers that make it happen remains a mystery to me, but the intention itself is powerful).

So, how does such a confused Catholic celebrate Easter week? Well, I am drinking a beer right now. Jesus had wine, so I figure that's ok. I wished a few friends and family members a "Holy Thursday, Batman!" And I'm listening to the soundtrack to Jesus Christ, Superstar. Don't do it, Judas! Something tells me this will not turn out well!

Jackie Chan

Last night, I awoke at 4 am to the sound of the loudest thunderstorm that ever existed. It was so loud that I resorted to my trusty earplugs reserved only for upstairs neighbor noises. Now they have two purposes: loud upstairs neighbors and crazy thunderstorms.

Usually I like thunderstorms. They tend to be peaceful in a weird way. The rain pounding on my window. The roar of the thunder. The comfort of being inside, under covers, in the midst of a violent war amongst the angels and demons. Wait, that was a flashback to grade school and the nuns. Sorry.

In any case, I did fall back to sleep and woke up to the sound of my alarm at 6:20. Not the best feeling in the world, but hey, I'm committed to my morning gym routine. So I stumble over to the WSC and sleepily discuss the night's storm with my friends at the front desk.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Dude, that thunderstorm was insane last night!"
Gym Woman: "Yeah, that was craaaaazy!"
Me: "It was so loud."
Gym Man: "I could barely believe it. I was like, Is that Jackie Chan? What's Jackie Chan doin' outside my window? You know what I'm sayin?"
Gym Woman: "Haha. Jackie Chan!"
Gym Man: "You know. I was like, what's that? Is that Jackie Chan?"
Gym Woman: "Straight up! Hahaha. Jackie Chan."
Me: (Awkward Laughter) "Haha. Yeah... Ok then. Catch you guys later."

Now, let me ask you. What does Jackie Chan have to do with thunderstorms? Am I missing something? I mean, I know he's a martial arts guru. He's very talented, been in several movies. But, does he make thunderous noises? Does lightning come out of his head? Really, I have no idea. It was so random to me. In my sleepy haziness, I just had to politely nod and walk away. Just walk away, I said. Uncomfortable laugh, and get out of there. So that's what I did. And that was the end of that.

If you have any insight to the correlation between thunderstorms and Jackie Chan, feel free to share.

Idealistic Cynic

Yes. It's true. I am an idealist.

I'm sorry if I offended anyone with my previous post. As you can tell, I'm not a fan of the current administration. But let me be very clear in saying that I support our troops wholeheartedly. And, when it comes right down to it, I'm not sure I'd be loving John Kerry either. As my grandfather would say, "They're all crooks."

In the end, I simply hate it when people suffer. And sometimes I get overwhelmed by that emotion. I want the world to be a happy place, one where everyone helps their fellow man and one where we don't shoot people with guns. One where people are accepted for their differences. One where people don't have to drink diseased water. One where there is no desire to be better than each other, only to be with each other. One where there is no hate. One where nobody dies. Ever. And unicorns and fairies frolic about distributing chocolate pudding to everyone. And if you want whipped cream, you can have it. And if you are lactose intolerant, there is a soy option. And it's sunny every day of your endless and eternally happy life.

See where I'm going with this?

Although my idealistic side dominates, I often come to the unfortunate conclusion that idealism is very far from realism. People can be greedy and narcissistic. And, the more I realize this, the more cynical I become. And depressed. I start to crave pudding. And then I think of the magical pudding delivery system in my head and I smile again... it's a vicious cycle.

Dear Mr. President

I have said that I would stay away from politics. And I have. I don’t think this is an exception, although some of you may feel that it is. A friend of mine sent this video to me last week and I can’t seem to get it out of my head, nor off of my computer screen. No matter on which “side of fence” you sit, please listen.

Every so often, the state of world overwhelms me. This morning, as I sat on the bus on my way to work, I saw a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart up a hill. She could barely move it. And no one helped her. I read an article in the Post about a soldier who died in Iraq. Only his story was a speck of print among the bigger stories of the day.

