Flaunting it

Sweet relief. Today is my Friday because tomorrow I'm taking off for parts unknown with Steven and Scarlet where we will do various and sundry things in celebration of Steven's birthday. Unlike last year, this year we will forego the blindfold, the midnight locale and the pinata. Everything else* is fair game. Not to get off track though, but I need to back up to blindfolds and birthdays. What's the deal with the blindfold fetishists on Flickr? In January, Conor and I blindfolded Allie on her birthday in an attempt to keep the location a surprise. I snapped a photo of her wearing the blindfold in my car as a reminder of the birthday festivities and later posted it on my Flickr account. This one photo has had hundreds of page views (which none of my other photos have) and has been favorited by random people. It has also led to various people wanting to add me as a contact. How do I know this? Almost all of these people belong to Flickr groups like "sexy blindfolds" or "tie me up" or other things. You get the picture. Who knew? Certainly not me.


*Steven strictly forbid hookers, strip clubs and skydiving/bungee jumping.

I'm not my hair

Scarlet and I started a conversation earlier this week that, with the addition of an awesome Tinapopo post, inspired me to greater goals of charity. What could have sparked such a giving 'tude? Hair, of course. Scarlet and I were lamenting the fact that guys seem to chop off their locks right when it gets a bit shaggy and even cuter. This, of course, spiraled into our own hair and future plans for its maintenance. I hate summer hair. My mostly red hair is thick and under most conditions acts as a thermal blanket on my head. I usually wear it shorter in the summer but have been too busy to think much about it this year. My current remedy is a sloppy bun. In fact, it's piled on my head so often that Scarlet actually had to ask exactly how long my hair had gotten. Suddenly, I found myself feeling secretive and wanting the increasing length of my hair to be some big surprise. Why? Probably my flair for the dramatic or any kind of contest. Reading Tinapopo's post the next day not only cracked me up but reminded me of Locks of Love and a coworker who grew her hair just to donate. Light bulb! Instead of passive laziness, why not let my hair get longer for the purpose of donating it. Here's where you come in. Help me set a date for the big reveal and chop by leaving your suggested date in the comments. The parameter I'm setting is that I'd like to have this happen some time this calendar year.

Hot like Dale Earnhardt?

I'm curious what moment or event triggered the push to make NASCAR hot? Did recent polls alert their PR flacks to the fact that their base audience might be getting older and to sustain themselves they needed a younger, hipper edge? It probably began long before it ever hit my radar screen, but I see the emergence of Danica Patrick as the turning point in NASCAR marketing. It's fairly ingenious. A young, attractive woman should secure their base (men...old and young) and may even hook some of the hesitant younger guys who don't want to be fans. She may also strike a cord with women, rooting for one of their own (of course, when do women actually do this). Just in case the women get a little territorial about a woman out there racing cars, she's made sure to write a successful memoir, and Harlequin has launched a series of NASCAR romance novels. Seems to me another example of NASCAR trying to reach out to new audiences is the fact that every morning I'm greeted by a metro ad at the Courthouse Metro with Danica Patrick and Jeff Gordon (I think...whoever he is, he's young and hot) proclaiming that 'I am Indy'. For those of you who know anything about the Courthouse area of Arlington, you know it's one of the last places you'd look for a NASCAR fan. However, an ad with hot, young people proclaiming themselves Indy should feel right at home in that area. And, now, solidifying the mix of hip and mass appeal is the hysterical Will Ferrell starring in his own NASCAR movie, Talladega Nights. Not a bad choice to bring laughter and NASCAR to the yuppie, the redneck and everyone in between. Think I'll be headed south to catch a race anytime soon? Nope, and I wouldn't be caught with a NASCAR romance either. Will Ferrell is about as NASCAR as I'm getting these days.

I'm not a germ phobe, but I can't help but notice certain things people do in public that completely gross me out. The older gentleman with the receding hairline and thick frames digging for gold in his ear. The middle age banker type with the huge boil on his head. Or what about the times you accidentally sit in front of someone with a cold and periodically feel a breeze on your neck as they cough? It's not just the metro though. Spending a lot of time at a bookstore, I see way too many people sneeze openly on the spines, making no attempt to cover their mouth. At an old job I used to have a co-worker who would never wash her hands after using the restroom. She would then come out and dig her hands into the group candy jar. We eventually learned to hide the good stuff from her. A woman used to ride my bus route that had to have had some kind of mental defect. As understanding as I tried to be of her condition, it took every fiber of my being not to cringe or scowl as she picked her scabs (or nose) and flicked it out in front of her.When did we become so comfortable in our own worlds that things such as this are ok? When did my routine become such that upon exiting the metro, the bus, the bookfloor, etc, I immediately seek out a washroom to scrub my hands?

Swallowing the canary

I've always been intrigued by secrets and why people feel the need to keep them. Obviously, keeping certain things to yourself or a select few makes sense. You probably shouldn't tell the world about that affair you're having and might want to keep the surprise party an actual surprise. Other secrets, however, are just ridiculous. Is keeping the secret a source of empowerment? And, if you have a piece of information you plan on keeping secret, why would you tell someone you had a secret? Is that a not-so-subtle way of attempting to get someone to ask about the secret and thus shower you with attention? My apologies for this brief bit of rambling. I'm just intrigued by the human mind and the games it can get caught up in.

Nancy Pearl's Army

I did the unthinkable during the month of June...I scheduled something else into my already hectic life. I started a bookclub and named it Nancy Pearl's Army*. Why? I was motivated by the desire to gather unique people to read modern, cult books. Working part-time at a bookstore, I get tired of having to placate people who flock to the bestsellers (not that there's anything wrong with them) and weary of the looks of shock when I recommend a book that doesn't have a happy ending. So many other cities manage to congregate freethinkers, and I wanted to see if we could bring a little bit of that to my hood**. I'm also a sucker for marketing and anything that gives me a chance to try to bring people by being creative gets me high. So, waht I guess I'm saying is join us! Our first book*** is in support of fellow blogger and fab girl, Stephanie Klein. I'm dying to read her new book, Straight Up & Dirty, and hope a lot of you are, too. She may not be very cult, but she's got a fine potty mouth, a way with words, and a badass blog. Buy the book on July 25 and come to the Barnes & Noble in Fairfax on August 25 at 8:00 pm to discuss.


*Nancy Pearl used to be a librarian in Seattle and actually has her own action figure. She has written a few books of her own, including the Book Lust books.
** Fairfax
***Future books include Diary by Chuck Palahniuk and Unlubricated by Arthur Nersesian.

Killing Leonard

I killed Leonard last night. I didn't mean to; it was an accident. One minute he's telling me about the latest blog and whether or not I got an email from Scarlet and the next he's face down in a pool of water. Dropping him was a mistake. The scene won't stop replaying in my mind, the continuous loop of a fumble worthy of a Dallas Cowboy trying to get his team to the Super Bowl. I should have known better. I had gotten to cocky in my handling of him. Because of my arrogance Leonard, my sidekick, is dead.*



*In case you somehow missed it, Leonard was my cell phone.

Brother, can you spare some change

I had meetings on the Hill this morning. I typically leave meeting with Congressional offices to my boss, so that I can avoid having to put on a suit and traipse around in the heat. No such luck today though. I had to throw on my black suit with the pink pinstripe this morning and make sure the heels were stowed in my bag. I was off to ask for favors and see if I could get anyone to do my bidding right before a long holiday weekend. More disturbing than the heat and the fact that I had to don a suit was the fact that I got panhandled INSIDE the Rayburn House Office Building! I was at once both disturbed and excited. I hate being panhandled; it hits right to the core of my guilty conscious. Yes, I know I'm probably not the direct reason they're living on the streets, but what am I doing to help the situation? Anyway, the sick side of me got a little excited that someone was ballsy enough to wander into a House office building and stand in the hallway asking for change. You think members of Congress would get the impression that there is problem if it asked them change every morning right outside their office? Probably not. I'm curious how quickly the guy got tossed out on his ass by security.

Book spy

I spend close to 90 minutes a day on the metro and, as you can imagine, have a lot of time to think and look around. Late last week I decided I was going to start keeping a record of all of the books I saw people reading on the metro and keep a running list over in the sidebar. I have four days worth of books recorded but am now waffling on whether or not to publish the list. Why? The selections are simply too boring. People are reading mostly crap, and the thought of making that list public kind of depresses me. The rare soul who seems to be taking a more adventurous leap into reading usually has the book I just can't manage to snag the title of. Otherwise, the reading pool is, in addition to boring, a bit homogenous. I see way too many duplicates of whatever the popular* titles happen to be. What are you reading?



*...at least according to people like Oprah or the New York Times.

Hot hot heat

The heat has been so oppressive the past couple of days. I walk through the streets feeling like I'm wearing a heavy cloak. I feel like I'm carting around Apollo himself on my shoulder. I'm thankful Apollo has made those shoulders a little browner and a lot more freckled, but I would appreciate it if he would lay off the whole head-sweat thing. That kind of wet is never attractive.

Are there people out there who function well in heat? When the heat feels like an actual, tangible object, all I want to do is (1) sit in the shade with an ice cold Diet Coke, (2) find some body of water to periodically throw myself into or (3) lay on my bed in my arctic apartment. Scarlet was telling me she had an old roommate who loved to sweat. Why would this be appealing? I like feeling clean, and sweat leaves me feeling not so fresh. And two sweaty bodies touching? Why do romance novels always include some sweaty sex scene? If doing it gets you sweaty, fine, but we damned sure better not start off that way.

