Pray for Stella

Ohio: A Love Song

2009-07-02T14:54:00.000-07:00

Whenever I tell someone I'm from the Midwest I get an answer along the lines of, "I should've guessed. You're so nice!" or "So that's why you're so smiley!" But until recently, it had been six months since I was in the Midwest, and my attitude was beginning to show it. I knew it was time to recharge, so I made plans to fly back a couple weeks ago. I wasn't five minutes out the door when I began to feel the Midwestern generosity wash over me. I submit for evidence:

Text to Iowa-born Coworker: Not gone 20 minutes and I just cheerfully gave money to a sketchy dude in the Metro. The Midwest takeover has begun.

His reply: At this rate, you’ll be wearing jeans and tennis shoes before supper.

Me: Supper! Ha!

Anyway, Columbus is awesome. Not just because of our Big Ten football team or our token billionaire fashion mogul. It’s awesome because you can travel across the entire region in 20 minutes flat, you can buy an 800 square foot condo for less than $200K, and the cheap pedicure places still use razors. In Ohio you can be at a baby shower, dressed in silk and cooing over onesies, and a guy might walk through the room carrying a turkey sandwich and a shotgun (it happened). No one will look up because it will be totally ordinary. I saw more McCain/Palin signs displayed nine months after the election than I saw in the entire District of Columbia during the height of the campaign. And then there are the sweet bits of Americana like this:

Which can also be borderline creepy like this:

Or downright disturbing:

Yeah, I'm not kidding. And no, these were not taken at my parents' house.

But for anyone who still blames Ohio for W’s re-election in 2004, I have proof that liberals are allowed to thrive there, albeit once a year and under police supervision. ComFest is an annual “anything goes” festival in Columbus that I make a point to return to each year. Sure there are mullets and Harley t-shirts and the occasional ZZ Top beard, but there are also Tarot cards, tye-dye and contact highs. Best people watching you can imagine.

In two days time, I began to wonder why I ever left. Awesome people, cheap real estate and easy living. I was somewhat saddened when I had to leave, and then the best thing ever happened: I got stopped going through airport security on my way back to DC. The reason? I had some candles in my suitcase that were in mysterious looking jars. (Btw these candles are made by hand in a hole-in-the-wall shop in Columbus and sell for $45 a piece at Fred Segal in LA. It was worth the risk to stock up at the local price of $12.) After the TSA agent determined I was not transporting anything dangerous in my candle jars, he busted me with some contraband liquids. I was fully prepared to part ways with my C.O. Bigelow Body Souffle when he shrugged and said, “You know normally you’d have to throw this away, but you look like a nice person so it’s cool.”

Which is why I love being from the Midwest.

Dentaluv, Redux

2009-06-08T18:01:00.001-07:00

Confession: despite all my hipster posturing, I would give a non-essential organ to own real estate in Georgetown. Meandering through its charming, cobblestone streets can be absolutely transporting. And so it goes that this morning, as I was winding its streets in my Civic hybrid (thanks Zipcar!), I almost forgot that I was on my way to my least favorite place on earth: the dentist. Despite recent events, I have apparently not learned my lesson about routine oral healthcare because for the last several months I've been ignoring those pesky reminder cards. But finally, the $2000 lesson prevailed over my B-movie nightmares and I scheduled my routine check-up.

I arrived a few minutes late (i.e. right on time for me) and noticed a new face behind the receptionist desk. I gave her my last name and took a seat. She spent the next few minutes rifling through charts until one of the hygienists who knows me grabbed it off of a stack and handed it to her. Her response? "Oh, you didn't tell me you were Julia." I decided to let that one go, but the buzz from my drive along R Street officially began to wore off.

After depositing me in an exam chair (which I noticed had a new massage feature!), the hygienist asked me a few routine questions and left. A few minutes later my dentist popped in to gush, "Hey stranger! Where've you been? We've missed you!" and to inform me that he was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. Although I wanted to ask why one of the hygienists couldn't just floss me and be done with it, I smiled and picked up the paper and said no problem. True to his word, he returned twenty minutes later and got down to the business of cleaning my teeth. With his hand and a few instruments in my mouth he asked me to tell him what I'd been up to this spring (why dentists think this is an opportune time to chat is beyond me). I suppose he was also providing commentary on my oral health, but to be honest I was camped out in the Happy Place in my mind just wishing time would pass quicker and not really listening all that much.

When it was said and done, I stood up and he gave me a not-so-subtle once over. Conspiratorially, he whispered, "Have you lost weight? You look great." I tried not to squirm awkwardly and mumbled something innocuous in response. The thing is, I have lost weight. I've dropped a size or two, and sure, it's fun to wear clothes that haven't seen the light of day since I was in college, but it's nothing dramatic or anything and the fact that my dentist noticed kind of freaked me out. Not to throw out a total overshare here, but my freaking bikini waxer hasn't even noticed, and she sees me once a month! I realize this is the guy who noticed the dye job that managed to sneak by my co-workers, but I'm starting to think he has me tailed in between visits.

And so I found myself again overcome with a desperation to flee (never good when there's an AMEX involved), and I was so preoccupied with escaping that it took me a minute to process it when the receptionist confirmed my follow-up appointment for an Invisalign consultation. Huh? I asked her to explain. Apparently the doc voiced some concerns about the "crowding" of my bottom teeth and has recommended Invisalign for treatment. Which means? You guessed it. About five more appointments and another two grand. I cannot escape this man.

When did I become Miranda?

2009-06-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

It should come as no surprise that I'm a huge fan of Sex & the City. I don't care if it was primarily written by gay men; they still somehow managed to portray the modern single woman with amazing attention to detail and nuance. It's uncanny--and maybe a little embarrassing--how often I've related an experience in my life to an episode of that show. Sigh.

Most women I know think they're a Carrie, and I'm no exception. We're complex, imperfect, temperamental, hopelessly romantic and house poor (but fashion rich). In my dating life, I've always related to Carrie. I've had my own version of Big: the impossibly selfish guy who shows up every two years or so to declare his love before disappearing again. And I've had my fair share of Aidans: the super sweet guys who do everything right but still can't win my heart. I've never related to Charlotte's desperation for perfection, or Samantha's shallow pursuit of sex and I've certainly never patterened my romances after ball-busting Miranda's.

But a funny thing has happened. About a month ago, when I was checking out a hot new bar with some girlfriends, I found myself in the enviable position of being singled out by the cute bartender (yay for free Grey Goose!). I gave him just enough attention to keep my glass full, but mostly ignored him to talk to my friends. That is, until he said to me, "You're not going to get away with that when I'm your boyfriend." And just like that he had my full attention. I mean, it takes a lot of balls to say something like that, and when a guy can pull it off without sounding arrogant it's hot.

And so it has come to be that I am living out Miranda & Steve: the Early Years. The ambitious and career-obsessed redhead with the mellow and lovable bartender. Our schedules are the exact opposite. He is exasperated by my inability to stay out past midnight on Fridays, and I want to throttle him when he text messages me from the golf course on a Tuesday. And our ambitions? They couldn't be more different. In truth, we have virtually nothing in common, and dating him isn't exactly in line with my Power Couple Quest (blog forthcoming), but he is exactly what I need right now: charming, funny, mature and confident. And really? Confidence is ten times sexier than a killer resume anyway.