I don’t have all the answers, or any answers for that matter. I guess all we can do is spread the love. And we can hope that our daily acts of kindness, although small, will start a chain of goodwill, leading right up to the top. We just have to be careful when get up there. Dick Cheney likes to shoot people with guns.

Internet

For as much as I complain about spam, I realized over these past few weeks how much the Internet means to me.

You see, one fateful day a few weeks ago, a Comcast man called me at work. He explained that he was updating something and that I needed to come home so that he could reconnect my cable. As I was at work, I was unable to go home right that second. What ensued was a series of events inexplicable even for me. Something about wires.

Anyway, my Internet was out for what felt like years. I would come home from work and stare aimlessly into my desktop. I played some solitaire. I tried to read a book. I tried to watch public access television. I even made a pizza.

My life became different. I can't say it was all bad. I mean, the pizza was really good. I ate it right the heck up.

I went to bed earlier too. And I got to work in plenty time, unable to be distracted by morning cnn.com checks, iTunes downloads and mindless MySpace searching.

But something was missing. I felt disconnected from the world.

I thought a lot about this, wondering if my dependency on the Internet is a bad thing. Does it mean that I'm losing a desire for actual human contact? That I would prefer to type rather than talk? Or that my eyesight will deteriorate faster than normal?

The answers to those questions are decidedly "no." Well, I'll have to wait on the eyesight thing. But other than that, I think I keep in touch with friends and family more than a lot of people. And the Internet is what helps me do it. It also helps me stay on top of my job, world events, local happenings and, lest we forget, college basketball.

And I seem to strike a healthy balance. I love doing fun things and being outside. But how can I plan a trip to Great Falls without checking weather.com first? In a sense, the Internet helps me do more things away from it than within it. Deep thought of the day. It's good to be back online.

If you're just getting into the Internet, welcome. Here is a clip that may help you get acclimated.

Assumption

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, always told me that, "to assume was to make an ass of U. M. E." Get it? Like, "you and me?" What you're doing is taking apart the word assume and creating the phrase, "ass U. M. E.," which is not good, according to my mother. In any case...

Besides the fact that I thought it was cool that my mom cursed in front of me (she started saying that when I was about five), it turned out to be good advice.

We assume things every second of every day. I assume that if someone sneezes on me I will get sick. I assume that if someone with work clothes gets off of my bus in the morning at a certain stop they are going to the shelter for breakfast. I assume that if someone is snippy with me they don't like me. And apparently I assumed that Viagra spam emails actually came from Viagra.

To assume is dangerous. Some assumptions are innocent and merely create a little confusion. But some can be worse. Some can perpetuate a stereotype or a prejudice. Do you assume all Mexicans are lazy? Or that all gay men like Cher? Neither is true, FYI.

This past weekend I was sitting in a group of people and we were discussing someone else's recent strange behavior. This other person was not present. The group think bandwagon was in full force that night and, before I knew it, factual conversation turned to nasty gossip.

All of sudden, one participant blurted out, "You know guys, maybe there is something going on in her life that we don't know about."

And it made me stop. She was right. I was assuming that I knew the facts, but why would I? How could I? I had started to judge. And I had started to talk badly about someone who very well could be in a sad spot right now. Shame on me.

I can safely say that not a single person in my life knows every fact about me, so how can I be so presumptuous about other people? We only know what we know. Instead of getting angry, judging or assuming things about people, we should instead be open to learning more. Reach out and ask. Don't assume. Just care. Why is that so hard? Perhaps we feel threatened by what we don't know, or what may seem unusual.

I'm going to make more of an effort in my assumptions. However, I will still be annoyed when people sneeze on me. That's just gross.

Spam

We all get it. We all hate it. We all have developed a very regular removal routine upon every log-in to our email accounts. Check, check, check, check, check. Delete selected. Read the real email.

Spam just seems to be part of life now. A means to an end. Even with the “power” of spam filters, some will inevitably sneak its way in. But to get to the good stuff, we must delete the bad.

What puzzles me is advertisers’ assumption that these tactics will work. I mean, I’m not really stupid enough to order a weight loss pill from some random email that claims I will loose 30 pounds in 3 hours. Or am I. Are there people out there that buy into these claims? Do they order the pills? Do they send their checking account numbers to entrepreneurs in Africa? Do they buy penis enlargers?