My love muscle's weak

I have a weak love muscle. My heart just breaks all the damned time...for loved ones, people I'm only acquainted with, the average joe on the street. I used to think this fact meant that I was fated for a life of public service, giving back to those I empathized with. I'm beginning to think it means I'm going to waste too much time crying over people I don't even know and probably wouldn't like me anyway.

Actually, I take that back. I think my heart usually aches and breaks for the right reasons and people. It's just an email I got last night really sent me off on one of my "thinking" binges. As I was about to lay my head on my pillow I decided to quickly check my email one last time. A new friend* has a bitch** for a wife. They've been separated, and evidently last night she told him she was dating a new guy and didn't want him around. He's pretty messed up over it and rightly so. Just hearing about it made me lose sleep. Any drowsiness I had was gone, and I couldn't stop my mind from spinning. I couldn't help but think about my brother and how he'd had to go through the same thing. He was young and in love, and some country #$*&@ trampled on his heart. They got married and all of a sudden she stops working and sits on her ass at home all day. Mind you...she was 19 at the time with no kids and no plans to attend school. While my brother was busting his ass working to support them, even having to drop out of college, she was at the apartment evidently meeting men online. I won't get into the whole sordid tale, but I'm glad my brother pushed through his broken heart and had the courage to kick that ho to the curb.


*If you happen to read this friend, this is the best description I could come up with for you.
**Dear friend, I do apologize for using this word, but all I know of her are the shitty things she has done to you.

Always be prepared

Lately I've found myself inadequately prepared for life's little emergencies, and as someone who spends roughly 6 hours a day at her apartment (all of which are sleeping or preparing to sleep), I've decided I need to be a very ready girl on the go. What's in my emergency preparedness kit?

Flask (object of affection above) - Last night my cohorts and I could have used a little something extra in our Diet Cokes but were unfortunately not in a position to pop down to the local ABC Store. If I had been a prepared girl on the go, the evening would have went down a little smoother.
Breath Mints - As evidenced by last week's panic over my most recent run-in with my missed connection, a girl on the go should always be prepared to have sparkling breath.
Beautification Tool - I could never carry around an entire makeup supply, especially seeing as how I don't wear any on most days, but every girl on the go should have a lip gloss, mascara or whatever beautification tool she feels would give her that extra pop.
Swiss Army Knife - Not sure why, but everyone seems to think you need one (try pink). I guess you never know who (oops...I mean what) you'll need to cut.
Camera (preferably digital) - There are too many life moments that must be captured not to walk around with a camera. Who knows...you may be meant to tape the next Rodney King video.
Help me out. I don't want to be caught unprepared again. What would you put in your emergency preparedness kit?

giggle bounce barf

This is the story of sluttycreatorgirl. In actuality, it's a gut check of who I never want to be.

On what appears to be the first date of a myspace.com hook up, sluttycreatorgirl is upping the giggle ampage early on for barelystraightboy. I'm combining a little more subtle flirting of my own with a refill on the caffeine when I first spot the couple and eavesdrop on the nervous conversation. The meetup that begins in a Barnes & Noble cafe moves to the music department and much closer to where I've ended up. I couldn't help but watch and grimace. Sluttycreatorgirl was giving it 180%, and it would have been hard for anyone not to notice. Barelystraightboy was getting hit over the head with the most obvious, pathetic kind of flirting.

Sporting her fitted green shirt and lowrise jeans, she began visually flirting when she showed up for the date. Evidently it wasn't enough. Sluttycreatorgirl was pretty sure she had a voice and must have thought it added to her date value. She came into the music department singing broadway tunes and doing that perky girl chat. I'm not really sure if barelystraightboy thought it was hot, but if he did, then I should rename him boywholikesboy or am in serious trouble if I have to bust out the vocal talents to flirt. Sluttycreatorgirl pulls the boy over to the listening wall and then she brings out the big guns. With the headphones on she begins to dance for barelystraightboy. Scratch that. She begins bouncing to the music and trying to dance. Girls who make their boobs bounce and girate their hips in stupid ways while listening to pop music all for the sake of a guy get on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you can come up with tons of places this would be appropriate. Listening to music with headphones on in the middle of a music department at 10:00 pm on a Tuesday is simply not one of them. Flip the hand, shake the head, swoosh swoosh swoosh of the hips. Girl, I don't see a hoola hoop around your hips so give it up.

Family is everywhere

I don't have the privilege of being the veteran of too many weddings,
but I do know a good time when I see one. This past week I have the
honor of joining in the wedding festivities of my roommate's sister in
Detroit, MI. Over the years, the bride has transitioned from simply the
relative of a friend into part of an extended family I claim. One of
four girls, my roommate and her sisters are these amazing, funny women
who have adopted me in my home away from home. Not just her sisters but
mothers, aunts, cousins, and friends of the family, too. Being there
these past 5 days just solidified that some people start to feel more
like family than just friends. Having known both the bride and groom
from when they were just coworkers and friends and seeing the
relationship blossom made it even more special.

I've spent the past five days in both a state of rest (way more than I
usually get) and the wedding errand crazies. I burned last minuted cds
for all the guests and went on a hunt for slim cd cases, made sure
grandmother to the bride got to the wedding on time, printed out last
minute changes to the seating chart, showed the groomsmen how to hold
the bouquets, helped the hostesses get ready for the reception, and
generally drove my ass off (literally...we got back to DC at 5 am this
morning). I had also brought my video camera and appointed myself the
unofficial videographer. I love how holding a camera makes me feel so
comfortable and gets me into situations I wouldn't normally get into. I
caught almost everything on film, from the practice runs to the behind
the scenes conversations to the soul train chain. The best part is that
I get to turn it into something memorable for the family.

Holding the camera also means that very few people caught me trying to
do the hustle or dance down the soul train line ; )
Serena

Deliverance

I left Rocky Mount, Virginia haunted. An entire weekend overshadowed by a series of small events that shook my core and reminded my of the dichotomy that exists in our world. All is not well in Denmark.

After the first day in Rocky Mount, I thought I'd leave the town knowing it was a little boring and remembering The Crooked Road, Virginia's Heritage Music Trail. Instead, all I remember is how nauseous I still am. We were on our way out of Rocky Mount, just making on quick stop at the tattoo parlor (yeah, I got another one), when a man walked into the shop. Something just didn't feel right about him; the air changed a bit. Like a cat, I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. Evidently he wanted one tattoo finished and wanted to talk design on a second. He kept eyeing all the women in the shop and even went so far as to make some comment toward the owner's daughter (the resident body piercer). I was still a little on edge when it came to the other patron's after a group of kids had come in earlier wanting the nazi symbol tattooed on, but I didn't pay him too much mind as I was about to head back and get a little color. However, when Allie was done and we were headed out, I realized why my guard was raised. On the computer screen was a hooded figure peering out from behind a cross. I glanced at the back of his elbow and saw the tattoo he already had for the first time, the confederate flag with the words Ku Klux Klan written above it. Even typing this I'm shaking. Are we really still there? And how dare this mother fucker hide his hatred and ignorance behind the cross and the cloak of Christianity. I don't own a gun and never will for times like that. I was hot with rage and might blown his testicles off in my rage had I had a gun. Instead, I felt bile rise in my throat and left haunted with fears of the Rocky Mounts of the world. As we stopped off in Wal-Mart, I viewed every white person with wariness and anyone nonwhite with the wonder of how much shit they must put up with. I wondered yet again where I should be. Am I hiding in the suburbs of D.C.? An ironic twist to all of this is the fact that earlier that day we ventured down to Greensboro, NC. There I stood in front of the Woolworth where the lunch boycotts began and a civil right's war was waged. The awe of the morning smashed by the present that still looks so much like the past.

Treading is always an option

I spent yesterday morning giving swimming lessons to a friend who didn't really know how to swim and who started to panic a little stepping into water a little over 3-foot deep. My friend is not a dwarf nor abnormally short. The fear had a different origin. One that was a foreign concept to me because, for the longest time, I've been at home in the water. Texas is so fucking hot during the summertime that the only way to survive to spend it immersed in something other than your own sweat. Parents toss their young into the pool at a young age and expect them figure out. I survived the ritualistic baptism by fire in our 4-foot above ground monstrosity. Shortly after that test it was swim lessons every summer that ended the year I maxed out and finished the final course before lifeguard certification. Yes, I've rescued a drowning dummy and used my own jeans as a flotation device. From there is was the city swim club and competitive swimming. I didn't suck but didn't really win either.

As yesterday's sun beat down, my only goal was to at least convince her she could float on her back. We came close. Even though she wouldn't give up control and let go of the wall, she did indeed float on her back. There was no faith in the water not to screw her over, to be that invisible layer of support beneath her back. I hope I was understanding and patient. A teacher I am not, but I figure I do okay when I try. It also made me realize that there are things I'm afraid of, and even though others may be able to do them, the smallest step will be difficult for those who are afraid.

