The single girl's anti-hero

I inadvertantly created a new superhero last night, an anti-hero really. Obsessogirl. Obsessogirl isn't able to leap tall buildings in a single bound or see through that trench with her x-ray vision. She does possess an amazing ability to overthink even the simplest situation and can spend hours obsessing over alternative scenarios for life, love and the pursuit of happiness. Her strength lies in her research capabilities (i.e., spying and information gathering skills) even though these sometimes feed into the entire obsessive loop. Obsessogirl can be a jealous bitch and has a temper that burns hotter than her fiery hair. Don't piss her off lest she cut you.

I don't know about you, but I'm kind of trying to ditch her.

Tabula Rasa

It's easy to wipe away the signs of some drunken nights. Allie will be upset, but the drunken post had to disappear. It's not my style.

As I walked down the streets of DC this morning, I tried to inhale deeply only to choke on the exhaust fumes of a passing bus. Raked over by the wind, I dodged the splatter of last night's excess on the sidewalk. There is no one to wash away the evidence on the weekend, sending it careening down the stormwater drains. Leave it. We need the reminders of how far we fall and the loss of dignity.

I make my way to work and see the last of the prostitutes packing up shop. I pass the stolen shoes displayed on the foldout table. Dueling panhandlers flanked the entry to CVS and were all that stood between me and caffeine.

This is my city.

Candy striping causes tooth rot

It's a little after midnight, and all I can do is fall into bed. I had tickets to see The Gossip in concert tonight and had planned to have a jack & ginger in my hands right about now. Instead I spent another evening at the hospital after taking a call around 3:30 from my sobbing roommate. Seven hours, one emergency room, one ultrasound and hospital room 487 later, I'm exhausted. It's too hard having to watch so many people in pain. A two-year old with blood staining her nose and soiling her mother's clothes. The woman who slowly slid out of her wheelchair and onto the floor. Her son struggling to pick her back up. Watching my roommate scratch her chest so much that she is bleeding.

Since Labor Day, I've been at the hospital more often than I care to think about. My roommate bounced out of a whitewater raft in NC and raked a few layers of skin off her shin. But who the fuck gets an infection and then has a violent allergic reaction to the meds supposedly fighting the infection? Her body is covered in a rash worthy of the Old Testament. I started calling her Job today. It was so bad that backup emergency doctors were called and eventually two infectious disease doctors. They went all medical CSI...creepy. At least they finally admitted her to the hospital to get the mess worked out.

So no concert, no dancing, and lots of disinfectant. At least I have my bed.

Riding the Rogue Wave

Went to see Rogue Wave at the Black Cat tonight with Allie. It was a good show with all of the acts being fun and worthy of a listen. I like it when bands touring together seem like families. It's late, so I think I'll just share an inside look at my thoughtlife this evening.

*If she backs into those flower pots, I'm going to be so embarrassed.
*After what I did tonight, you had better be effing worth it.
*I know you love the band, but please stop humping my ass as you press me against the stage in an attempt to dance.
*Thanks for making eyes boys and for the ego boost when you moved up to stand by us.
*Guys should really take advantage of the fact that most girls get turned on by the guys in the band at concerts.
*Tattoos on men turn me on.
*Graham (Rogue Wave), you're a cocky bastard, but I bet you have a veritable harem.
*I refuse to do the indie head bop.

I spent many of my formative years pretending to be dumber than I was. Being deemed "smart" by other kids in San Angelo, Texas was a burden, the metaphorical albatross. She's smart was said with derision. Being asked to help others with homework or carrying everyone else's load on a group project quickly grew old. Toward the end of elementary school and into junior high I began to try to shed the rumors I was smart. I learned to play dumb. They say girls are less participatory in class and raise their hands less than boys. My goal wasn't to blatantly contribute to this practice. I wasn't stupid but also wasn't about to take that intellectual risk and find myself labeled. In my mind, I had nothing to prove to the teacher and needed to build up some social credit with my peeps. While I couldn't shake it entirely*, I got pretty damned good at it. Hell, I actually think I did get stupider. High school presented a new opportunity to see how low I could go. Maybe too many issues of Cosmo and Seventeen had warped me into thinking I needed to be dumber than any boy I was interested in. I can't really say. All I know is that embraced the role.

Patrick was the red-headed upperclassman I dated as a freshman. We played the same instrument in band, and I made sure to fumble my chair test so he could "do better" than me. When we broke up, I aced the next chair test and moved to 1st.

Jim was cute and played drums in a band. He was the upperclassman who ensured this sophmore got to senior prom. Poor guy was also dumber than most dirt. He ended up not passing the test required to ensure high school graduation. I realized even I couldn't beat that.