My theory is that yes, there are people who respond to spam. Someone must be perpetuating it. But why? Perhaps spam does a great job of recognizing our insecurities. Weight issues. Money problems. Relationship dry spells. Small penises?

You catch people at the right time, with the right message, and you can sell them anything. For example, here are some spam emails I very nearly responded to recently. They are so tempting.

EXAMPLE 1

Subject Line --- usua room

Email --- thank you for the note yes i think you are hot and yes i want to hookup i will only be on msn messnger reqbecky@hotmail.com

Initial Thoughts --- Hmm, I don’t remember sending a note, but you know what? I AM hot! Maybe I’ll write this person back. He’s obviously very articulate, which is a plus. And I could hook up TONIGHT! What could be sketchy about that? There is absolutely nothing dangerous about meeting a stranger in a motel room. Weeeeee. Sex for me tonight!

EXAMPLE 2

Subject Line --- Your Complimentary Makeover and Portrait

Email --- Exclusive Online Offer! Save $100! Every woman has an inner super model just dying to get out and show off! At Glamour Shots, our staff of professional stylists and photographers will work with you to create high-quality, professional portraits that show off your hidden glamour girl. Whether alone or with a group of friends, the Glamour Shots experience is one you’ll treasure forever!

Initial Thoughts --- Originally, I thought, I don’t need this. Paaaah lease. But then I saw the before & after. It was so convincing, you'd think it was two separate people! So I have an appointment booked for this Tuesday.

EXAMPLE 3

Subject Line --- (none)

Email --- First i would like to say you are a sexy man
it you want to have a good time
i willl onlybe on msn mnessnger beckytely@hotmail.com

Initial Thoughts --- Another very articulate offer. And, ok, so I’m not a “man” per say. But apparently I’m very sexy And of course I want to have a good time. I mean, who doesn’t, you know? A good time sounds nice. Very wholesome. Joining msn messenger as we speak!

So maybe I wouldn’t necessarily respond… but I’ve been close. Ha. Just be careful out there. Be aware. And feel free to laugh at the ridiculousness that is the penis enlarger.

Not Pink Eye

Things are not always as they seem. I wouldn't normally post just for the sake of correcting a previous post, but I feel, for the peace of mind of all those close to me, I need to clarify. I DO NOT HAVE PINK EYE. Yay.

Other things I learned this weekend:

• rest is good for colds
• hookahs are surprisingly good for coughs
• sambuca has a higher alcohol content than I originally thought
• a vegetarian diet includes a lot of lentils
• substituting vegetables for wine at the grocery store feels like a healthy choice
• not having that extra bottle of wine at home sucks big time
• cooking for someone is more fun than I remember
• my oven still works
• dark meat is, in fact, much tastier
• I have a Genghis Khan fantasy
• heroin almost destroyed the Chili Peppers
• heroin is bad
• the Chili Peppers overcame many obstacles to become one of the most notable bands of our generation
• it is impossible to turn off VH1 Behind the Music
  
• Andre the Giant was a gentle soul
• I'm not a regular snorer (thank the LORD)
  
• Babel is an excellent film
• pure selflessness makes me cry
• first times can be beautiful
• sometimes an unexpected knock at the door turns into an unforgettable moment
• I think that wifebeaters are really sexy
• I like to play along
  
• feeling wanted is the best feeling in the world
• making someone else smile might even top it
  

And so my weekend ends... and another work week begins.

Pink Eye

Am I not hygienic? Did I touch my face after using an infected elliptical machine at the gym? Am I in fourth grade? Did someone frickin' spit on me? How in the world did I get pink eye?

It's really a memory I have from grade school. One kid gets it and someone else tells their parents. Before you know it, it's a mini natural disaster by first period the next day. But it doesn't happen to healthy women in their late twenties. Or does it?

I'm still hoping it's a small irritation that just happens to "resemble" pink eye. It's totally possible. Too many nights sleeping with my contacts in. A spec of something kicked up by a Metro bus. Allergies. It could be any of these things. Even if this goes away in a day or two, convincing myself that it's not pink eye will somehow help my pride.