DC is for Haters

2009-05-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

Anyone who took an eighth grade geography class knows that the Washington, DC metropolitan area is comprised of the District of Columbia and a handful of Virginia and Maryland suburbs. What you don’t know until you live here is that there’s a hierarchy of geographic superiority among these jurisdictions. Marylanders fall at the bottom of the barrel. A guy I know who grew up in Northern Virginia (henceforth, NoVA) has a t-shirt that reads, Friends Don’t Let Friends Live in Maryland, and it just about sums up Virginians’ opinion of Maryland. However, Virginians have their own place in the ranks: a Washingtonian I know has a t-shirt that reads, Virginia is for Commuters, a play on the unofficial (or is it the official?) Virginia state motto.

The ironic thing about Washingtonian smugness is that very few of us were actually born here or stay for any real length of time, so our sense of superiority isn’t rooted in anything real. This really pisses off all the natives I know. Nonetheless, our sense of self-righteousness prevails. Whenever I have to leave the District (or, journey to the interior, as I am prone to say) I like to joke about packing flares and trail mix. A couple of weeks ago, a cute NoVA guy came into DC to take me out on a date, and I jokingly asked him if they served peanuts on his plane ride. Because NoVA guys are so easily provoked, he reveled in the chance to tell me what my neighborhood looked like five, ten years ago and essentially relegated me to some kind of urban sheep who followed the pack to the latest Starbucks opening. By the time he was done, he’d come up with a t-shirt of his own: DC is for Haters. Oh snap! (But can I get it on Busted Tees??)

And really? He’s right. There is something about the suburbs that I find absolutely disorienting. I have a pretty great sense of direction, but if you dropped me off in the center of Rosslyn, I’d be hard pressed to find my way back. Ditto Bethesda. That said, this weekend I found myself spending a lot of time outside the safe confines of DC, and lo and behold it didn’t totally suck! My roommate, being the bestest roommate ever that he is, tossed me his Jeep keys before he headed out of town, so I took advantage of the rare access to wheels. Each time I set out from home I got lost, and at one point the Jeep may or may not have caught on fire, but I got to feel the wind in my hair and have some killer frozen custard in a quaint NoVA neighborhood.

Then this evening, the weirdest thing happened. As I crossed over the Wilson Bridge on my way back into the District, I didn’t feel smug at all. Instead, I felt a swelling sense of curiosity about this city that increasingly feels like home to me. Since I moved here three years ago, I’ve spent most of my time within a half-mile radius of my apartment (did I mention it’s ridiculously, amazingly located?), but I’m finding myself itching a bit lately. Hmmm…perhaps it’s time for a little pioneering. Starbucks, anyone?

An Update on My Life, in List Form

2009-05-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

Note: for the record, the reason I never update this blog is that my friend Katherine is way funnier than me and routinely publishes my antics on the World Wide Web via her own (way funnier) blog.

About five days after my last post, I swung back into the dramatic, yet impossible romance. About a month ago, I swung back out. In the interim, we went to Iceland! It was intense and otherworldly, and you should see the pictures. Really.

I continue to date men who wore born in the 80's, and this is a pattern that disturbs me. Text-flirting appears to be the primary Gen Y Courtship Strategy, and I really prefer a wittily composed email. What can I say? Good grammar makes me swoon. Excessive use of "LOL" does not. Even if you are a really cute architect.

Despite cutting back to once-a-week running and ditching the gym altogether, my ass has been shrinking. While I thought this would make me less popular with black men, it turns out they like curly hair too.

My mom joined Facebook.

The week-long season we call "spring" came and went, and the Season of Profuse Sweating has begun. This year I broke down and bought clinical strength deodorant, which I'm sure is giving me breast cancer, not to mention ruining my white shirts with disturbing, fluorescent stains. But my pits? They're bone dry. I can't wait until they make an all-over body version.

I finally got a therapist, and it's the Best. Money. I've. Ever. Spent. I can't believe I didn't get one years ago! There is something so appealing to my Inner Narcissist about having a weekly appointment where all I do is talk about Me, Myself and I.

I narrowly avoided getting swine flu, though it meant canceling a much-needed trip to Mexico.

Even though all signs have been directing me toward homeownership, I officially decided to continue my life as a renter for the foreseeable future. It was a tough decision, but ultimately I had to admit to myself that it is not a responsibility I want to take on as a single woman. Yes, yes, my Inner Feminist is pissed about it, but who did she think was going to provide the flat screen TV and fix things when they broke? Me? I think not.

This summer I have more baby showers than weddings. This terrifies me.

For the first time since moving to DC, I intend to take part in the summer tradition of spending weekends at Rehoboth Beach. Rehoboth is like the Hamptons only less glamorous and more gay (there's a reason they call it "Rehomo"). Still, I'd much rather fight the gays for a slice of sand than queue up and throw elbows with them outside the ghetto public pool in Foggy Bottom in order to get a lounge chair.

Summer? Is going to be fun.

A New Year, but Some Things Stay the Same

2009-01-06T13:31:00.000-08:00

It’s been well documented, on this blog and others, that God hates me. However, every once in a while He throws me a bone and I’m reminded that life is good. Like last night, when after two weeks of agonizing separation I burst through my apartment door into the open arms of my favorite man on earth: Brian. Brian is my totally platonic roommate and the only man I’ve ever wanted to share living space with. Though he has failed me in many ways (most notably by the lack of hot, Georgetown MBAs he insisted he would bring home for me when I interviewed him), there is no one I can count on more to lighten my mood (or ply me with good wine, or tell me to get my fat ass off the couch and go to the gym…), and for that I’m thankful he’s the one I come home to every night.

The best thing about Brian is that he is one of those blessedly uncomplicated men who just says it like it is. This was, in fact, the reason I selected him to be my roommate. My last roommate, who was eerily similar to that creepy chick in So I Married an Axe Murder, confirmed my suspicion that excessive estrogen does not a happy home make. Passive-aggressive conversations about chores and psychotic episodes over milk are way too dramatic for me. So when I began interviewing for her replacement, my script was simple:

Me: If I say, ‘Dude, this place is nasty. You need to pick up your shit.’ How do you respond?

The only acceptable answer was the one Brian gave me: “Uh, I pick up my shit.”

And he does, sometimes before I even tell him to! And he cooks for me and does the dishes and finds it charming when I leave huge bags of smelly trash by the door for him to take out. In short, he’s the best house husband $1100/month can buy. Plus he finds me entertaining, and I’m a sucker for an audience. He has enjoyed a front row seat to The Farce that is my Dating Life for the past year and a half and is a frequent voice of reason when my girly parts take over and I start overanalyzing the crap out of things.

Most recently, I’ve been desirous of his perspective on the latest in my long line of dramatic, yet impossible romances for which I’ve seemingly become the poster child and for which everyone who loves me insists I seek therapy. However, I have been deprived of his wisdom due to his prolonged holiday absence. After our tearful reunion last night, we cracked open a bottle of red and got down to the business of catching up. When he learned that I’d begun the extrication process from the aforementioned dramatic relationship, we launched into a deep and thought-provoking discussion of relationships, during which Brian offered the following pearl of wisdom: “I mean after a few years with someone I feel like we should either get married or break up so I can start banging other women.”

And that’s when I threw my wine glass at his face. But still, it was nice to laugh.