Trailblazer

I spend a lot of time worrying about whether I'm doing the right thing with my life and if I'm doing enough to make the world a better place. I feel the need to make an impact, to solve some big global problem. I know I can't but feel like I should at least be trying to contribute my two cents to the cause. This is why guilt and feelings of selfishness tend to wash over me when I start to entertain ideas of trying to do something more creative with my life.* It's only when I read articles like the Washington Post Magazine's piece on locally-based artist Allen Carter that I start remember how art and the creative have been used to shift thinking and spur social change. Carter's (Big Al) work not only reflects an amazing dedication to the art and imagination, Battiata talks of how his art challenges you to face realities you may not want to deal with. The butterflies in my gut in reading this article are for excitement and remembering all the writing, art, photography, theater that has helped in shifting my frame of reference. Even in my current field I see the value in the creative. At a recent conference on rivers I attended, an award was given to Beth Maynor Young for the awareness she's raised with her photography of southeastern rivers. Her photographs have inspired land and river protection throughout the region. Even crafts have gotten activist again** with sites like Craftivism that highlight ways to give back, act out, etc.

Anyway, I ramble on simply to say that I'm excited and hopeful and may just be working my way towards that Master's thesis.

*I feel like that was such a conceited sentence. I'm in no way saying I'm creative enough to ever do anything like that as a career. We're talking a dreaming-only scenario.
**Those old school ladies sewing circles could be pretty revolutionary ; )

More Luke than Christopher

***Warning: You may not want to read this post if you haven't seen the season finale of Gilmore Girls.***

We all make mistakes in life, those last minute decisions made in a moment of panic or desperation that either turn out to be harmless or alter the course of our destiny forever. Imagine my shock when I decided to pay a visit to Stars Hollow yesterday and saw that final scene with Lorelai in bed with Christopher. How familiar was that face that screamed "Oh shit, what have I done," without moving a muscle? As disappointed as I was, I knew what few errant twists of fate it took to get there. For Lorelai it was months of feeling like she was on the backburner in Luke's life and that immediate broken heart (and probably a little bit of old feelings for Christopher, etc., etc.). In my own life, see how easily those bad decisions come to me. Sure, one more drink won't hurt. I'm sure it's just a leak in the oil pan. Not talking to the mystery guy yet AGAIN!*


* Yes, I saw him again last night and froze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. I saw him 3 out of 5 days last week and managed to not say a word. Soon fate is going to flip me off.

Missed connections

Do you believe in fate? As with many things in life, I've walked the line between buying into it and also knowing that regardless of fate I choose my own destiny. Lately I've started believing in fate a little more as I continue to cross paths with this one guy in all the oddest places. I first locked eyes with him as an off and on Barn customer. Maybe it's my imagination, but catching each other's eye has intensified over time. That said, I wouldn't think anything of it if it were just the Barn. It's not. I've accidentally parked beside him at Target and passed him on the streets of D.C. on a handful of occasions, each time eliciting a double take (from him). After seeing him again on Tuesday night, I finally decided that next time I saw him I would speak to him. He's cute, tall, and makes my heart skip beats. I'm interested. Easy enough, right? Well, fate is one smart-ass bitch because last night he boarded my normal bus a few people behind me. I've never seen him on this bus before, and he happens to get on so soon after I made my decision to speak?! As I took up residence in my normal seat (back corner), he sat down and proceeded to crane around to look at me. We locked eyes yet again (can I just say I'm ready to move beyond the eye lock). He would look back periodically and would glance at everyone that passed to see if it was my stop. Meanwhile, I'm putting on the lip gloss and texting Scarlet trying to figure out what to do. The bad news is that (1) I was dead tired having just gotten back from an event in Jersey; (2) tired does not = uber hot; (3) was carrying a tote where you could see my mixed drink pj bottoms on top; (4) was dealing with the drama of figuring out how I was going to get gas to my roommate who was stranded in the rain; and (5) already late to the Barn. So, even though I had my line prepared, I didn't approach him. The timing was just off. I do believe in fate and know we'll cross paths again. Next time I'll be prepared ; )

Thumbs down to news

I used to pride myself on staying abreast of current events and regularly catching the news (either print or TV); however, ever since September 11 happened, I've found the news a bitter pill I'd rather not follow. I realize this is a dangerous game I play, risking being so out of the loop. Knowledge is power...I buy into that ideal. I just need to get my knowledge some other way. Have I found the delivery method right for me? Not yet. I definitely frequent "new media" (that's blogs, peeps) and do read the paper periodically. I go old school sometimes relying on word of mouth (dangerous, I know). You'd be surprised how much people want to pass along to you or what you can overhear just keeping those ears alert. Having been on the road for more than 7 hours today, I feel only affirmation in my feelings of dissatisfaction with the news. Seven hours, 4-5 NPR stations, and the same 4 stories over and over and over. I can now recite the story of Bush's reaction to the USA Today article on the NSA tracking the phone calls of millions of Americans. Curious about immigration policy or the proposed tax cuts? Give me a call. I respect the journalists working hard to keep us all informed, admiring them from afar with what could sometimes be called jealousy. All I really want is to continue to see the envelope pushed and the harder questions asked. As media conglomerations grow, let's hope the news reported is less watered down than we've come to expect.

Do you contra?

Contra...out of breath dizzy fun. According to wikipedia, it's an English country dance originating in the 17th century and later adapted by the French. Once co-opted by the Americans it was re-interpreted and considered some form of American folk dance. Honestly, it reminded me a lot of square dancing. Whatever you call it, I was doing it on Monday night after a glass of wine and a little Red Hook. Someone had the bright idea to hire a caller and band the last night of the river rally I went to in New Hampshire. Couldn't have been too terrible an idea as young and old (and, yes, me) poured onto the dance floor to fling each other about. Passed from man to woman to man while skipping, swinging and do si doing all I could do was laugh. Don't be surprised if I try to get a little contra going at the next party ; )

...live from New Hampshire (on a hijacked internet connection)

I was going to complain. I had plans last night for my blog to be about how I just don't connect at some of these events. Today happened though. It wasn't the breakfast of chai french toast or the fact that my presentation was over this morning (successful btw). It wasn't even how a session on water privatization re-energized my activist spirit. It was a simple box lunch on a rock by a dancing river at the base of Mount Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was pen and paper to record my thoughts as the water danced over the cobble and a look upstream revealed the glare of gentle whitewater. It was knowing that I did have friends inside the resort but could come down here and find my center. It was having a spider race across my foot and knowing it was time to go. It was a silent chuckle to myself and knowing I'll always be me and that's an okay thing.

Why metro is truly trying sometimes

Currently on the orange line traveling in the direction of Vienna and
surrounded by crazies. Seriously, I'm not being judgemental here. Any
psychologist would put both of these guys in a mental facility or at
least prescribe a heavy drug regime.

Crazy #1 talks really loudly, spouting off minute facts about Sesame
Street. I now proudly know that there was a special retrospective to
Mr. Hooper in 1983 after he died. Perhaps my favorite that came out of
his mouth was on the the new theater in Tyson's Corner.

"It's outrageous!"

Metro patron: "You mean expensive?"

"No. Outrageous, like in beautiful. It's beautiful."

Metro patron: "Oh."

"Outrageous. Jem...she's truly outrageous (he's singing, mind you).
Like that."

I swear he said just that. My lip throbbed just a tad as I bit down on
it to keep from laughing. I stopped laughing when he began to carry on
a conversation with himself in the mirror.

Crazy #2 had an obvious problem that he needed to share with the closest
metro employee. I didn't hear everything but evidently someone was near
him with a knife and he was afraid for his life. He also wanted to know
if it was ok to kill someone.

You can't make this shit up.
Serena

More geeky than freaky

Thanks to Netflix (and Steven and Charlie for the strong recommends) I watched the pilot episode of Freaks & Geeks last night. Immediately it became apparent that this was in fact a documentary shot at my high school. I found myself watching and trying to figure out which group I had fit into in high school. Freak...geek...popular...jock...no...no...no...no. I was a floater, a little bit of many. Band nerd and honor society convert, the geeks were my peeps. I dated the guy who would quote Star Trek (don't ask). Don't pigeonhole me though. My cynicism and hatred of the "system" also gave me a home with the freaks. Though too straightedge to ever fully join, I hovered around the perimeter, dabbling occasionally. Popular never really took hold, though I had remnant friends from my junior high days as a mainstream cheerleader wannabe. I'm embarrassed to say now because it makes me look like such a bitch, but I considered myself better them, so I didn't even try matriculating into their crowd.

I'm curious how a show with such a strong underground following and such a tap on reality didn't make it more than one season. Were the geeks who grew up to become producers and directors tired of having to relive their awkward youth on the small screen, or maybe the jock/bully/popular kids who morphed into shiny ad execs didn't want to see freak kids and geek kids up close and personal so ad dollars were lost. Like I said, I've only just begun but am stoked to stroll down memory lane, reliving real life through the kids of Freaks & Geeks.