My "on call" optometrist said that pink eye, more accurately described as conjunctivitis, is often linked with the common cold. And since a recent strain of pink eye is viral, just like the common cold, and I happen to be getting over a cold, it all makes sense. So he tells me. I'm thinking that immediately following our phone call today, he hung up and let out a full-bellied chuckle. "That girl is 27 years old! And she has pink eye! Mwah ha ha HA HA." And all of his cronies at the golf club get a good ab workout at my expense.

I don't know why I feel this uncontrollable shame about the pink eye situation. Maybe it's because I would dread ever passing it on to someone. I'd feel horrible if that happened. But, really, I think it's more because I equate it with being a child. I mean, really. What's next? Mono? Chicken pox? Cooties?

Worst of all, there is nothing I can do about it. I have to "let it pass." Be patient. Wear my glasses... ugh. All I can say is, this f*cker better pass before the weekend is over. I will not let pink eye ruin Presidents Day. I live in our nation's capital. And, instead of being cooped up in my apartment with my glasses on, I'd of course rather be celebrating my patriotism and visiting a museum. Or, you know, doing other things.

Love

What is love? Good question. Hmmm. What is love? Baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more. Hey, hey. As another Valentine's Day has passed us by, I can't help but think of the meaning of love. And, of course, that Saturday Night Live skit. And that time Jim Carrey was one of the guys in the skit. That cracked me up.

Anyway, Valentine's Day is a crazy holiday. It's probably the most mixed holiday out there, as far as how people react to it. For some, it's the worst day of year, a reminder of loneliness or rejection. For some, it's a celebration of a partner, new or old. And for some, it's a sad day, a feeling of loss or despair. For some, it's an angry day, full of bitterness and pity. But for some, it's being grateful to have someone special. For some it's the simplicity of a heart. It's flowers. It's red. Yet for some, it's an obligation. But for others, it's a simple excuse to tell someone you care.

Where do you fall on the spectrum?

This year, I ran the gamut. I've always felt that Valentine's Day was about all the people in my life, not just a boyfriend (or the boyfriend I didn't have). So, this year, I missed someone. And that was lonely. Then I felt angry thinking of what someone else's partner had done to her. And I also felt very grateful for so many wonderful people in my life. And, I'll admit, I did make a few obligatory phone calls. But, this year, I was able to celebrate someone very special to me. Something that is new. And exciting. And I was able to love, and feel loved at the same time.

Life doesn't get any better than that.

I know Valentine's Day is a commercial holiday. But, as someone very wise (i.e., Schmenny) pointed out, so is Mother's Day. We don't throw our moms out on the street. So why throw love? Love comes in many different forms. And it can be directed at many different things, many different people. Let's embrace that.

This year, I feel lucky, almost unworthy, of the love I've received. And the love I've felt inside me. Finally, I think I was able to open up a little, break down some walls, and let it in.

Sausage Sunday

Get your minds out of the gutter, people. I quite literally mean sausage.

I thought, by moving into the basement of a row house from a regular apartment building, that I had abandoned all kinds of things. For example, the pounding of a neighbor's music. Or the creepy guys down the hall. The skeevy, but generous, offers to smoke pot on a Tuesday night. The broken elevators. The long trips to the laundry room. And the unavoidable penetrating smells of ethnic food.

Yay. I had made it to the luxurious world of "the English basement."

Things were going somewhat well (aside from the horrible cult nomad couple above me)... until about three weeks ago. I didn't realize this last year, but, despite the privacy of this apartment, there is one place I failed to consider as a conduit for noise and smell. The frickin' fireplace.

During these past few weeks I've awoken to the smell of various pork products. This is not a horrible thing I guess. There are worse smells. And I love sausage. I also love bacon, fyi. But there is a time and a place for these things. For example, bangers and mash, the BLT, etc. Do I want to wake up to the smell of the greasy American breakfast every morning? No! I appreciate these foods, but come on, people. I eat Kashi for breakfast. Maybe the occasional muffin. The smell of fried meat at 7 am doesn't exactly give me the warm fuzzies.