Jason was the smartest boy in school, the one that aced his SATs and snagged that valedictorian title. He made me want to drop the role. Unfortunately, getting help with my calculus homework just proved too much fun.

A funny thing happened once I got to college. Things weren't handed to me, and I wasn't automatically good at everything I tried. I didn't have to fake it because there was so much I didn't know. Suddenly the desire to play dumb fell away, and I found myself wanting to be that smart. Guess you could say I was on my way to growing up.



*being in honors and g/t classes automatically lends some credibility to "smart" rumors

snobbery

Confesseion: I'm not one of those people who is comfortable in a large group. In fact, I pretty much detest it. In school I was always considered snobby because I stuck with small, well-defined group of friends. The reality was that it had nothing to do with snobbery and everything to do with my loathing of large groups of people and an (sometimes) extreme shyness. I'm not even good in larger groups of people I'm familiar with or that are acquaintances. To that end, I generally dislike parties, conferences, networking, etc. I'm good with a you+me equation or a slightly bigger us. Groups nearing 10 or more and you start to see me hover around a select one or two.

This post is brought to you by too much time on the metro.

Frustration Nation

I've developed this coping mechanism with the Bush Administration where I avoid many major forms of media and try to forget he's President. I can go deaf in two seconds flat if I hear his minions on the television and have been known to turn my back on the motorcade. Pieces of the wall I have built between myself and this Administration began crumbling down on Monday afternoon. Though I wasn't really watching it, I had left HBO on while I was folding laundry. When I saw Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke was coming on, I knew I should change the channel. I ended up in another room fiddling with something else. It had started by the time I had returned to the blue room. I was trapped.

As I watched the interviews and the Administration's attempt at a nonresponse, I was transported back to a year ago. Livid. Bush. Cheney. Vacation. Barbara Bush's comment in Houston about how many people are probably making out better because of the hurricane. I was red hot. I was cursing at no one...everyone. I threw my remote across the room. I remembered the war we were in, the funding he had cut, the fucking people he had turned his back on. Feeling helpless stoked my temper. This man who calls himself leader has spent the years not doing a damned thing for people who really need him. I want to block it out again. I want to not remember he's president. I can't even hope for a fucking coup because the only bastards that would pull it off are the ones just like him.

Divertissement

I finally saw Step Up yesterday afternoon, and it only further cemented my love of dance movies. Are they formulaic? Indeed. I can't imagine anyone watching your average dance movie for the plot. I don't care. I have accepted the basic plot structure of a dance movie and embrace it. I have no qualms about going to a theater simply to treat myself to a little eye candy...even if it means that Allie and I are probably the oldest people in the theater. Despite this, we may also have been the most annoying. None of other middle school rejects were looking at Kevin Costner in a preview of his new movie and saying, "I'd tap that."

**potential, tiny spoiler**

I knew something would happen to Skinny and that all of their shenanigans would lead to the part where the guy has to choose between a shady life and wanting something better for himself (hello...can you say Save the Last Dance?). I knew he'd get the girl, lose the girl, and wind up winning the girl back. What I didn't expect was for Channing Tatum to be so hott or have such sweet street moves. I was also surprised at how cute the dance outfits were.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I've finally given in. I signed up for ballet on Friday...the first time in roughly 20 years. Is it bad that I'm mostly worried about what outfit I'm going to wear?

Hazy days

Today seems to be the day of new beginnings for many. All around me old and new friends are headed off to some kind of academic adventure. New friend Amy flies off to start her first year at Macalester College. Allie begins her senior year at George Mason today. Scarlet begins to whip those little middle school music bitches into shape. Steven...well, he's still putting together his classroom ; )

The beginning of the year frenzy always reminds me of the emotions running through the head of a younger Serena preparing for school. I always viewed August with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I would get so worked up and nervous that I wouldn't be able to eat and could almost bank on getting a fever blister a couple of days before the start of class. That should go on the top of some "ways to be popular at the beginning of the school year" list...lip herpes.

Some of the excitement came was in large part to how much I enjoyed getting new clothes, shoes and gadgets for the start of the school year. This girl who now wears flip flops used to love the shoe department at Dillards. The leather of Cole Haan and Eastland lured me in, asking me to be the Northeasterner I knew I had it in me to be. I was too into it for my own good. My jeans needed to have names, and those didn't include Levis or Lee. My mom was really good at spoiling me, and I'm still learning not to spoil myself.