Deniability

Deniability only gets you so far in this life. I used to try to deny where I was from...even while I was still there. I spent my formative years loathing country music and nagging my mom to only buy me designer jeans. Hell, I even chose to be liberal. I was convinced I was way more cosmopolitan than the city I was forced to call home and would dream of life in a "big" city up north. Texas runs through my blood. Not metropolitan, urban Texas but rural, west Texas. In a town surrounded by fields of cotton and corn and a house not more than a mile from a dairy, I sweated out my existence just knowing I was better than that. The problem with denying your reality is that eventually it will hunt you down like an escaped con and remind you who you are. I did eventually did make my way north to the concrete jungle of D.C. The problem is that country followed me. While I thought I never had it, turns out I couldn't shake it. I began to get subtle reminders from some country bitch deep inside me that she wasn't going without a fight. Imagine your first "real" job in the world of PR and letting slip rather loudly in a group conversation that you're fixin' to do something. Hoots and harassment do follow. Overcoming a red flush of shame, I vowed to double-check my vocabulary before ever opening my mouth again.

However, the longer I was here an odd thing began to happen. I became more comfortable with where I grew up and the little bit of country that lived in me. I tired of the pretentiousness of DC and began to embrace my working class background. Don't get me wrong, I still don't want to move back to Texas, but I decided the that internal country deserved some airtime, too. It fought long and hard to get here, so a little country slip every now and then isn't so bad.

Why this? Why today*? I was reminded of yet another article I had seen on Britney Spears and suddenly it hit me. The reason Britney and the rest of the normal world are so at odds or in shock over her past couple of years is that everyone is forgetting what she truly is. She's just Texas country with a little trash thrown in. No matter how much she denies it that internal country bitch will rear its head. Star or not...deniability doesn't work forever.

*I also got a funny email this morning from my mom. I won't share, but let's just say it reminded of how every country we are.

Wowza

I feel the need to apologize to my sensitive readers up front. The poem below may shock and disturb you...I hope it does. It's poetic in both its message and delivery. I'm posting in because things like what happened at Duke still happen and because I feel like this.

with no immediate cause
by Ntozake Shange

every 3 minutes a woman is beaten
every five minutes a woman is raped/every ten minutes
a lil girl is molested
yet i rode the subway today
i say next to an old man who
may have beaten his old wife
3 minutes ago or 3 days/30 years ago
he might have sodomized his
daughter but i sat there
cuz the young men on the train
might beat some young women
later in the day or tomorrow
i might no shut my door fast
enuf/push hard enuf
every 3 minutes it happens
some woman’s innocence
rushes to her cheeks/pours from her mouth
like the betsy wetsy dolls have been torn
apart/their mouths
mensis red & split/ every
three minutes a shoulder
is jammed through plaster & the oven door/
chairs push thru the rib cage/ hot water or
boiling sperm decorate her body
i rode the subway today& bought a paper from a
man who might
have held his old lady onto
a hot pressing iron/ i don’t know
maybe he catches lil girls in the
park & rips open their behind
with steel rods/ i cdn’t decide
what he might have done i only
know every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes every 10 minutes/so
i bought the paper
looking for the announcement
there has to be an announcement
of the women’s bodies found
yesterday/ the missing little girl
i sat in a restaurant with my
paper looking for the announcement
a yng man served me coffee
i wondered did he pour the boiling
coffee/ on the woman cuz she waz stupid/
did he put the infant girl/ in
the coffee pot/ with the boiling coffee/ cuz she cried
too much
what exactly did he do with hot coffee
i looked for the announcment
the discovery/ of the dismembered<
woman's body/ the
vicitm's have not all been
identified/ today they are
naked & dead/ refuse to
testify/ one girl out of 10's not
coherent/ i took the coffee
& spit it up/ i found an
announcment/ not the woman's
bloated body in the river/ floating
not the child bleeding in the
59th street corridor/ not the baby
broken on the floor/
"there is some concern
that alleged battered women
might start to murder their
husbands & lovers with no
immediate cause"
i spit up i vomit i am screaming
we all have immediate cause
every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes
every 10 minutes
every day
women's bodies are found
in aley & bedrooms/ at the top of the stairs
before i ride the subway/ buy a paper/ drink
coffee/ i must know/have you hurt a woman today
did you beat a woman today
throw a child cross a room
are the lil girl's panties
in yr pocket
did you hurt a woman today

i have to ask these obscene questions
the authorities require me to
establish
immediate cause

every three minutes
every five minutes
every ten minutes
every day

(reprinted from vegankid)
-

**WARNING** The following may be hazardous to your health

Selfishness may feel good at the outset but once done starts to rot and mold like the dank underbelly where the thought originates. The problem is that giving so much of yourself sucks sometimes, too. You give until they expect it...until they take advantage...until you begin to lose a little part of yourself. I'm tired of giving so freely, of leaving myself open. I want to be one of the first thoughts and not one of the last resorts. Selfish thoughts stomp around my head as I think of taking more for me. I dream of ignoring them ignoring me. I think all of these horrid thoughts and then remember that it's Easter. I remember that today is the day we celebrate the fact that He is risen, that He gave of himself selflessly. I remember that no matter how much I take from Him and ignore Him that the giving, the selflessness, is still there. It's unconditional. And maybe that's what my giving should be...unconditional.

Taking care of our own

What would you do if you'd been living a fairly consistent existence for more than 30 years only to learn one day your world was about to be turned upside down? My mom finds out today if the company she has been with for close to 30 years is being shut down. She called me this morning just to hear my voice, but she cracked a little towards the end. The fissure in my heart cracked just a little more that I wasn't there to put my arms around her and tell her it would be ok. Thirty years of knowing your routine, knowing where your paycheck was going to come from. While in this day and age the thought of staying at one job for that length of time may seem like torture, this kind of tenure at one job seems fairly common for older generations. The question is, how do you cope with such radical, life-altering shift to your status quo? The town I'm from is not ripe with opportunity. I don't want her having to pound the pavement looking for another job in this competitive job market. She could work circles around recent college grads, but because she didn't graduate from college and has such narrow (maybe focused is more appropriate) experience she might not get the opportunity she deserves. All I know is that we have each other and that with brainstorming and support things are bound to be okay.

Track #6

I'm sitting at my desk staring dreamily at the screen, a little bit in love after last night. I can only focus on the what ifs and not the daily tasks at hand. Last night the fates aligned, and I was in the right place at the right time. The place: Iota. Who: Arab Strap. When Scarlet presented me with the opportunity for an evening with Scotsmen, who was I to decline? The evening was an evening of sensations and minor euphoria. Having arrived their early (really early) to secure our place inside this cozy venue, we settled in and began nursing a drink in anticipation. The next thing I knew the BAND (totally spazzing here) was at the bar, and we were hanging with the band before the show!! Earlier Scarlet and I had wondered aloud whether we'd be willing to be that girl with the band. However, after seeing Malcolm and Aidan, my 'huhs' starting turning into 'hmmmms'. Anyway, sound check started and chatting turned to ogling as I managed to catch Malcolm's eye a couple of times and send him derisive look for derisive look.

As the lights went down and crowds pressed in, our intimate moment with the band and Iota was replaced with the opening act, A Whisper in the Noise. They really weren't bad, but by that point, I only had eyes for one band. Scarlet, I am quite sure, was about ready to jump out of her skin seeing as she came already in love, and my smitten affair had only just begun. As Arab Strap went on, we were crafty enough to position ourselves against the stage, practically worshipping their feet.

The next two hours are really so hard to put words to. I felt like I was being seduced by the ongues and fingers of men who never touched me. Mesmerized, I watched Malcolm on the Fender, caught up in the movement of his fingers and the notes they were creating. Every now and again I'd glance up at the face that refused to smile but would occasionally sneer and felt myself slip further down the rabbit hole. I found myself wanting to play a game of find the tattoo with him. I was also directly at the feet of Aidan and kept glancing up as he sang, hoping he would meet my eye. Instead, he sang with his eyes closed, and I was content to let that deep brogue seep down into my soul. Really, I was so into it that I didn't let the indie head bop or the annoying clan* to my right even bother me. At some point in the evening I sent Scarlet a text message. It read: "Affirmed. I would definitely be that girl."

As the band was packing up, we knew we needed to stick around. You can't just leave after a performance like that. Aidan was snagged by one of the annoying clan as he made his way to the back, but Malcolm was alone on stage storing his guitar. A few conspiratorial whispers later, and we decided to go for it. We decided against pictures for fear of being thought cheesy but determined we couldn't leave without a few final words to this man whose music would be on my computer and whose face would permeate my dreams over the next few weeks. False confidence led me to the stage as we told him how much we enjoyed the show. Not one to leave italone, I couldn't resist asking him (with a smile) what was so fucking depressing about playing guitar up there. We were rewarded with a smile and some hard-to-understand words about how he didn't like playing live, didn't like touring in America and wasn't much of a smiler. He said he tried to smile while playing, but it just didn't work. *Sigh* Soulmate anyone?

Anyway, we said farewell and took off. I left feeling like a grade school girl about to poster her room with their photos and also knowing I had more time to be that girl.


*Read Scarlet's post for more of everything!

When going forward sucks

Tonight is one of the few times in life where moving forward truly sucks. It's the one time of the year when I really wish moving backward was an option. Whatever. Today I'll do a little mental spring cleaning and indulge myself in a list. I love lists but generally hate boring others with them. However, in this case, perhaps putting in words what I want to accomplish over the next two months will solidify my willpower to make it so.