So now I'm thinking, do I just sit by and let sausage control my life? Do I let pork products win? I am stronger than the pig, by God. And I will overcome. In retaliation, I will cook curry. I will cook fish. And I will saute garlic. And, by the end of all this aromatic cooking, everyone will want to be my friend.

Parker Posey

I've been pretty tired lately. Seems that life has been non-stop. I'm not complaining though, don't get me wrong. Life is great. But sometimes, when I need to unwind and reflect, I think of the DQ. Just drive in and get a coke... if you're thirsty.

Parkey Posey is one of the best comedians of our day. At least in my opinion. And here are a few reasons why.

Celebrity Jeopardy

Brings me back to the good 'ole days of SNL. Suck it, Trebek!

Matchmaker

So I'm at the bus stop this morning when I notice my neighbor also waiting. Not my noisy upstairs neighbors, don't worry. This one lives to the left of me, in the next basement. She's a very sweet older woman. Slightly crazy. Definitely thinks I'm "just a kid." But that's ok. She doesn't make any noises at 4 am, so she passes in my book.

I say good morning. We exchange pleasantries and wait together for the next 42 to roll by. When it rains in DC, as it did this morning, not only does everything slow down, but Metro seems to decrease the amount of working buses. Needless to say, the first one to stop was way too packed to board. So my neighbor and I waited together. In the ensuing conversation, both at the stop and aboard the next available bus, I learned that we have had much more in common than I thought.

Turns out, she knows my old boss. And she works next to the house where my old boss lives. And, to my embarrassment, she knew of that fateful incident in 2005 when I broke my boss's shower while "house sitting" when my boss was in New Orleans. I swear to you that all I did was turn the knob. Gently.

Anyway, as I came to realize who my neighbor was for the very first time in more than two years, I also realized that I had heard of her before. My boss had once given me a card with a name on it and the word, "matchmaker." I was single, and apparently in need of a match. Well, as the pieces slowly came together on our trek down Connecticut avenue, I realized that my neighbor was the matchmaker.

How cool is that? My neighbor is a matchmaker! All this time, and I had no idea that A) I knew who she was and B) that my potential perfect mate was perhaps a knock and an afternoon tea away!

Don't worry, I plan to work this shit. "Oh, what's that you have in your hand? Are those new matches? Can I, maybe, take a little peak? You need some yard work done? Allow me. Don't worry, it's just a favor! Oh, what's that, the phone number of the most eligible bachelor in DC? Oh, don't mind me as I enter it into my cell phone..."

Haha. It's like fate has been two feet away from me for two years.

I'm just joking about wanting to see her matches. But I will say that this morning's bus ride taught me something. You don't know what is under your nose until you look. Not only is my neighbor the only matchmaker in DC, but she has led a completely fascinating life. And I can't wait to learn more. Life is short. And people are interesting.

New Year's, I Guess

Oh, New Year's. New Year's, New Year's, New Year's. You know what I say? I say screw it. I don't believe in resolutions. But I guess I believe in reflection. But, then again, I don't believe that reflection should happen just at New Year's. Or at any one time really. Confused? Yeah, me too.

People talk about the pressure of New Year's Eve. Where to go. What to wear. Who to see. Big club versus small party. Wine versus beer. The good champagne or not. DD or cab. Silver or gold.

And then comes the pressure of New Year's Day and the resolution. Finances. Fitness. Jobs. Order. Security. Personal goals. AHHHH!

And then it's January 2nd. And you're thinking, whoa. What just happened? It can be a real rush of adrenalin. And then it's over.

As I struggle to write 2007 on file names and checks (and I'll probably still be struggling well into 2010; I never seem to catch on to the year), I can't help but think that the change in year is somewhat meaningless. Life doesn't necessarily happen in 365-day increments. Life is a continuous flow. I try to reflect, set goals and think about important things all year. Not just on some hazy hungover federal holiday.

However, the New Year's phenomenon does have its benefits. It's the perfect excuse to party with friends, call people you haven't in a while, wish loved ones health & happiness... and be with someone special. I'll take that excuse any day.

So here's to life. Here's to love. And to continuous good things.