The Stalker Chronicles, Part III

2008-12-08T17:34:00.000-08:00

So last week I mentioned my reunion with Frenchie, a rather Groundhog Day-like experience in that it was a repeat of the exact circumstances in which we met, which he apparently does not remember. To add to this bizarre turn of events is the following text message exchange I had today with my co-worker:

Her: Do you remember one time we were walking somewhere and a random French guy started talking to you?
Me: I have a French stalker, but not sure it's the same person. Why?
Her: Someone just started texting me named [intentionally omitted]? Claiming we met in Dupont. He described me as "sweet" and "nice". Doesn't sound like me. [Editor's note: she is indeed neither sweet, nor nice, and is in fact a self-described Big Angry Black Woman.]
Me: OMG! That is him!!!! How does he have your number???
Her: I. Don't. Know.
Me: Wait. Remember when I made you call that random number for me? What's the number??
Her: 202-257-2340 [Intentionally included--take that Stalker!]. That must be how he got it. What an odd ball.
Me: That's him!!! What a psycho!!
Her: He asked me to meet him for coffee in Adams Morgan.

So apparently the freak who can't remember me also can't keep my phone number straight. Which is why he deserves the Ultimate Stalker Retribution: a rendez-vous with the Big Angry Black Woman when he's expecting me instead.

Couldn't Make this Up

2008-11-25T07:23:00.000-08:00

Last summer I wrote about my quest for the Perfect Summer Fling. In it, I told of how I was stalked from the Dupont Circle Metro stop by a guy who turned out to be a) French and b) desirous of my phone number. I obliged--temporarily hypnotized by the accent--but quickly thereafter regretted the decision when he turned out to be a bit of a Text Message Stalker (not to mention total sap). I never went out with him.

Fast forward to last weekend.

In what can only be described as The Farce that is My Dating Life, or maybe Seriously, Does God Hate Me?, last weekend I found myself once again in that scenario. That exact scenario. And when I say exact, I mean same Metro stop, same why-is-this-guy-following-me internal monologue, same eventual pick-up line and...wait for it...the same freaking French guy.

OK, so it would be one thing if he saw me on the train, recognized me and, given my general state of iPod-wearing oblivion, had to chase me down to reconnect. That might actually justify his jog up the 188-foot escalator. But no. He didn't even remember me. And this is how it went down:

Me: [walking with a purpose, sensing a man walking a little too close, reaching for pocket mace]
Him: [gaining on me] Hey! Are you from New York or something?
Me: [stopped, turned around] Uh, no.
Him: It's just that you walk with such determination. It's very New Yorker-like.
Me: Uh, no. I'm from Ohio [thinking: which is why I have politely acknowledged your existence and not yet maced you.]
Him: Wow, you're really beautiful. Those eyes... Have you lived here long?
Me: [thinking: why does this sound familiar? Why does he look familiar? And what is that accent??] Three years now.
Him: So you're almost native! My name is [intentionally omitted]. I'd love to take you out sometime.
Me: [realization-coming-on-like-a-Mack-truck, FRENCHIE!, cannot help but start laughing]
Him: What's funny? Is that a yes?
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I'm involved with someone, but it was nice meeting you.
Him: Ah, no! Perhaps we will run into each other some time in the future? Perhaps when you are single? I want to see you again.
Me: [thinking: this cannot be happening] Well, you never know... [indeed!]

And I walked away, mouth agape in incredulity, thinking about the Cosmic Joke that is my dating life.

My Shameless Plug for Sonicare

2008-11-21T19:45:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who's a pro at dating. Sometimes she'll say things like, "OK, I just need to line up a guy for Thursday night and then I'll be set for the week." It will be Tuesday. And she'll find someone. This same friend is also a Match.com subscriber. She claims it's an easy go-to when you're in a slump. Just jump online, get a few dates and *poof* no more slump. So earlier this year, when I was in between guys, she convinced me to try it. Mostly, I thought it was pretty lame. My inbox would fill up with ridiculous, and often grammatically botched, missives from random dudes with aliases like "sexynfun" or "dclawyer4u". And what's with the winks? Seriously? My curiosity waned after about a week and I went back to dating the old fashioned way.

Around this same time I decided that, after two years in DC, it was time to find a dentist. My intense fear of dental trauma, combined with my proven inability to check practical things like "make dentist appointment" off my to-do list, had led to prolonged neglect of my pearly whites. So when my co-worker returned to the office from a dentist appointment one day, I asked for a referral. They were able to squeeze me in the following week.

Keep in mind that reasonable health care of any kind in DC can only be found in one place: Georgetown. Well, for this car-free girl, Georgetown is quite possibly the least accessible place to travel to (the elite residents there have successfully kept icky public transportation away from their cobble-stoned paradise). So I rented a ZipCar for a cool $9.25/hour and off I went.

My dentist turned out to be a young, attractive guy, and when we met he gave me a quizzical glance that I couldn't quite interpret. But just as quickly he got to the business of poking around in my mouth, and that was that. And while I survived with little trauma (aided in large part by the Bose headphones and DVD of Planet Earth), my new dentist had bad news to report: I had six cavities and needed a porcelain crown. Crap. But it got worse. After explaining that I had about $2000 worth of dental care in my future, he whispered, "So how long have you been on Match?"

Cue dental trauma.

My horrified expression sent him backpedaling, but before it got extremely awkward, I was saved by a hygienist who summoned him to another patient. After scheduling the four required follow up appointments, I raced home and logged on to Match. And there he was: Dentaluv. Right there in my inbox. Having lost interest so early on in my month-long membership, I hadn't been checking my messages. He had "winked" at me several days prior.

I spent the subsequent six weeks making almost weekly trips to Dentaluv's Georgetown office for what I now refer to as The Great Dental Intervention of 2008. Slapping down my AMEX to the tune of $425 or $613 became old hat. So did the $30/visit I was paying to freaking drive there. In total I endured 15 shots of Novocaine, endless minutes of drilling (which the Bose headphones do not entirely block out, btw) and the unsettling reality that the man attacking my plaque problem had also hit on me online. To make matters worse, the women in the office were excessively nice to me, fueling my suspicion that I was part of the watercooler gossip. I thought perhaps I was being paranoid, but then in between appointments I dyed my hair. And although it took my co-workers a week to notice, the receptionist noticed immediately. They fawned over me constantly.

On the last of my many visits, after slapping down the AMEX for the final time, I glanced behind the receptionist to a product shelf containing boxes of fancy, electronic toothbrushes. So I asked her, "What's the deal with those?" And she responded animatedly, "They are really expensive, but they truly are like preventative medicine. My boyfriend used to get tons of cavities, but since he got his Sonicare he hasn't had any. He hardly even needs to see the dentist anymore!"

Sold.

In summary:
Dental Intervention of 2008: $1890.83
Transportation to Dental Intervention of 2008: $124.16
Phillips Sonicare Elite e9500: $149.99
Insurance Against Future Incidents of Dentaluv Awkwardness: Priceless

You Know What They Say...

2008-11-10T13:48:00.000-08:00

What's fun about being in Washington is that everyone knows everyone, and the Kevin Bacon game can actually make a small town Midwestern girl like me feel important. So this past Sunday--the first official Day of Brunch since Obama's election--a couple of girlfriends and I gathered for Eggs Benedict and whatnot. After the usual catching up (i.e. work, dating, etc.), our conversation turned to the Obama transition. Let's just say that the ensuing discussion quickly answered the question I'd been asking myself since November 5: What will we talk about now??