Making Spring 2006 Work for Me:

• Complete grad school application (April 15)
• Survive American Rivers (the amount of work I have to do over the next 8 weeks could be a list in and of itself)
• Complete production of Jem: The E! True Hollywood Story
• Apply for space/attend at the Atlanta Indie Craft Experience
• Visit family in Texas
• Submit the long-delayed article to Bust
• Hold hands

My immediate future means involves me working on the latest rendition of MailTunes.

Scared

I've been walking around in a daze since Sunday, afraid to admit to anyone that I'm scared. The bags that haunt my eyes aren't from an unusual lack of sleep but of the worry that stalks me in my dreams. What I have a problem with is mortality. Not my own but that of those I love. I fear being abandoned, orphaned as an adult.

As I talked to my mom on Sunday, I learned my grandmother is sick again, that she is weak. She has been feeling pretty crappy off and on. I think of her age and the reality that she won't always be there. I think of how I won't be able to cope without one of the women who raised me. I worry about my mom who will eventually lose her best friend and near constant companion. I can't stomach the thought of her being alone thousands of miles away but don't think my spirit could handle moving back home. I dream of moving her some place like San Francisco with me and having her nearby.

I think of my mom and think of her mortality. I try to forget the cirrhosis that is slowly signing her death warrant. I think of how we all try to forget this. I feel in my heart that when they abandon me in death I won't be able to go on. I've been afraid to go home this past year because as the years pass I fear that each time might be the last I see them. I miss them and am afraid not to go home because I need to see them.

Right now I'm just scared but have to force myself not to think just to get by.

Embracing wine week

I seriously think I had the best lunch of my life yesterday, and it had very little to do with food. Twice a year Smith & Wollensky host a wine week where, for a mere $10, the glasses in front of you become virtual fountains overflowing, unlimited wine. Smith & Wollensky have employees circulate throughout the restaurant from 12 to 3, each in charge of doling out certain wine selections. Grabbing a group of friends and settling in for the afternoon seemed the perfect way to end a week.

We (Scarlet, Joyce and Marsha) arrived just in time for our 12:30 reservation and had no sooner sat than I had a nice sparkling wine and a merlot in front of me. An alcoholic's wet dream, I never had fewer than two different wines in front of me. It was a leisurely affair meant to be enjoyed by the decadent. Our waitress took our lunch orders roughly 45 minutes and 5 drinks into lunch. By the time Allie joined us, we were well past toasty, and when our food finally arrived, it was the least of our concern. Never before have I been drunk so early in the day (and had so much fun). Because everyone in the restaurant was there for wine week, the atmosphere was laid back and flirty. Scarlet found a new boyfriend in manager David, man of the askew bowtie, and random people were known to stop by our table.

I'd recommend everyone make time for wine week next time it rolls around, but honestly, I don't want to have to fight with you for my reservation. ; )

Non-snob's guide to selections tried: sparkling, merlot, pinot grigio, pinot noir, chardonnay...and so many others, the names of which I will never remember.

Pissed

I hate public restrooms, probably not as much as some women, but I still find them distasteful. This afternoon I was making my way back to Washington, D.C. when all the diet coke I consumed decided it was tired of me. I'm not sure why I was so hesitant to use the Amtrak loo, but my instincts proved correct today.

The loo in question was wretched. I knew it was going to be one of times I was going to have to make like a jedi and hover. Unfortunately, unlike most guys and a whole lot of women, I have horrific aim*. Just as I was experiencing that final release (when you've had to pee really bad, you know what I'm talking about) when I noticed something pooling on the ground. I completely missed the toilet and had pissed on the back of my jeans and the floor. The red flush of shame crept to my face at the same time my cat-like reflexes had me yanking my pant legs out of their own danger zone. Thank GOD my jeans were dark and only got hit near the top. It allowed me the opportunity to sneak back to my suitcase and grab a skirt. I slid out of the loo, making sure to afix a look of disgust on my face at the "person" who left the place such a mess. Five minutes later I was outfitted in new skirt and back in my seat. Perspective allows laughter, but pissing yourself as an adult takes a strong constitution.

Lesson learned: If it's so gross you need to hover, find another loo.




*Ask me about my Taiwanese bathroom experience later.

Greetings from New Hampshire

Live free or die...the state motto. Nothing terribly exciting to report. I'm mired in training on historic preservation law and looking forward to my train ride back.

I sleep around

I used to be one of those girls who had trouble sleeping. I couldn't sleep in a moving vehicle or with too much light or with my overactive imagination. Flashforward several long years, and you're now talking to a girl who can do it anywhere. My answer came in the form of whoring myself out to the joys of travel. My lust for parts unknown, the open road or simply somewhere other than where I currently am have led me to some interesting sleeping quarters. I've bedded down in foreign dorms, the floor of O'Hare, and even the couch of a friends apartment. I slept on raised bamboo in Thailand under a thatched roof and mosquito netting, a hotel shaped like a boat in Puerto Rico, and in a Vegas hotel room where the door wouldn't lock and was held shut by my propping a chair against the door. I do cars at rest stops and even caught a few winks behind the wheel and stopped at a traffic light. Last night I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep on the regional Amtrak as it barreled toward Connecticut and this morning napped a couple more hours on the bottom bunk of a four-year old's Strawberry Shortcake comforter. I guess you could say I sleep around.

For the love of meme

I am so not a fan of memes, so Barmaid had better realize I'm doing this only because her blog kicks so much ass.

My nickname: Weenie...a moniker given for a couple of reasons: (1) an unhealthy fear of bugs and (2) Serena...SirWeenie...Weenie.

My hometown: San Angelo, Texas. I've learned not to be embarassed and to embrace my past.

My team: Team sports are so passe. Isn't it all about the individual? ; )

My theme song: Back That Thang Up by Juvenile

My drinks: Rum and coke or a French Martini

My occupation: enviro rabble rouser

My spare time: Damned internet. Spying. Making movies. Exploring.

My hiding spot: the Barn

My books: Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez.

My [fake] heroes: Diet Coke. It sparkly and refreshing and helps so many people feel so good. It's the new humanitarian.

My [real] heroes: My mom. A divorce and two kids and she never let us down. She instilled in me the belief that the world was mine for the taking and that the sky's the limit.

My tags: Allie, Steven, and Green Canary

Tramps like us

Sometimes I believe I'm just asking for trouble. It's almost like I try to find the most difficult or unavailable men and become interested in them. A few weeks ago there was the crush who had me in knots. There's no new crush, but a series of events is unfolding that's making me question my better judgement (or, honestly, lack thereof).

The thoughts running through my head this morning though are more reminiscent of where I was roughly 10 years ago. Back in the day I had just broken up with the Boyfriend, the one who will always make your knees weak, and had been talking every night on the phone to my friend, Roy. Roy was in the Marines and not happy. He hated 29 Palms and was having trouble with his wife. We would spend hours on the phone late at night talking about our doomed relationships. Well, needless to say, Roy got some leave a few weeks later and decided to come home to visit (he lived up the street from me and had known me for years). Shortly before he arrived I learned he and his wife had separated; despite this, we made plans to hang out. Really, hanging out was dinner and a movie and entirely innocent until we ventured back to my childhood room to chill and talk. Before I knew it, our two damaged souls were making out on the floor of my bedroom. It didn't feel right. I had known Roy way too long, and we were never meant to be that kind of couple. Plus, I had no desire to be that girl that stepped in while they were on a break.*

Flash forward about a decade and here I am thinking naughty thoughts about a recently separated acquaintance, a manager at my part-time job actually. I recently learned that his wife told him she wanted a divorce and moved out. I really was crushed for the man because obviously this broke his spirit. Sadly**, despite the fact that the body's not even cold yet and technically this could just be a break, I felt a little giddy at his being back on the market. I also realized how depraved this was at the same time. I truly feel bad for the man and felt even worse when we noticed his wedding ring had finally come off yesterday. Does feeling bad stop me from considering flirting? No. Did a friend (innocently) invite him out for drinks tonight with us after work? Yes. Am I going to be able to stop considering this an opportunity? Hopefully.

*After Roy left, I actually never heard from him again. I think we crossed a line in our friendship and didn't really know how to go back. I think about him every now and then and hope he got out before we went to war.
**I'm choosing to be pretty honest here, so go easy on me.

Nobody knows you like they do

Sometimes we wander through life wandering if the people around us really know us, and most of the time I come to the conclusion that they don't. It's actually kind of depressing to think that who I really am, who hides deep inside and matters most to me, is seen by nobody but me. I think one of the most sought after things in life is to be known. This is usually when I take comfort in Psalm 139, "O Lord, you have searched me and you know me...". At least someone knows me inside and out and still claims me. Every now and then we do meet a few souls who are willing to go there with you. People who take the time to listen and to begin to know you. I don't hold myself up as this bastion of mystery or anything, but I do think it takes some tenacity to know the different sides of me. Living in a city like DC, I always get the feeling that most people simply tolerate you or are using you for some other purpose. You talk and they don't really listen. They're already planning what they'll respond with. As I was walking to work this morning I realized that there are a finite number of people who care to really know me...or at least try to.

In fact, sometimes it's the little things that let you know people are paying attention. I'm bopping along this morning and wind up on the subject of mix cds. I started thinking of how we each need our own life mix cd. I paused, literally stopping on the sidewalk, as I realized that someone had already taken the time and effort to create one for me. Every word of every song may not apply to me or be about me, but the essence of the music, the song titles, the artists, and yes, the words, speak to the fact that the person who made this cd has taken the time to actually know me. It's the Christmas gift that keeps on giving because I can pull it out and listen to it whenever (like now) I want. It's good to know you're just a little known.