Certain "first days" I'll never forget. I can't shake the first day of high school. For some reason, I hadn't bothered to make plans to meet up with friends before going in, so I went in sans reinforcements. Pushing open the doors, I remember being thankful for the air conditioning inside. Being stubborn, I had chosen to wear one of my more fall-like outfits for the first day. I almost turned tail and bolted when an upperclassman whistled and said "fresh meat" when I walked in the door. Suddenly I was sweating and even further from calm.

Porcelain goddess

Every morning for the past two weeks I've rolled out of bed nauseous. I sit at my computer at work nauseous. I fall into bed at the end of a long day praying I don't wake up nauseous. I'm not knocked up; I am worried. Genetically speaking, I come from a long line of worriers and usually manage to thwart fretting with the happy. Lately the foothold happiness has is spotty.

I worry about the friend who has tried to commit suicide twice in the past two weeks...about my ability to pay my now exorbitant electric bill...about the stupid financial mess I managed to put myself in...about my ability to accomplish all I want to accomplish at work...about the health of the family I never get to see...about the fact we won't pull out of a war that's killing us...about the fact that drinking sometimes sounds like a solution...about whether the boy I like likes me back...about the homeless people I pass every day.

I need to go throw up.

Outersphere

August has always been synonymous with vacation. Growing up every August we* would pile into the minivan or station wagon and head out for a week to parts unknown. We did almost every Six Flags at the time, Dollywood, Colorado Springs, and who can forget driving a station wagon through New York City on our way to visit the relatives in Massachusetts and New Hampshire**. Now that I've grown up and am living on my own I still can't shake the feeling every August that vacations are meant to be taken. Working in DC doesn't help considering how the city empties out and gives itself over to the tourists every August. Not me, though. Eight years of slogging through the DC humidity and forcing myself to not daydream of some far away destination. I've actually been doing pretty good this August, taking a vacation day here and there. Better until now. I just finished reading Dan's travelogue chronicling his Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance-esque trip last summer. Now I need to escape. I dream of fleeing, flying. The road beckons to me, and yet I resist. Can I make it nine more days until September kills my gypsy dream?


*Mom, brother, grandmother, grandfather
**Yes, this Texan has yankee blood running through her.

Labels

It's ironic how we feel the need to label things in our life. I'll be the first to admit that I initially judge a book by its cover and pick my wine based on the design of the label. Similarly (at least to me), I find myself defining people based on a series of labels or stats. Roommate. Friend. Lover. Boyfriend. Director. Associate. Successful. Old. Young. Hippie. Conservative. Rather than digging further and getting at the heart of who a person truly is we "tag" the people in our lives or at least attempt to. I found myself tagging someone today and began to wonder about how that reflected on me and what it looked like I found important. I realized the way I continued to characterize someone cast a shadow on my intentions. Maybe it's just the area I live in, but do you ever stop to wonder why we characterize the people in our lives by what they do? Maybe I'm the only one that does this, but I don't think so. Rarely, when introducing a new person, do I say, "This is XXXX. He has super quick intelligence and makes me laugh." I* tend to fall back on, "This is XXXX. He works for Senator Dorgan." This makes it appear that I value a person's position more than the traits that attract me to them. Not that I want Steven to start introducing me as, "This is Serena. She has amazing boobs," but you get my drift.

*Tell me I'm not the only one that does this.

Roar

I was all set to write about Restaurant Week and what an unrefined palate I have, when my vision was assualted on the metro ride in, and my mind began one-tracking it to hell. I wasn't looking for trouble. I was innocently holding onto the nearest handrail, waiting for the train to roll into McPherson Square when I noticed it...attached to him. I'm notorious for checking people out, and when I glanced up at him, I automatically hit certain target areas. Eyes. Hair. Hands. Bulge. Sigh. I honestly didn't mean to go there, but my eyes betrayed my better senses by lingering over the way he filled out his J. Crew khakis. This couldn't be blamed on tight pants or some secret excitement he was having trouble hiding. Vulgarity wasn't even an issue. It was tastefully clothed with only lines and shadows raving about what was underneath. I could tell it would be beautiful and couldn't tear my eyes away.

Notes from the middle of nowhere

Yesterday I hopped in a rental and took off for Lexington, Virginia. A six and half hour drive for a ninety minute meeting.














The reason for my visit.

While the meeting turned out to be worth it, spending that much time in on the road with a disposable camera and only my thoughts for company calls for introspection. While I managed to avoid introspection and at best got to daydreaming, I did snap numerous randome photos while speeding by. A few of my "deep thoughts" on Virginia. (click photos for better view)














Routes are more fun to drive than highways.














The sign says 'Sleepy Hollow Motel'. I'm thinking they could use a marketing consultant.














For someone from Texas, these really are mountains.




