Both of the friends I was brunching with are alums of the fellowship program I was in after grad school and are now currently working for pretty powerful national associations. So it follows that they both know a number of people on the short list for cabinet positions (I, on the other hand, sacrificed that cred when I defected to the for-profit sector). But we're all urban policy nerds, so we conspired in hushed tones about The Short List. We were each feeling a little starstruck and excited about the potential for people we, eh hem, know to be in such important leadership positions. Competence in Washington! Imagine!

Forty-five minutes of uber-wonky-Cabinet-Member-selection-chatter later and one of my friends said of the Rahm Emmanuel pick, "Well you know what they say...once a Chief of Staff, always a Chief of Staff." There was a momentary pause while we reflected, nodded in agreement...and then burst into laughter. You know what they say?? Really??? Pretty sure "they" never say that. Well, no one outside the beltway, that is. And yet, my love affair with this city grew a little bit deeper...

Where I Was

2008-11-05T07:07:00.000-08:00

In the same way that I'll never forget where I was when I saw The Challenger explode or the World Trade Center buildings go down, I will never forget where I was when America celebrated the election of its first black president. And thanks to our friends at YouTube, this video should make it a lot easier to tell my grandkids:

Battle Ready

2008-10-30T07:29:00.000-07:00

Last night my braided belt guy came over to watch the Obama Infomercial. Afterward, when even we had become nauseated by the post-analysis on MSNBC (i.e. Olbermann and Matthews taking turns drooling all over themselves) our conversation turned to my upcoming Halloween party, and more specifically, our costumes. Keep in mind, this guy has an above average committment to costumes (remember: movie accurate Indiana Jones garb), and it runs in his family. I've heard numerous stories over the past couple of months about family outings to Renaissance Fairs (his little brother made his own chain mail!) and his dad's penchant for dressing up like a pirate on down days. I was expressing concern that the costume I bought for five bucks in a stranger's stinky basement would fall far below his standards. He reassured me but went on to tell stories of his first boyhood longings for the Indy garb and how they were nurtured by his family. He even busted out his BlackBerry to show me a photo of him, his brothers and his dad dressed in kilts (the family tartan!) and toting $2500 "battle ready" swords.

Let me stop right here and say that what happened next, I asked for.

That is to say, I asked when exactly he expected to engage in a battle. From his reaction it became obvious I'd missed the point entirely, and before I knew it, I was receiving a full academic lecture in blacksmithing. This wasn't a re-telling of a Renaissance Fair craft booth experience. Oh no. We're talking the difference between Greek and British methods and the delicate balance of iron-to-carbon ratios. At that point it occurred to me that the braided belt is really the least of my problems (albeit an obvious accessory for a man with such serious appreciation for craftsmanship). I now fear future meals sitting around the table with a man-dressed-as-knight a la that scene in Garden State.

Despite having problems of her own, my friend Kate regularly doles out nuggets of dating wisdom and is a go-to for me when it comes to venting about dating dysfunction. Also a Columbus-to-DC transplant, I found myself recently seeking her validation for my memory of a decidedly more "normal" dating life in Columbus. This was her response:

Hate to be the one to impart bad news, but dating in Columbus was just as dysfunctional. Instead of the ego-tripping prats who hang out with their politico buddies, you got the pleated khaki wearing frat boys who hung out with their HS friends. Same problems, different pants.

(Or in some cases skirt)

And so I'm preparing for a battle of my own, it would seem. Wish me luck.

Hollywood for Nerds

2008-09-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

People say DC is like Hollywood for nerds, and it’s true. News flies fast when someone sees Bill Clinton at a restaurant or Barack Obama at the gym, and it’s always fun to guess who’s behind the tinted windows of the ubiquitous motorcades. Only in DC can you excitedly gush to your friends about seeing an obscure wonk-type no one else would even care about.

So it should come as no surprise that the pool of eligible men here is heavily skewed toward Debate Team rather than Football Team. Not that I mind. I maintain that a band nerd from my high school is one of the best kissers I’ve ever kissed. He played the trumpet. Firm lips. Still, even so, it has taken me a month to admit I’m dating a guy who proudly wears a braided belt. He’s brilliant, witty, and handsome, but there’s also no doubt in my mind that somewhere in a basement in Texas there’s home video footage of him wielding a light saber a la George Michael on Arrested Development. And yes, I said Texas. Groan. He even wears cowboy boots.

My friend Kate, a self-proclaimed, card-carrying Geek, says I’m probably in over my head with this one. And she may be right. I mean it’s one thing to tell me about the Tolkien themes embedded in Zeppelin IV (swoon!), but it’s quite another to own a “movie accurate” Indiana Jones costume (yes, seriously). I almost had myself convinced that this kid was from a galaxy too far, far away when this happened:

Two nights ago, I got a 1:00 a.m. phone call from the back of an ambulance, where my guy found himself after being jumped on his way home from my apartment. By the time I got him back here, I barely recognized his face it was so broken and bruised. But when I referred to him “getting his ass kicked,” he was quick to correct me with a full account of what went down. Apparently, my uber-nerdy crush judo-kicked the shit out of his attacker (all the True Geeks know martial arts) and even used the heel of his cowboy boot to kick the scumbag in the back of the head. While pinned on his back. With a knife to his throat. Yeah. I just looked at him, lying on my couch in his rumpled LSU t-shirt and hideous Lone Star belt buckle, ice packs on his face and Guinness in his hand, and thought:

Hot.

I am dating a Billy Bad Ass Dork.

Charlie

2008-07-25T22:43:00.000-07:00

In case there is anyone left in the free world who hasn't yet heard: I am aunt to the cutest kid in Christendom (Yeah, Christendom. I needed the alliteration.) And since I am regularly--rightfully--accused of hyperbole, I have included photos so you can see for yourself. My brother and his wife want four kids, but I honestly can't imagine another genetic cocktail with such a perfect, more cherubic outcome. Time will tell.

It's good actually, that Charlie is so freaking cute. I mean even if I do have kids one day, I figure my brother has this category in the bag. Which is great because growing up I was always the bratty, one-upping little sister. He was due his day. And since we're talking about it, I'm not shy about mentioning that I have no idea if I will procreate one day or even if I want to. It all seems so theoretical and not worth pondering sans a suitable life partner. Plus let's face it. I've spent the last ten years consumed with one thing only: me. This is not to say I'm self-centered (although I am), but that I have had the luxury of living on my own terms and doing all that annoyingly predictable Gen-Y self-discovery stuff. And as it turns out, I'm a pretty cool person.

Plus I'm a career girl. I'm like head-over-heels, can't-get-enough, totally in love with what I do. I simply can't think of anything more fascinating than contemplating cities and unraveling complex urban policy problems. I want to be on the front lines of this massive creative class takeover of the 21st century. And I am already. In the mix, that is. Which means I'd clearly be one of those horrible mothers who puts their kids in daycare and on a million prescription meds. Or ships them off to live with their Auntie Jill, a total natural, until they're too old for me to break. (Not a bad idea, actually.)