The cd...

We Only Come Out at Night, Smashing Pumpkins
Up All Night, Razorlight
Tonight Let's Dance, Elefant
This Place is a Prison, The Postal Service
The Saloon Song, Prom
Southern Girl, Incubus
Something to Look Forward To, Spoon
Our Weekend Starts on Wednesday, Hey Mercedes
Nightswimming, R.E.M.
Hope You're Happy Now, The Sounds
Hitchin' A Ride, Green Day
Go to Sleep (Little Man Being Erased), Radiohead
Four in the Morning, Ivy
Exhausted, Foo Fighters
Dancecraze, Millencolin
Caught by the River, Doves
Around the World, Red Hot Chili Peppers
All Over the World, Pixies
Across the Night, Silverchair

Dumping people

Do you ever feel bad for dumping people in your life? I'm not really talking significant others or friends...that's a whole other post. I'm talking about other, more random people in our lives. People that provide a service. I think I essentially dumped my hairdresser yesterday. While she really does fabulous color, the last time I had her cut my hair I walked away feeling wretched. I had been looking for a cute, modern bob and instead looked more like a little dutch boy. So, when I decided I needed a haircut yesterday, I phoned the salon looking for another stylist recommendation. Psychic receptionist determined my hair swami would be the pregnant Sara. To my horror, pregnant Sara* sat right across from Krissie (the dumped). It had been months since I had seen Krissie, and even though I always thought she was little resentful of how long my hair took to color, I still felt like a cheating whore. As she walked by, I continued averting my gaze even though I knew I had made the right decision. The problem with what I did would be a problem in any relationship. I never gave Krissie the benefit of the doubt and expressed my feelings about the haircut. I simply took the coward's way out and cut and ran. I've done this before. I had a regular manicurist back home in Texas that I would see every week. Something went wrong one week, and I never went back. Who does that? Am I destined to handle all of my relationships this way? I don't think I've ever just bailed on a friendship or a boyfriend in that manner, but I certainly know the feeling has been there.

*In other news, new hairstylist Sara seems to think I need to see a doctor about the amount of hair I have falling out. I have really thick hair, and this loss doesn't seem to change that. She seems to think it's indicative of another health problem.

Peeling myself off the carpet

Deliver me from my weekend. Don't get me wrong...I had a smashing time. However, three solid days of burning the candle at both ends has me fried. I should have sensed this coming in some way after the train wreck my work afternoon became. I would like to blame stress for the fact that I somehow wound up drinking until 5 am at Ravena's birthday party. Stress also caused me to tell Tice how warm he was, continually tell Brendan his guitar playing was hot, and decide it was a good idea to roll down the grassy slope in Allie's yard, cackling like a banshee. I decided to stockpile stress for next weekend by getting up (was I ever really down?) at 7:30 am to drag my still-tipsy behind to my part-time job at the bookstore.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I spent six hours sobering up at the Barn (work). Then, feeling that I hadn't truly been punished enough, I thought a good way to spend my evening (Saturday) was to have dinner with friends and see a local (3-hour) production of the Sound of Music. They did a fine job, but I still fell asleep no less than 3 time throughout the course of the night.

I finally drug my rear home around midnight, only to get up a few short hours later to pull a Sunday shift at the Barn. I know you're sighing with relief at the fact that at least I got home early on Sunday evening to rest up for the work week. Oh but if it were true. I had tickets to the New Pornographers and Belle & Sebastian last night, so instead of seeking the comfort of my bed and Oscars I traipsed to DC. The concert was worth the lack of sleep. Just don't expect more than this feeble weekend recap so early on a Monday morning. I'm still trying to figure out when I'm supposed to rest.

Where are thee fair flare?

It is becoming ever more apparent to me that I have lost my flare. As I was walking down the street today I realized that I couldn't blame my utterly drab appearance on this viscious cold I've been fighting. The cold didn't make the black mid-calf skirt and crocs the most comfortable and easy thing to put on. I only acquired the cold last week and certainly can't blame it for the brown Golden Girls-esque coat that has seen me through winter for the past couple of years. My flare (style) slowly started creeping away from me around my junior year of high school. Before then I was a regular mini trendsetter, before my time even. At 13, I was such a brand whore* that my mom took to telling me that I must be adopted. By junior high and high school, I was reading 6-8 fashion magazines a month and could tell you that short hemlines were in and that grey was the new black. I had no clue that just a few years later I would be that angsty teen who sprouted hips overnight. Suddenly boys saying that my crisp white button-down with colorful, transparent rings looked like condoms bothered me. I developed an interest in flying under the radar screen instead making a statement. As the years slipped through my fingers, it wasn't that I had forgotten about fashion or began to think feather boas should be all the rage. I think I just had a hard time reconciling my evolving personality with my evolving body. My latest fashion excuses have included me (1) finding better things to spend my money on and (2) giving myself a guilt trip for even caring about things like fashion (the inner feminist feels we shouldn't care what people think of our appearance). The problem is that, now that I'm ready to find my flare once again and be fierce, I seem to have lost the ability to find my personal style. I'm lucky in that I have the perfect job and career aspirations to allow me to really be as funky as I want to be. How does a girl go about getting her flare back?



*A special thanks to the fashion plates (La Coquette, DCCeline, SVR, Aimee, Says the Asian Leprechan, Fashionologie) posting out there. You guys fanned the flames of my excitement and inspired a flare rebirth.

The pitfalls of filing

Life isn't quite this boring, but for lack of a better topic and fear of rupturing something in my already congested brain, I've decided to dedicate this post to Neil's Carnival of the Mundane.

There can be a certain zen-like vibe you get from mundane office tasks. The rhythmic monotony of stapling papers or labeling envelopes can lull your brain into a meditative state that some might even call rejuvenating. At the very least it require very little in the way of brain power and gives you time to think or carry on that trashy conversation with that co-worker you never see. Filing, however, is like a dreaded trip to the dentist. I loathe filing with every fiber in my polarfleece jacket. The only task worse than filing is the creation of new files. If you have ever seen the old comic strips with the character hidden among the stacks of papers on their desk, you've gotten a glimpse at what my desk can become. It's not the alphabetizing associated with filing that irks me. I'm pretty tight with the alphabet. I abhor the ambiguity associated with filing. What is paper X should be filed in file B but also makes sense in file H? Do you put a opy in B and H; just B or H; or do you create file Q to house files that work in both B and H? The only logical use for paper files, in my mind, is part of larger bonfire. Paper files are, in fact, antiquated. Why keep all of that paper around when everything can be scanned into a computer these days and logged as part of a much vaster electronic network. You can even back everything up on a supplementary hard drive. But, no, heaven forbid we move fully into this century and embrace technology. Instead, I ordered pink file folders in the hope this would jazz up the process. Now they sit at the end of my desk mocking me with their cheerfulness. My distaste for torture and my belief that I would be violating some sort of Geneva Human Rights pact even prevents me from passing this task along to interns or other staff. For the moment, I will continue to hide these growing stacks of paper until I can stomach the pink.

Knock-Knock...who's knocked up?

I love my family, and the older I get the more I see my mom in me. It was this early morning that realized I might very well have sent my mom over the edge last night. Basically, I have paranoid tendencies and love to jump to fantastical conclusions. Those crazy stories I make up for people on the metro find their way into my life too as I try to decipher what's really going on. I would bet money on the fact that this is probably a personality quirk I inherited from my mom. This is why it hit me this morning that I must have freaked my mom out last night. You see, I'm from Texas and didn't have an opportunity to go home to spend time with my family at Christmas this year. I keep trying to pick a time I can get home to visit, and my mom keeps inquiring as to when that might be. Last night we were talking on the phone, and she mentioned how unexciting her life was. When I asked what kind of excitement she was looking for, she relayed that she wasn't actually looking for excitement and liked her life excitement-free. I jokingly asked if was sure she didn't want me to get knocked up and give her a grandkid to spice things up. Her response was not positive to having me knocked up. Ha! We talked a little more, and she mentioned, if I couldn't make it home, they were considering driving up to see me this summer. I thought nothing more of this conversation until this morning when I remembered who I was and who my mom was and realized that there is now a 75% chance my mom is at home freaking out because she thinks I'm knocked up and that that is the reason I haven't come home yet. Hahahahaha. Poor mom.*


*I am not, nor have I ever been, knocked up, pregnant, with child, had a bun in the oven or whatever other cute term you'd like to use.

An open letter to the men of the world

Dear Men:

Life is confusing and drama-filled enough without you adding to it. See...the thing is that we women are stronger than we appear. We may bat our eyes and shed a tear when Cameron Diaz and Toni Collette make up in In Her Shoes, but we have enough lacquer built up from all of that nail polish that we can take it. Rather than sending mixed signals about whether or not you are interested in us, grow some testicles (or borrow them from your bff) and tell us how you feel. I promise you that the majority of us will not (1) key your car; (2) dissolve into a sobbing mess; or (3) start screaming obscentities when told you are not interested. In fact, we just want to know, to be put out of our misery. And, if you do happen to finally come out of your shell and mention you might have a small thing for us, you might actually get lucky and find you have a new someone to snog. Regardless, honesty and reality are better than delusions and trying to read signals. Just a thought.

xxoo,
Serena

Where am I going?