Boos I made on the road.














Where CIA ops must go to retire.



I have a strange desire to own a barn.



Jealous



Scarlet wanted to know which hand was on the wheel.

Step Up

I have an odd obsession with dance movies. No matter how cheesy or played out the plots, I have to watch them (and watch them...and watch them) and is why I'll be at the theater this weekend to see Step Up. A good dance movie illustrates passion, hope, conflict...but above all it has lots of dance! Really, though, my fixation with dance is a jealousy at the ability to communicate and express emotion without the use of words. Haven't you ever had the desire to just work something out with your body? To tell someone you love them without opening your mouth? To hammer out your anger with flailing arms? How poetic and satisfying to do so through dance. I imagine a sweet release in sweating and shaking loose those feelings...a high much like I've heard runners talk about.

It's not just movies though. I like it live, documentary style, on TV....you name it. My current weekly fix is So You Think You Can Dance. This show is crack and so much better than American Idol, Nashville Star and any other TV talent competition. I'm just mad I missed the first season. Go read Scarlet's commentary on last night's dance off and join the commentary. I also recommend her archives for catching up on the weekly dances.

Since tonight is the finale for Dance, tell me what movies I should add to my dance collection.

current collection: Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Billy Elliott, The Company, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, Coyote Ugly, Rize...

Metro Don'ts

I can't help but join the cacophony of complaints about riding the rails in the DC area. It's hot, tourists run rampant and control the flow of everything, and some people still can't seem to think beyond themselves on the train. Yesterday I got a little frustrated with an inconsiderate passenger and decided the best way to work through my anger (because calling him a motherfucker probably wouldn't have been productive) would be to document* why he was a don't instead of a do.















Why is this man a metro don't?




















In a crowded metro car, he insists on leaning his whole body on one of the few hold bars.
















He takes up additional room in the car by extending his reading material in the personal space of others.
















He is unable to control his personal property and keep it within check.

*Phone cameras have to be good for something.

Car-ma

I should not be allowed to own a car. It's not that I'm a bad driver or have been in multiple accidents. It's simply that I'm cursed when it comes to cars. My problem is two-fold (at least).

(1) I always seem to choose the sickly, runts of the litter. Growing up in Texas, I inherited my mom's Mercury Lynx when I turned 16. It only left me stranded in the parking lot of HEB on four separate occasions, and the air conditioner managed to last up until one scorching July when I was driving back from Big Bend National Park. When I moved to the metro DC area, I left this car back in Texas and purchased my vehicle, a 1999 Ford Escort. I loved this car but will be the first to admit that that love didn't always translate into TLC. We hurt the ones we love the most, right? Having grown up with a grandfather who managed a Goodyear Automotive, I wasn't used to having to take care of my own car. When the brakes started to go, I rode those bad boys 'til the bitter end. Right before I got them fixed, I would drive and scope out soft things to run into in case it came to that. And when that check engine light finally came on, I couldn't bring myself to find out what was wrong until my transmission died. I promised my next car would be treated properly and with the utmost care, so a couple of years ago I bought a 2001 Volkswagen Passat. This car I loved even though I knew it was way too nice for me. I kept it gassed and the oil changed...the whole nine yards. Everything was going smoothly until the day I got the urgent "STOP ENGINE IMMEDIATELY" message. A quick tow to the nearest dealership and I learned the engine my sweet, expensive (for me) car had imploded. Who do you know who gets a hole in their oil pan that shoots metal into their engine? Evidently mine does. Perhaps the car's original owner was Republican, and the car simply could not stand one more day of the humiliation of a Kerry sticker. When I finally buy that new engine, I'm going to be damned sure it comes from fine liberal stock ; )

(2) My second set of car issues seems to be related to the legal intricacies of owning a car. When I first moved up here I had never heard of a yearly car tax or county stickers. That resulted in loads of fun the first couple of years. In later years, I must have wound up on some tow truck pin-up calendar because my car got jacked by the tow companies more than the average Honda Civic sitting on the street. One too many metro parking tickets...gone. Flat tire...gone. My favorite was when my car got towed at the metro parking lot for being "abandoned". Little did I know it was car abandonment to park it in a metro-regulated parking facility at 8:00 am that morning and come back for it at 11:00 pm that night (well before the last metro train runs). My most recent run-in with the towing company involves them taking my car from my apartment complex because my safety inspection is expired. Maybe it's just me, but I find it hard to get a car inspected when it has an imploded engine and hasn't been moved for several months. I was even prepared for the this time having called the state highway patrol, Fairfax County government, the DMV and even my apartment complex before the inspection ever ran out. I wanted to know what I needed to ensure my car remained in the spot it called home. Evidently the tow companies are the new redneck mafia because, despite all of my efforts, my car has once again been towed. I'm tired of being a doormat though. This time I'm going to win in my battle with the tow company.