All that being said, you should see how Charlie levels me. I mean just totally depletes me of all ability to act cool, and in fact reduces me to one of those blubbering women I've always judged. Turns out "poopykins" and "buddah butt" are in my vocabulary. I actually coo! How embarrassing. But I could lay on the floor next to that little guy for hours just watching him figure out he has a tongue, and it's utterly, inexplicably, riveting. Who knew?

Is Brodie There?

2008-07-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, and far less scrupulous about who I doled out my cell phone number to, my roommate and I invented The Brodie Game. We played The Brodie Game whenever one of us would miss a call from a non-programmed phone number and the Mystery Caller wouldn't leave a message. Rather than wrack our brains guessing who it was, we'd call from another cell phone and pray for an identity-revealing voicemail. If the Mystery Caller happened to answer, our default cover was to ask for Brodie. The point being that the name "Brodie" is rare enough to ensure a "wrong number" exit strategy. (Brodie also happened to be this adorable Freshman kid who practically lived in our dorm sophomore year and was subject to/of many of our antics.)

So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:

A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:

202-257-2340

First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.

Going Back to the Well

2008-06-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

People thought it was funny when I declared, “clearing the bullpen” to be one of my 2008 New Year’s resolutions (and no, not just because I correctly used a sports metaphor). The thing is, there were a handful of guys I’d been cycling through for a while—nine years in one case—and I was sick of warming them up over and over again. Sometimes you just have to make room for new ones. Sort of like my once-per-year closet purge.

Anyway, it’s been a bit of a process, but I’ve successfully eliminated men in three states. I’ve even managed to clear out the nice guys—you know, the ones you never officially rule out because you tell yourself that one day “nice” may matter a lot more than it does now and perhaps even surpass “chemistry” on the must-have list. (By the way, I think this entire category has been maintained for my mother’s sake.) And lastly, I’ve also found the guts to quit torturing myself and cut ties with The Nine Year Guy, whom I’ve remained inexplicably hopeful about despite no real evidence of a workable future together. Blah blah, this blog isn’t for sob stories. Bottom line: I’ve been making progress.

The thing is, it didn’t dawn on me until this morning, when I was rehashing last night over brunch, that I’ve actually accomplished my goal. Mara was commenting on my dance floor makeout session with Bill, which in and of itself was a non-event (Nate used to regularly call the over/under). It had been a while though—a year maybe?—and after giving it no more than 30 seconds of commentary, I had a light bulb moment: the bullpen! The only time Bill and I ever make out is when both of us are unattached and uninspired. In short, when our bullpens are mutually clear. It’s an odd sort of circumstantial star alignment thing, when you think about it. But more importantly, it’s a clear indication that I’m kicking off the summer with a clean slate.

Coincidentally, I ran into Bill on my way home. He too had just finished rehashing our spectacle (and thankfully ensuring the photos don’t end up on Facebook), so I proposed my theory. He added in the very obvious alcohol variable but totally agreed with me, commenting, “It’s kind of like going back to the well.” I laughed, said something about catching up with him later, and continued walking. I think it’s going to be a good summer.

Striking Out, Part I

2007-06-17T15:56:00.001-07:00

So even though it's technically not yet summer, in DC we begin sweating profusely sometime in late April. So I guess it was around May 1st that I decided this was going to be "Anything Goes Summer." This is, of course, my highly controlled way of not being such a control freak (which has seriously gotten out of control). I blame it on my BlackBerry.

I suppose I was also motivated by the final, yes final, ABSOLUTELY LAST time I hooked up with the guy I was talked into dating back in November and talked myself into dating for the four subsequent months. By the final, yes final, ABSOLUTELY LAST time we hooked up, Mara was seriously ready to kill me. I mean the girl could only answer the, "WHY am I dating him?" question so many times. I realized I was getting lazy in love and needed a jump start.

So it follows that the first task on my (not at all controlled) list of "Anything Goes Summer" activities was to find The Perfect Summer Fling (PSF). Candidate #1 was a guy I'd been flirting with for a while. In the interest of discretion, as his identity is highly scandalous, his name shall remain Undisclosed. I don't have a single thing in common with Undisclosed, but he's got all the classic "bad boy" appeal to make a white girl from the suburbs swoon (no shame in admitting it). But due to his highly scandalous identity I hesitated. Candidate #2 turned out to have a girlfriend and was quickly disqualified. So it came to be that I chose Candidate #3, or rather he chose me.

Candidate #3 is French, so let's go ahead and call him Frenchie. Frenchie approached me on the street a few weeks ago after following me--too closely--for about three blocks after we both exited the Dupont Circle metro. I was about to mace him when he finally spoke. He told me that he'd walked out of his way to tell me that I was beautiful, but let's face it, he could've told me he stole my wallet because all I heard was the accent. I dusted off my college French skills and we spoke for about ten minutes. I gave him my number and we agreed to have coffee within a few days. I was very proud of myself.

But before I could properly fantasize about dinner parties with expats and Labor Day weekend in Toulouse, Frenchie blew up my phone with sappy text messages. At first I gave him a break--the French discount, if you will--but after about 600 "Bonjour mademoiselle" and "xoxo" messages I realized I had a stalker on my hands.

Which led me back to Candidate #1, the man whose name shall remain Undisclosed. It soon became clear that he was going to be my PSF. His extremely complicated life (and aforementioned scandalous identity) assured me that our fling would be wholly uncomplicated (due to high level of required discretion). Plus the chemicals between us were palpable. The tension hit its boiling point this weekend, and I was fully prepared for the heat. And that's when mister sure-to-be-uncomplicated dropped the "I think I'm getting emotionally involved" bomb on me.

(Sound of record scratching)

This was followed by a long profession of his carefully calculated observations of all my fabulous qualities (of which, yes, there are many), but emotionally involved? The PSF is not supposed to involve emotions.

And so it appears I'm striking out. Or back to square one. Or accepting applications. I guess I'm lucky it's not yet technically summer...

The Bug Blog

2007-06-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

For those of you who were my friends last spring, who were the unfortunate witnesses of the anxiety attack I had (seriously) when my apartment in Ohio became infested with termites, this will be a comical reminder that lightening does, occasionally strike twice. For those who didn't know me then, here is the recap:

Me, sitting at my desk, slaving over my master's thesis, sleep deprived. Swat a knat. Keep typing. Swat another knat. Type type type. Third knat. What the? Look up. Holy Lord in Heaven I am Moses and this is the plague of the locusts. They. Are. Everywhere. Call my dad in absolute hysterics. Make him drive two hours from my grandma's house. He finds me face down in the yard sweating profusely, hyperventilating, and covered in hives. Never more terrified in my life.

F*#%ing bugs!

I hate them. And I don't mean prissy "I can't camp" kind of bug-hate. I mean, seriously if there are more than three of them, dammit I will use spray and force and flip-flops, and I will scan the room in paranoia for at least three hours afterwards. I may not sleep.

So it seems cruel that in yet another apartment--the most expensive apartment I've ever had--I spent my day battling another swarm of bugs. This time, moth flies. And. Their. Larvae.

LAR-VAE.

In my shower. MY. EFFING. SHOWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Has anything ever been more horrifying??

I accomplished nothing at work today. The guy who sits behind me tried to insist I was over-reacting. I turned around and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Then I flashed him my blotchy decollatage. He offered me his extra bedroom.