Lately I feel like my mind has been on dancing around a "do I like where my life is going" crisis. I like to avoid thinking about this kind of thing because then that forces me to make decisions, something people who know me know that I'm loathe to do. Unfortunately, I'm getting older and am evidently supposed to have some kind of strategic plan for my life. I dislike strategic planning because life can't be carved in stone. I believe it's best enjoyed like a river, winding its way across the land.

However, spank me and call me Sally because evidently I'm glutton for punishment and need to go through this exercise in annoyance. Maybe today I'll just allow myself to ponder my career situation.

Pros:
*Enjoyable/Fulfilling
*Challenging
*"Expert" (ha) in field
*Varied

Cons:
*Quest for something more
*Need for greater creative outlet
*Nonprofits don't pay the best
*Need for excitement

This basically did nothing but make me feel guilty for wanting something more than my current job. What it boils down to is this girl needs regular change. I need to feel like I'm making a difference, and while I do feel like I'm making a difference for the environment (and subsequently people), I want to start with people. Of course, who am I to try to fix people? I should be thankful for what I have.

This is my city

Have you seen those American Express commercials with Robert DeNiro talking about NYC as his city? He conveys such a sense of place, a true connection with his city. As I was walking my city yesterday, I felt a connection similar to DeNiro. Even though I technically live in Fairfax, I work, live and breathe Washington D.C. Walking the city energizes me and reveals hidden jewels. The character of the city lives on every corner and is driven in large part by its people. To truly embrace my city, you have to embrace all parts. Even if you don't love it, don't turn your nose up at it. Look at the homeless people as you navigate the gauntlet that are their parks. Stroll through the Capitol complex and act like you own the place, just like everyone else. Find a favorite watering hole and make it yours. Discover that perfect place to hear some tunes.

Despite all of this, I still feel like a DC virgin. A few of this (DC)virgin's favorite haunts (for the time being):

U Street - I *heart* all of it. I can shop for unique items at some of the funky boutiques like Pink November and Love Hurts; get awesome cupcakes at Cakelove; dance the night away and hear new bands at the Black Cat; grab a drink at Polly's Cafe or Saint-Ex; accidentally smell pot at some of the local record establishments; and many, many other things to titillate.

Fado - The Irish pub at gallery place. I like it's atmosphere. I just like it a little less crowded then it was on Friday night.

Tryst - Hoping the place doesn't become cliche, but it's great for coffee and blogging in the morning and hanging with boos at night.

More Gallery Place - Matchbox for mini burgers and Sushi Go Round for pretty tasty sushi.

Really I'm just a street walker who loves so many places. For the real scoop on hot new things to try in DC, sign up for the District's edition of Daily Candy and steal their suggestions. I do, and it just continues to make the city more mine.

The aftermath

Scarlet's birthday should never be described as a one-night stand, burning hot but fizzling quickly. It's more like that obsession you immediately feel for that one person once you lock eyes. It's fun and hot and for that first weekend you just can't leave each other's side. Scarlet's birthday was that kind of marathon.

The Cast of Characters:
Scarlet, Steven, Allie, Ravena, Vanessa, Vanessa, Jay, Julianne (+boy), Erin, Nicole, Carolyn

Scene 1:
After Cakelove and champagne at an undisclosed location, a smaller version of the group above crammed into Ravena's car and made haste for Sushi Go Round. A few flaming drinks and sushi rolls later, we were sufficiently fortified to make our way into the cold and wait the remaining band of revelers.

Highs - flaming volcanos, the dropped makeup brush, Steven's footprint on the car window
Lows - Jay (ask Steven), merry band of revelers picking a much calmer set of places to "crawl" to

Scene 2:
The Scarlet bar crawl began at Fado where we were everybody's Gap and Abercrombie was crushed against eachother. Luckily we're a bit more original than that, so after a round of jaeger bombs and the realization that Flogging Molly was not playing there we decided to jet.

Highs - Scarlet dancing with the drunk guy, jaeger bombs
Lows - the beginning of Scarlet getting continually congratulated on her engagement (damn that tiara)

Scene 3:
The next stop ended up being some world of beer place where (shock) I actually had a beer (Magic Hat). This was also the transition from sober Scarlet to drunk Scarlet. As the tiara started to tilt, the eyes glossed over and the flirting intensified, the beer continued to flow.

Highs - whipped cream shots, gossiping with Vanessa, Scarlet's flirting, texting across the table
Lows - being talked about by The Others for use of sidekick in the above texting

Scene 4:
A final move to Clyde's set the final wheels in motion. A lack of seating forced us to separate from The Others, but the drinks continued to flow. Tiara was at full tilt and hair was fully mussed. It was awesome. Damn that Grand Marnier shot.

Highs - Grand Marnier, Ravena getting hit on, tilted tiara, Steven being thankful for Ravena
Lows - the guy who hit on Ravena

After the smaller band of revelers snagged the princess and loaded her into the car, the fun continued as we made haste back to Fairfax. I need to be discreet here, but let's just say somebody got some action (cough...Steven) and that most in the car are apparently very studious.

To be continued...

The stories I weave

I make up stories for people I see on the metro. I don't know why I do it, but something in me feels the need to create lives for these people, explaining away their appearance or actions. This morning I got on the train with blonde girl and indie professional guy. Together, they are each forced to snag seats by eachother but not side by side. A few minutes into the ride I hear blonde girl exclaim and evidently realize she knew the curly brown-haired girl next to her. While I can't hear the conversation, I love that their body language tells its own story. Curly brown hair proceeds to talk more to indie professional guy, occasionally giving a glance to blonde girl. As the train barrels on Curly brown hair is full-on flirting with indie professional guy. Meanwhile, blonde girl begins to visibly withdraw. The smile slips from face and eyes. Her lips flatten into two thin lines as she attempts to hide her irritation. As I witness this interaction, my mind is inside the blonde girls head, imagining the form her anger takes inside her own mind. In my story, indie professional guy is tired of blonde girl and her unwillingness to create a life of her own outside of him. Curly brown girl is like the complicated Carrie, unwittingly proving that blondes don't always have more fun.

I wonder if people make up stories about me. I think I'd rather not know.

Merry band of revelers

Tomorrow night a merry band of revelers will depart for parts unknown (at least to them) to partake of a little orchestrated happenstance in honor of Scarlet's birthday. Though I'll never be as excited as she is (it is her birthday), knowing what will go down and the devious plotting that surrounds it has me smiling. I can assure you that the havoc we wreak this weekend will make it onto this space (and probably many others).

Since I know you'll read my blog just as quickly as any email, I thought I'd post your directives here for all to enjoy and ponder.

Bring with you the following items...

• a camera or two (duh)
• chapstick
• matches
• canned whipped cream
• your i.d.
• batteries (AAA)

What to wear...

• something hott

Where to go...

• be at Steven's apartment no by 5:45 on Friday. Park in visitor parking.

Everybody has the planning gene

Planning has often been a 4-letter word in my mind. Actually, clarifying thought...overplanning is the deal breaker. However, I've come to believe that everybody has the planning gene if there's something they want bad enough. In fact, stepping out of the planning haze I've been in, I have decided that planners fall into a few set categories.

Ain't-A Planner: This is a person who loathes to plan anything at all. Any attempts to drag this person into a planning session may result in scratching and eye gouging. Ain't-A Planner won't even plan their own wedding. Elopement is so much easier.

Reluctant Planner: The reluctant planner is really the person I described in my intro. This person dislikes planning anything too far in advance and refuses to get excited by the details. However, when confronted with an idea to fabulous to ignore, the non-planner morphs into planner and begins to get annoyed with others when they don't hop on the planning bandwagon.

Bunny-on-Steroids (BoS) Planner: This person is usually the worst nightmare to the other types of planners. The BoS maps out a plan of action months in advance. They carry a clipboard and create numerous lists. On the day of the scheduled event, BoS can be found with a whistle and a riding whip barking orders at the troops they've strong-armed into helping. This person can often be spotted by the vacant, slightly neurotic look in their eye and the headset for their cell phone.

Love the mix

Don't get any ideas from the title...it's just a crush. It's a crush that's slowly reducing my ability to think like a normal human being and managing to turn me into a mute fool when he's near. I reached a turning point last night, however, and decided to stop blathering on about it. This is like my almost last hurrah in blogging about him making me loopy, inspired entirely the songs that found their way onto my MailTunes* cd. I truly believe the right songs find us at the right times in our life, narrating our thoughts and emotions.

Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge - My version of the perfect crush song. It's like an obsessiveness that builds into like and wanting someone in every way you can want them. Wanting to be devoured by someone.

Hate by Cat Power - Illustrates that vulnerability I just can't shake...where you're not even good enough for you.

This Modern Love by Bloc Party - Sublime. I'm still working on all the ways I feel this song, but the last couple of lines (where he asks if she wants to hang) nags at the dusty corners of my brain.

*A fab club of fab girls exchanging music to a theme.

