Ohio: A Love Song

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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...