Lessons learned:
1. $2200/month does not a bug-free apartment buy
2. I have way too many eco-friendly friends. One sent her sympathies for the bugs, one sent a link to eco-friendly killing methods, and another suggested I try to "trap and release" them.

Freaking hippies.

The Ohio State Curse

2007-01-14T15:52:00.000-08:00

Last night, despite the miserable January rain and our mutual ambivalence about going out, a girlfriend and I set out on the town with a mission: to see if we could recapture the single-and-fabulous energy we were both experiencing before the holidays. For a couple of weeks now we've been blaming the holidays. "Everyone was traveling." "The whole city practically shut down." "No one was having happy hours." What we haven't wanted to admit to ourselves is that our single-and-fabulous lives have actually become the victims of two new guys in our lives.

We arrived at an overcrowded bar on Connecticut and within minutes were being chatted up by a few guys. We exchanged meaningful glances that said, "See, we're still single and out meeting new people." We weren't going down without a fight. You see, when two single girls are out on the town to specifically talk themselves out of the reality that they'd both rather be with the new men in their lives, what they need is distraction. Distraction is the best fuel for denial.

That's when the Ohio State Curse (as I am now calling it) officially sabotaged our mission. It never fails; ever since I moved to DC from Columbus, I have realized that 99.9% of men I meet will engage me in a discussion about the Buckeyes. A typical conversation may go like this:

Him: So, have you been in DC long?
Me: Just since summer.
Him: Oh yeah? Where did you move from?
Me: Columbus, OH
Him: Ah, a Buckeye!
Me: (Willfully trying to prevent an eye roll) Yep, but just for grad school (meaning: yes, but I really don't want to talk about it with you for the next twenty minutes).

But I will. He will drone on about Jim Tressel, Troy Smith, the Michigan game (it's even better when he is from Michigan) or, most recently, the crushing defeat against Florida in the national championship game. I will nod and smile and throw out the half-dozen facts about OSU I keep in storage for such occasions, and I will wait for the conversation to move forward. It won't.

Don't get me wrong. Like most native Central Ohioans, I am a Buckeye fan. I'm as loyal to Ohio State as any sports team, but the problem is, that's not saying much. I can think of any number of topics I'd rather discuss, but I'm forced to engage in endless, trite conversations about college football because most men I meet are happy to hang out in that comfort zone. Last night was no exception, and as my girlfriend and I stood there pretending to listen, the futility of our mission was clear. We left the bar.

As we walked home huddled together under her tiny umbrella, we laughed at our comic attempt to forget about the great guys we are both involved with, albeit at the expense of our single-and-fabulous lives. We loudly—drunkenly—complained about the Ohio State Curse and I vowed to feign ignorance about the Buckeyes, or simply make up a new hometown, the next time we went out so that we wouldn't have to endure another lame sports conversation.

I went home, put on the soft t-shirt I stole from my guy, and called him. We both laughed about my evening—he finds my relationship resistance amusing—and made plans for the next day.

The Economics of Altruism

2006-12-06T15:45:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I chronicled my life as a Fed, and I hope my loyal readers--all four of you--have not been in want of a glimpse of the fabulous life. Of course, if you are also a Fed, this one will probably ring a little more true for you. Do the letters CFC mean anything to you? To my private sector pals, CFC, or Combined Federal Campaign, is essentially the government's version of United Way. About a month or so ago--although it feels like much, much longer--I started hearing those three letters ripple across the sea of cubes. Since then, they have become so ubiquitous I barely notice as I trip over silent auction items lining the halls of our building.

It has gotten so bad I've begun to contemplate the loss in federal government productivity resulting from the organization of countless CFC-related events occurring in my agency alone. After all, someone has to plan and run the waffle-and-fried-chicken breakfast (I couldn't make that up). Today, I told an older colleague that I thought we should quantify this loss in productivity, assign a dollar amount to it, and just have the agency cut a check next year. I mean I'm no freakonomist, but it seems pretty simple to me.

I'm reminded of a Slate podcast I listened to recently about the economics of charity. Here's the gist: Johns Hopkins recently published a report about the fundamental self-interest involved even in charitable giving. The study concluded that, as a global society, we are more interested in FEELING good than DOING good. That is why people volunteer much more often than they donate money. An excerpt:

"A Dutch banker can pay for a lot of soup-kitchen chefs and servers with a couple of hours' worth of his salary, but that wouldn't provide the same feel-good buzz as ladling out stew himself, would it? Even the way we choose to dole out cash betrays our true motives. Someone with $100 to give away and a world full of worthy causes should choose the worthiest and write the check. We don't. Instead, we give $5 for a LiveStrong bracelet, pledge $25 to Save the Children, another $25 to AIDS research, and so on. But $25 is not going to find a cure for AIDS. Either it's the best cause and deserves the entire $100, or it's not and some other cause does."

After hearing my suggestion for next year's CFC, my older colleague responded, "Ah, it's refreshing to see such cynicism in someone so young." Fair enough, I thought, but I still think that an agency check offers a lot more fundraising potential than hocking used paperbacks for a buck. Perhaps cynicism is the new altruism...

Straight Men are the New Dinosaurs

2006-11-06T15:42:00.000-08:00

This morning my best gay friend (BGF) and I attended church at St. Thomas Episcopal, which was celebrating All Saint's Day with a guest speaker: Bishop Gene Robinson, the first openly gay bishop ordained in the Anglican church. My BGF really wanted to go, and since we take turns picking churches, I acquiesced. (Coincidentally, "Gene Robinson" was a trivia answer at Wonderland last Monday--I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about). It turned out to be a beautiful service--one of our best so far, despite my BGF botching communion--but I couldn't help but notice that I was alone in a congregation of beautiful, hipster gay men. So much for meeting a guy at church.

This wasn't the first time I was invisible this weekend. On Friday, my BGF learned he'd passed the Maryland State Bar, so we celebrated properly by going to the new, hot gay bar in Shaw. Now, even though I relinquish all opportunities of being hit on, it's not so bad going to gay bars with my BGF. He is like the Homecoming King: men compete to hold court by lavishing attention on him and buying him drinks. As his No. 1 sidekick, I manage to at least get a free drink or two out of it. Nonetheless, I was stumbling home alone at 1 a.m. while he was closing down the bar with a hot bartender. So much for meeting a guy at a bar.

And then back to today. Following our Sunday morning ritual of church and breakfast burritos from Dupont Market, we began our Sunday afternoon ritual of shopping in Georgetown and checking on our fantasy home (currently under construction at 35th & Prospect). While bouncing between the Lucky Store, Urban Outfitters and every other merchant on M Street, my BGF laid claim to every hot guy we saw (meaning: his team versus my team). Unfortunately, he was right. So much for meeting a guy at Kiehl's. Er...wait a sec.

I recently heard a mycologist (The Mushroom Man!) speak of the sixth cycle of extinction on Earth. Apparently Earth is currently losing species at a rate that threatens to rival the five great mass extinctions of the geological past. In fact, a Harvard biologist has estimated that Earth is currently losing 30,000 species per year. Could the straight man be one of them???

I think I've met my dream man...