fuck

One foot in front of the other. My pace was deliberate but slow. My goal was the next island of shade, an oasis in what is almost unbearable heat. Today was not the day for me to have dressed inappropriately and yet somehow I managed it. My dark jeans began to shrink, hugging my ass as my body temperature rose. Rather than saunter or quick step, I felt the need to swagger, undulating my hips as I was more aware of them and my ass in this heat. I eventually shed my button-down as my trek continued, leaving me only in my skinny black tank. Sweat still beat a trail from the nape of my neck down between my breasts and turned loose strands of hair to wet ringlets. Freckles blossomed on my shoulders as though the sun was their mistress cracking the whip. As I walked and was increasingly aware of my body and of the heat, I began to focus less on my discomfort and more how this short journey was telling me something about life. I realized that with life, like a hot day, I can endure the scorching patches as long as I know a brief oasis of shade is just up the road.

The things I do

Can someone be bold and cowardly simultaneously? Yes. Last night I saw him yet again and decided I had already spent too much time relying on fate to keep bringing him back into my life. After spotting him out of the corner of my eye (somehow I can spot him in the middle of a crowd), I needed a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and a couple of calls to friends to do a little "omgomgomgomg...he's here!". I had to do something other than freeze.

First step in the process...acknowledge. One foot in front of the other I made my way down the aisle. Lifting the eyes slowly while peering through lashes. "Hi." As my heart did the mambo, I managed to remain calm and make my way to a neutral zone to plan my next attack.

Suddenly I remembered that I had my backup plan with me all along, tucked into my nametag. I knew the Procedural Dating Kit would come in handy. Lord knows I've been dying to try the Notice of Attraction cards. Sliding my finger in my nametag, I verified the card was indeed there, and my email address was printed on it. I'm the world's biggest weenie, though, and this guy makes me weak in the knees. How would I ever have the strength to slip it to him and still run away? My inner dialogue kept reminding me I was a 30 year old woman, not a teenager.

Screw not being a teenager. I glanced up and spotted sweet*, elderly Jim headed my way. "Jim. How much do you love me?" Sixty seconds later and Jim was headed toward him (he was checking out) bearing the notice of attraction card, and I was headed to the back of the store to hide in receiving. By this point I'm hyperventilating and calling my girls to let them know what I've done. I didn't even have time to calm myself before two different coworkers told me he had started searching for me around the store. I know this is a good sign, but I freaked OUT. I was flushed and shaking and could not do any kind of face to face at that moment. The boy had my email address for goodness sake. Use that! So I waited...a full 15 minutes before hearing it was safe to emerge. And now I wait (hopefully not too long) for the email...


*No matter what I've thought of Jim in the past, he will be forever sweet for that gesture.

Sybil on the inside

Do you ever just get with disgusted with yourself? The problem with being self aware is that you realize how effed up you are sometimes. Ever since I can remember I've always wanted to the best at everything. Sadly, as a kid in rural Texas this wasn't especially difficult. I was tops at most everything I set my mind to doing and decided the things where I didn't come out #1 were probably rubbish. I couldn't not sit first chair in band or advance in the area band competitions. I needed to be student council president, not just a member. All the teachers that mattered needed to like me and think me the coolest. Wretching yet? I even tried the whole cheerleader thing (yes, the sarcastic girl who now likes to say fuck thought she could be perky and bounce about). Lucky for ya'll I didn't make the squad ; ) It was big scandal with rumors flying about that there was a mix up in names. A girl named Sabrina got on instead. To further illustrate my point, that's the point where I decided cheerleading wasn't worthy of me. Ha!

As I got older I grew out of a lot of that. Entering the "real" world and realizing you can't be the bees knees in every situation helps tremendously. Being the best at everything started to look impossible, and it hit me that I couldn't keep ditching things because I didn't win every time. The thing I've had the hardest time shaking as I get older is the need to be the best in my friendships. I've got a jealous streak that runs deeper than Lake Michigan. In high school, I used to get in these foul moods and taunt my bff, Jennifer. She had an old bff, Rose, that she grew away from. I used to continually question* whether or not our friendship was going to end up like that and would pick fights. I've gotten better about not verbalizing my discontent, but it's still tucked away under the surface at times. I still hate being left out of the loop and still have to remind myself that I can't be the center of everyone's world**.


*Heeelllllloooooo abandonment issues.
**I'm still coming to terms with why that can't be the case.