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...
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Bug Blog
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.
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.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Ohio State Curse
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
The Economics of Altruism
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...
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...
Monday, November 6, 2006
Straight Men are the New Dinosaurs
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???
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???
Monday, October 9, 2006
I think I've met my dream man...
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????? :)
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????? :)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Waiting for John Mayer to Change
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...
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...
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