2006-10-09T15:39:00.000-07:00

I'll just run through some basic stats:

1. He's hot
2. He's a lawyer
3. He's a lawyer who wants to wait until AFTER he has a BMW and a townhouse in Georgetown to do all that public interest stuff. ;)
4. He's got great taste in music (first "date" was at the Virgin Music Fest)
5. He goes to church with me (actually, I go to church with him)
6. He's a Buckeye fan and fellow Ohioan
7. His last name is Roberts (Julia Roberts anyone?? C'mon--you would've thought of it too!)
8. He loves the outdoors (just bought matching Camelbaks for a hike in Shenandoah next weekend)
9. He works out
10. He's a good kisser
11. He likes to shop (we spent 20 minutes in Kiehl's yesterday where HE encouraged ME to buy the Abyssine eye cream)
12. He's ambitious and involved
13. He's wicked funny

Picture all of this with hand-holding and strolling and a sunny, crisp fall day in Georgetown as the backdrop.

So I ask...does it really matter that he's gay????? :)

Waiting for John Mayer to Change

2006-09-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

I used to like John Mayer. I used to like him a lot. I used to brag about how my college roommate paid him $1000 to play at a campus event in 1999, and within five years I convinced the Art Ed Department at Ohio State to include him on the list of up and coming artists in an undergraduate pop culture class I taught while in grad school (Ashley Martin, if you are out there, this is dedicated to you. I should have listened).

Regretfully, after a promising first album and validating second, Mr. Mayer has resorted to an anthem of the whiny, helpless generation raised in play dates and minivans that (probably) has Marvin Gaye rolling in his grave. My suggestion? Johnny needs to get his ass to Washington.

If there is anyplace in the world where people AREN'T waiting on the world to change, it's here. This week I have been rubbing elbows (while pinching myself) with a lot of people who are inspired to make a difference in peoples lives. It started Tuesday night when I was in an intimate audience that heard from the Chairman of the Louisiana Recovery Authority and the editor of the Pulitzer Prize-wining New Orleans Times-Picayune. These are two people who, despite losing all of their own possessions, have stayed the course and are effecting change in the gulf coast.

Today, I sat amongst academics, policy leaders and businesses from around the nation who convened to discuss the systemic housing affordability crisis in this nation and its racially infused origins. The founder and CEO of Self Help (an advocacy organization that fights predatory lendors preying on minority homebuyers) started his now-national organization with a $77 bake sale. He didn't wait for the world to change. He sold brownies.

I ended the 48-hour inspiration fest tonight at a local real estate developer's office where I sat around with a bunch of young, urban visionaries drinking wine and discussing local economic development in DC. How can we celebrate the positive effects of gentrification while pushing back against the negatives?

All in all, not a bad 48 hours in Washington.

So in conclusion, I'm calling for John Mayer to write a new song that borrows from a bumper sticker my friend bought a couple weeks ago at Adams Morgan Day. It read: Stop bitching and start a revolution. Unless of course he's too busy trying to score Jessica Simpson...

So Long Suburbia!

2006-08-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

Foreward: This blog is dedicated to the most gracious and generous Suburbanites I know: my Aunt Denise and Uncle Tom, without whom I would've been homeless for the last six weeks.

Last week, against all odds, I conquered the mind-numbing, all consuming process of D.C. apartment hunting. (Yes, you may pause here for libations and cheers). Getting this apartment--this fabulous apartment!--marks my official completion of the D.C. rite of passage known as "finding a random person to live with on Craig's List" and the unofficial beginning of my new life in D.C.

It's funny, though...as I have been desperately endeavoring to escape my Suburban purgatory, my city friends have been flocking toward it. Tasty luxuries like real houses with backyards, cars, big box retail outlets and community swimming pools have proved quite alluring to my city-bound friends. One friend who joined me at the pool last month had a flashback to childhood when she heard the lifeguards' whistles blow every hour on the hour ("Break!") and thought she was hallucinating when the jingle of the ice cream truck approached from the distance. Relax, I assured her, this is par for the course in Suburbia. I'm pretty sure they even pay the cute kids in baby-Crocs (and the young, lithe housewives who accompany them) to splash around and exude their idyllic lifestyles.

Despite leaving all this behind, including what my buddy referred to as "a house from Decorators Showcase," I am jumping out of my skin to ditch my car, shop at sub-par city grocery stores, and eat cheap falafels a block from my perfectly located new home. Don't get me wrong, though, I'll be back next summer when the pool opens...

T.G.I.F.

2006-07-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

You know you're a government employee when, on Fridays, you send emails to your friends with "T.G.I.F." in the subject line. Does anyone in the real world say anything so lame? Having just completed my third Friday working for the Feds, I have to say I have come to anticipate with great amusement the odd behavior of my fellow co-workers on that sacred day that precedes the weekend. Unfailingly, every ride up the elevator to the ninth floor includes a "T.G.I.F." sentiment to break the awkward silence, just as it accompanies every obligatory greeting from those I pass en route to my cube. I am convinced that perhaps the government's most enduring contribution to society is the invention of "T.G.I.F." Where else would the checking off of another week be so monumental that a catchy acronym would be needed to express the event? (Note: if anyone can come up with an alternative origin of T.G.I.F. please let me know).

Another funny thing about Fridays is that the already sub-standard dress code is relegated to "casual". On my first Friday, I went to work in a sleeveless, black, jersey knit dress, pointy-toe sling backs and chunky turquoise beads thinking I was every bit the "heading to Dewey Beach after work" casual that would be expected of me. However, a woman dressed in head-to-toe bedazzled denim who saw me was quick to suggest otherwise: "Girrrrrrrrrrl, didn't nobody tell you it's casual Friday???" The high pitched voice, the purple beads, and the way she said "casual" in two syllables took me enough off guard to simply shake my head and keep walking.

But the absolute best best BEST thing about working for the government on Fridays, is that next week, I don't have to work at all. I'm officially starting my "compressed" work schedule, which rewards government employees for working what likely amounts to less hours per week than our private sector counterparts (9 hours a day) by giving us every other Friday off. Now that is something worth a T.G.I.F.

The (Un)fabulous Life of a Federal Government Employee

2006-07-24T15:34:00.000-07:00

During my first week as a cog in the federal government wheel, I was told that summer interns are being asked to sign contracts saying they will not blog about their work experiences. While I am not an intern, I can assure you that after 2 weeks as a federal government employee, I understand completely why such a pledge is warranted. Stay tuned for stories...

I just wasn't that into you....

2006-07-09T15:33:00.000-07:00

So the first funny story I've got from DC involves my bold plunge into the world of Craig's List. I say bold because when I told my mom I was using the site to shop for a roommate, she said, "Oh honey, make sure you request background checks." Suffice it to say, the Craig's List people market is not quite as popular back in Ohio. Nonetheless, emboldened by DC friends who say it's "the way to go", I took the plunge, and this past weekend I met the first two candidates with whom I'd been corresponding.

The funny (and confusing) part was that they were both named John, and while one's full name was John Johnson, the other one went by "JJ". To boot, I was supposed to meet one for lunch at 11:30 and the other for coffee at 1 p.m. at locales within blocks of one another. I felt a bit like Charlotte in that SATC espisode where she double-books. (And let's face it, interviewing potential roommates you've met online smacks of blind dating. There is simply no way to know if you will be awkwardly enduring a meal's worth of forced conversation or totally hitting it off.)