Life isn't all purple dinosaurs

I used to be one of those people who would declare how much they hated people. I had no tolerance for the difficiencies of the human race. When it came to thoughts and feelings, I thought I had some unique card that made me different. Surely no one thinks the way I do. I have to be the only one having these insane fucking thoughts. Then I discovered blogs and began to be struck by how similar will all really fucking are. I'm not alone, am even pretty far from unique. This Fish must be my soul sister when talking about having a crush/obsession. Marissa shares my staring problem. The Girl Who wants to avoid being the same married girl I want to someday avoid being. Amanda writes about the pain of hating something about yourself so much it changes the fabric of who you are. Scarlet shares my esp and tendency to try to read all the signs. Green Canary understands the perils of trying to be different. And I think Love & Haterade shares my spunk.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm glad I don't hate people anymore, and I'm kinda glad I'm not all that unique ; )

My life as a movie

As I stepped off of the frenzied train and closer to the reality of my day, I let my mind wander back to last night, dreaming a little of that photo. The escalator brought me steps closer to solid ground and a lone trumpet wove a melodious soundtrack that carried me along the city's streets. The background music of my morning set, it occured to me how much I get from DC's street musicians. They romanticize my life, give me hope for a better day or simply put a smile on my face. Thank you Mr. Gospel Guitarist at Courthouse, who puts a spring in my step. Thank you Mr. Beautiful Dread Saxophonist who plays away my pain. Mr. Asian Instrument Man, you transport me to another time and era. And, finally, thank you Mr. Romantic Trumpet, who made me feel like a movie star.

Who tells you you've made it

I picked up the latest copy of DC magazine yesterday, and at the risk of making myself a social pariah in DC, I feel I must comment. The magazine looks to be attempting to fashion itself as an offspring of Town & Country for the beltway set. The magazine is attractive enough; it caught my attention to the extent I was moved to pick it up for its "hot list". My confusion began as my eyes scanned the "Scene in DC" section. Who are these people? To be honest, I'm generally just as confused when I see some of the NYC society pages, but at least those women have become famous enough for their socializing/partying that I recognize the names. I am so not on the DC social set, but I am aware. The only name I recognized in all the pictures was Ann Walker Marchant, and that's just because I did some business with her several years ago. Is everybody in the pictures PR flacks? Is it true...is DC hollywood for the less attractive? Pick up a copy of the magazine and you tell me.

Two sides of the same coin

Friendship is such an amazing, cool thing, and given how difficult it is to make real friends as you get older, I feel lucky to have the met the friends that I do have. I definitely feel Beauty and the Beltway's pain in trying to meet new people in DC. It's ironic, though, that no matter how close we get to people there are always so many different facets of their personality that we don't see or only see rarely. I had a really interesting conversation with a friend earlier today about how we get so used to seeing a certain side of someone that seeing them in a new light can throw you. I recently discovered the secret blog of a friend (because they wanted me to) and am still working through seeing the weaker side of someone I always viewed as this pillar of confidence. Even the very friend I was having this conversation with has managed his own shock and awe campaign when I saw pictures of him with a couple of different girlfriends. Even as open as I am on this blog, I have secrets and sides that only come out around certain people. Discovering different sides of people keeps life interesting. I guess it's the spy in me that yearns for this new information and the stuff that keep friendships fresh.

Waiting in the age of technology

Waiting for a guy to email is just as bad as waiting by the phone for him to call. No matter how many times you hit refresh you aren't going to make him write any faster. For someone with my lack of patience, particularly when it comes to communication, this is pure torture. I've somehow gotten myself into this dual relationship (relationship=friendship) with this guy. There is the anonymous email relationship (he gives great email when he writes) and the let's hang out/be friends relationship. He is unaware that this seemingly split personality is just me. I feel like general sending my troops to fight on two different fronts, and I want both my fronts to do good. At the moment, the face to face relationship is slowly progressing, while my online persona has been waiting 5 days for his next email. So, I pine away in front of my computer waiting for that next email to brighten my day. It's the new face of pathetic.

What is seldom is wonderful

The title of this post is an old Irish proverb whose depth really weighs on me. I read it and immediately know exactly where it comes from. Think of all of the things you really love or enjoy that you only experience infrequently. How much more wonderful are they when you do get to experience them? It's like waiting for an email from a friend who you don't correspond with all the time. Opening that email is a moment of bliss. Isn't chocolate better when you don't have it every day? I cherish my time more with people I don't see all the time thereby making even the most mundane seem wonderful. You can punch holes in this proverb (rarely get sick but that doesn't make getting sick wonderful), but it's so much sweeter to accept it simplistically. Since day 16 in This Book Will Change Your Life Again (sidebar) is all about testing a proverb, I'm going to spend today experiencing the wonderful by revisiting some of the things I love that I seldom get/see.

Black Rogue Bunnies: Too Smart for Their Own Good

The Black Rebel Bunnies (BRB, aka us) braved the elements this afternoon
to compete in the DC Spy Game. After rapidly solving the first clue to
determine the start location and time, we knew we had this competition
in the bag. Who better to win a competition than the world's biggest
Alias fans and stars of their very own spy movie. Little did we know
going in that we were too smart for this competition. So smart, in
fact, that we came in last place. So smart that the organizers kept
calling us practically begging us to give up with their voices, tired of
waiting for us to finish. Yes, the clues were hard (seriously), but the
real problem is that we thought too much about the clues. We didn't get
the clues until we dumbed ourselves down...see, too smart for the
competition. Regardless of the outcome, we had a blast almost getting
blown away at the Washington Monument (again seriously), willing the
rain not to come and cursing a detour to the National Gallery. Good
times that ended with good food and now a comfy bed. And Ravenchase,
prepare yourselves because BRB will be back and we will dominate.
Serena

The popular conundrum

According to the book of Benrik (sidebar), today is Mainstream Day. What better day than today to post on my aversion to most things popular*. When things (books, movies, music, clothes) enter into that phase where everyone just has to have it, I begin to get annoyed with the very existence of the object in question. The Da Vinci Code, for example, was an entertaining enough book, but the thought of millions of people signing up to join the cult of Dan Brown and worship at the altar of his stories makes me want to wretch. It most assuredly makes me want to avoid it like the plague. The Oprah effect is also part of the problem. I have no issue with Oprah, but I do find it a bit mind blowing. Take Oprah's latest book club pick, A Million Little Pieces. It was on my list of books to read when it first came out, but I just never got around to it. Because of Oprah every soccer mom, ritalin-popping wannabe is reading the book. Now, despite the fact I've heard he is a brilliant writer, I'm hesitant to pick up the book. In my mind, I recognize that insane popularity doesn't directly translate to complete and utter crap, but moving past that hurdle is difficult. This isn't a new phenominon with me. I was one of two girls during my freshman year of high school that truly hated New Kids on the Block. No shirts, buttons, dolls or cds for me. I guess the question I'm left asking myself is whether I can reconcile my intense dislike of mainstream popularity with a genuine interest in something that makes it big.

*Don't think of me as one of those people who thinks they're so cutting edge or too cool to like something everyone else likes. That's not where I'm going here. I just don't want to be a drone.

Beep-Beep...ahhh

I'm willing my way to a better week and a much more chipper mood. I'm actually getting a little excited for Saturday's Spy Game (now if we can all just get registered). Solving clues and going on a chase throughout DC, pretending to be someone I'm not...what could be more fun? One thing I have learned about myself over the years is that, while Monopoly or Go Fish may not be my games, I do love me some random, wacky fun. I like adventure or at least the semblance of adventure. There is a time and place for movies (big fan), but give me a choice between that and something random like making a movie or go to the DC High Heel Race and I'll choose the more random option almost every time. What's the most adventurous/random fun you've had? Send me your ideas!

e-therapy

I love the therapy aspect of a blog. Maybe I'm taking it a bit too far when I pour rants and raves, heart and soul online for whomever to read. I don't believe that, though. I take an odd comfort in reading about the emotional ups and downs of my fellow bloggers. It's not that I'm glad everyone's life is as dramatic, happy or often as boring as mine; it's just that knowing people are out there thinking the same things I think and fighting the same fight I fight really does make this world seem smaller. It's like giant group e-therapy, and I love it.

The food of Elvis

Do you ever go to a place and look around, wanting to automatically make it yours? The people you see there are the kind of people you automatically want to make friends with and have in your inner circle? Last night I joined a friend at Busboys and Poets and felt that vibe. It's one of those places where you want to belong. Walking in, the creative energy of the place rolls over you. I wanted to paint, to blog, to design. It was that life I wanted to live and those people I wanted to know. Hanging out in the city always makes me starry eyed. In the city, the creativity is a palpable , organic thing. In Fairfax, the fair suburban isle I call home, you have to stumble across creativity, peeling back layer upon layer of mass appeal. Thank God I've stumbled upon a few kindred spirits out in Virginia that make it ok to call it home for now.

Am I really that lame?

The short answer is yes. Why, you ask? My most recent Netflix arrived today and with it came Darrin's Dance Grooves. That's right. I basically order white people can't dance 101. I should be disturbed with myself, but it just looks too hilarious not to try. I've been obsessed with dancing for awhile now and dance movies are my absolute favorite (the only dvds I'll actually allow myself to purchase). Dirty Dancing was my all-time favorite movie as a kid and still ranks rather high. Back to Darrin's, I figure the dvd will serve a good warm up to the dance class I'm making some friends take with me next week (they don't know this yet..shhh). Plus, I'm all about a chance to laugh at myself.