So I spent lunch asking John #1 about biking through Vermont (a story he'd recounted over email) only to get a blank stare in return. (Damn! That was John #2!). Luckily, John #1 was super nice and so unbelievably accommodating that I think I could've convinced him to move into a tree house with me. After an hour (we met for lunch--a mistake I won't repeat) I knew he wasn't going to be my roommate but had no idea how to tell him. So I let him down easy with a "let's just see how it turns out" approach.

By the time I met up with John #2 I felt more empowered. (I'm told by a friend in Manhattan who recently went through this process that it gets easier to make the break the more interviews you go on. Is this like becoming bitter??) Within milliseconds of being greeted by a 6'3" emaciated man carrying the daintiest espresso cup I've ever seen, I knew that it wouldn't work, the same way you just know when you're not going to hit it off on a blind date. (I'm telling you, the similarities are creepy...) Luckily, John #2 gave me an out by saying he wants to stay in Northern Virginia. I told him I was adamant about living in the District and followed it up with a firm, "I think we're going to part ways now, but good luck to you." My second interview was done in 10 minutes flat.

My experience with John #2 reminded me of another great SATC episode...the one that turned into that must-have book for single gals, "He's just not that into you." When I read it after a pretty devastating break up, I felt so empowered that I was dating someone new a month later (only to find out that he just wasn't that into me either, but that's beside the point!). Here I was with John #1 feeling like I didn't want to be the bad guy when it wasn't personal--I just wasn't that into him (co-habitationally speaking). And yet I hemmed and hawed to let him down easy--something most dudes do in the dating world that drives us gals NUTS. (Seriously, tell us you think we're fat or you can't stand the way we sing along to the radio, but don't be a pansy and make excuses or, worse, just fall off the face of the earth.)

So with this blog I offer a cyber-apology to John #1 and a vow to be a straight shooter in this quest for a non-serial killer roommate (or as my friend Josh said, "You mean a non-sniper roommate--we have snipers in DC, not serial killers"). Currently taking applications...

It's a Mac Thing...You Wouldn't Understand

2006-06-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

The events unfolded like this:

With my morning coffee in hand, I was preparing to leave for the day, but first stopped to update my iPod with the latest Slate Magazine podcasts. I plugged it in only to hear a frightening whirrrr of my iPod's hard drive and then see that scary Apple screen where you know it's re-setting or whatever. I was alarmed, yes, but nothing prepared me for what happened next. My iPod got a "dead face" screen!!!! Seriously, there were X's for the eyes and a frown. I panicked, but like all good moms, I only allowed myself a moment before focusing on its recovery. With adrenaline racing, I grabbed it, left the coffee, and pealed out of my apt complex toward the Apple store.

Like a mother with a wounded child, I busted through the double doors with wild eyes and my iPod in my outstretched hands (this was all in slo-mo, of course). The nice Apple people pointed me toward the Genius Bar where the news I'd feared worst came true: my iPod was dead. I stood there, blank, eyes blinking attempting to absorb the shock of it all (soundtrack in my head: "The Scientist" by Coldplay). My "genius" explained that my only real option was to get a new one. A new one???? I was incredulous. Desperate. But this one was like my child! Sure, in the year and a half since I'd purchased it, the Mac wizards had devised newer, flashier and more colorful versions, but mine had been with me to Japan, for goodness sake!

In the end (after breathing through a paper bag repeatedly), I was convinced to participate in the iPod recycling program. The sweet Apple boy at the store attempted to reassure me by explaining that my old iPod would be melted into new iPods and, therefore, would live on. A reincarnation of sorts. I smiled, meekly, and accepted my new, sleek, color-screened iPod with more than a little ambivalence. Now, I can't help but stare at the impostor (still in its box) and think how much my old one would've loved the DC metro rides... Sniff, sniff.

The Washingtonienne

2006-05-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

Today I found myself poolside with a trite novel about a twenty-something's scandalous adventures in Washington, DC. After recently learning of my upcoming move to the capital city, a friend recommended it. So far, this book has not required any intellectual acuity or exercising of the mind. It is as indulgent and utterly shallow as its candy-colored cover suggests it should be. I love it.

It dawned on me, while reading, that this is the first time I've picked up a non-school book since last summer. With my thesis now officially behind me and commencement only two weeks away, I've finally had some mental real estate available to consider the new adventures that lay ahead for me. While they do bring with them some sadness--my roots in Columbus run deep--they also promise to exceed my expectations. DC is gonna rock and I can't wait. I might even write a pink paperback of my own... :)

Messianic Complex

2006-04-11T15:30:00.000-07:00

So I've been browsing through my extended MySpace network this afternoon (I'm getting pretty desperate for homework distractions) and I've noted that many of my friends (and friends of theirs) list God and/or Jesus among their heroes or people they'd like to meet. I've got Bono. Yep, I've got the man whom Bruce Springsteen declared as having "the most naked messianic complex in all of rock & roll" when he spoke at U2's Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony last year. So what does this say about me? Believe it or not, it says a lot about my own faith.

Consider the following remarks made by Bono when he spoke at the National Prayer Breakfast in D.C. earlier this month:

"Seeing what religious people, in the name of God, did to my native land, and in this country, seeing God's second-hand car salesmen on the cable TV channels, offering indulgences for cash....I must confess, I changed the channel. I wanted my MTV. Even though I was a believer. Perhaps because I was a believer. I was cynical not about God, but about God's politics."

He then went on to talk about the practice of tithing that occurs in America's churches and how impressed he is that people so freely give 10 percent of their earnings toward God's causes. In this new "family values" -oriented government, where Christian leaders and political leaders are increasingly the same people, Bono challenged our government about tithing. The Bible is quite clear on how Christians should embrace the disadvantaged and disenfranchised members of the world population, yet the political leaders in the most economically abundant country on earth give less than 1 percent of their earnings to aiding poverty in less fortunate countries.

Regardless of what we feel our government is responsible for in terms of foreign aid, and regardless of what anyone thinks about separation of church & state, the fact of the matter is, neo-conservatives seem to be picking and choosing where religion and politics should intersect. Bono, with his piercingly sincere yet rough-around-the-edges approach, is bending the ears of global leaders and daring to challenge them on these important issues. I think it's exactly what Jesus would do---maybe he'd even be one of Jesus' heroes (dodging lightening bolt here). So I say rock on...and sign the One Campaign pledge!

Hey Katie, don't let the door hit you on the way out!

2006-04-04T15:29:00.000-07:00

So the world is riveted on the announced departure of Katie Couric from the Today Show, and since I routinely lament her (lack of) contributions to journalism I figured I had to weigh in. While 49-percent of people are sad about it (according to one poll), I for one could not be happier. Granted, I highly doubt Meredith Viera will inspire as many pre-9am expletives from me (it's good to get your heart rate going as early as possible), but anyone who can conduct an interview without acting like a giddy teenager will be preferable to the woman who has spent the past 15 years flirting her way to the top.

A comment by Susan Sarandon on Couric's departure struck me in particular: "It will be great when it's not such a big deal when a woman gets a good job." I'd like to add to that, "It will be even better when women like Katie Couric quit perpetuating the myth that women must behave like bimbos to get those jobs." So I say good-bye to the days of the interviews in which Katie answers her own questions for the joy of hearing herself giggle and good riddance to the unabashed gushing over male celebrities. After all, it's the Today Show, not TRL!!