Banned for Life

If you live in the DC area, and you've ever had to take a cab from Virginia, you know that ALL the cab companies are shady. "10 minutes," they tell you when you call the dispatch, and 40 minutes later you're not only pissed, you're late to get wherever you're going.

So when Red Top Cab told me tonight they would be 30 to 40 minutes, I believed them. And I took a defensive step: I called another company, fully expecting to cancel for the cab that didn't arrive first.

Taking me by surprise, Red Top showed up within 15 minutes. Unfortunately, Blue Top showed up 30 seconds later, causing a rather awkward moment for me. I did the only thing I could do--blamed it on Boog.

"I'm sorry," I pleaded to the Blue Top driver. "My roommate and I both called a cab but didn't realize it," I said. "I'm so sorry." Mr. Cab Driver was not the forgiving type, and since he didn't really speak English very well, I don't even think he understood my story.

"I drove 5 miles," he insisted angrily. He shook his fist. He yelled. But we got in the red cab anyway. I felt bad, but some sushi and a few drinks helped erase my guilt.

Until I got home.

On my answering machine was a very angry message from the dispatcher, who said my cab was outside, and that he understood a red cab was there also. He said that I could not call two cabs and then just take the first that gets there; the drivers pay their own gas, it's inconvenient for them, etc. He then said if I got into the red cab, that no one on his shift would ever send me a cab again.

How's that for a threat? I have effectively been banned from taking Blue Top Cab. I know something like this shouldn't be a big deal, but I feel really, really bad. That nasty phone message just brought down my entire night.

And the pisser of it is that of the cab companies, Blue Top really is the best.

Maybe I can use my neighbor's address instead?

It's official...

I sent in the final supporting documents for my grad school application yesterday. They make decisions in April.

Cross your fingers for me.

Germs: Personal space guaranteed

I don't like being sick. In fact, I'm a pretty miserable sick person. I whine, sniffle, complain, and in general make myself impossible to deal with. Most of all, when I'm sick, I don't like to be touched. But there is one thing I do appreciate about a good illness--personal space.

Whenever you're sick, people tend to steer several feet clear of your contamination zone. This fun fact is particularly useful on public transportation. You sneeze, cough, or even give a deep sniffle, and suddenly you sense the sea of people around you shrinking away and trying to avoid coming into contact with anything they've seen you touch.

The more I notice this behavior, the more it prods me to really play up my symptoms, even if I'm not feeling quite that bad. I start to sniffle more often, maybe even adding in some crumpled tissue-dabbing for extra effect. I throw in a cough, a sneeze. Definitely some labored breathing and a long sigh.

The result is wonderful--you finish your commute in your own germ bubble. You don't have to deal with the pushing and shoving and other annoying habits of your fellow commuters.

You've got to find a silver lining somewhere, right?

Pure Intentions

It's nice to see my beloved home state is promoting positive lifestyle choices for today's kids. Who wants a T-shirt?

My Static Personality

One thing I truly detest about winter: static electricity.

My body collects and discharges static electricity so frequently that I might be able to power my entire apartment. Walk to the bathroom at work--shock myself on the door. Head outside to drive down to the grocery store--shock myself on the car door. Casually touch a friend or colleague on the shoulder--shock both of us. Once I shocked my waist (yes, my waist!) when I leaned up against a doorframe. The spark that emanated from my body was so loud and bright that the people around me jumped back.

I'm not sure why I seem to generate so much electricity. It could have something to do with the way that I walk; I tend to shuffle my feet, which as any good sibling knows, is a particularly effective way of generating a spark. Or it could have something to do with genetics. My father used to have so much electricity in his own body that he would regularly kill watch batteries. He had to stop wearing a watch with a metal back because he was tired of replacing the battery every couple of months.

Whatever the cause, it drives me nuts. It might be more fun if I could use my zap powers to drive others crazy, but people tend to get annoyed when you shock them intentionally. And the dog certainly doesn't appreciate my hijinks.

So I am resigned to keep shocking myself on every metal object I come into contact with, echoing a chorus of "OW!"s wherever I go.

God, I hate winter.

Goodbye, chocolate

I'm giving up chocolate for Lent.

(And this before I've even had a chance to try Starbucks' new tasty treat.)

I know, I'm not exactly what you would call a "devout Catholic." I've only been to Mass once since Christmas. I'm pretty OK with premarital sex. I think the "rhythm method" of birth control is a joke. I don't think gay marriage is a threat to my values or my faith.

But there's something about religion that I just can't let go. I think it has something to do with tradition. Sitting in church, even if I'm all alone in the pew, makes me feel like I'm surrounded by family. Uttering the mealtime blessing takes me immediately to the family dinner table when I was a kid, where everyone laughed and talked about their day. Muttering through the notes of an old, favorite hymn, I can almost hear my dad, his deep baritone echoing behind me, and my mother, her rich alto at my side.

Being connected to my religion makes me feel connected to my family. And what could make me feel more connected to faith than to observe--really observe--the solemn season of Lent?

In a way, this is also an opportunity for me to practice some much needed self-control. The past few months, I've felt a bit out of control--not just in my diet, but in work, in my personal life. And the less I feel I have control of around me, the more I just want to crawl into bed and hide beneath the covers. In a way, I feel like denying myself something I love so much, something I crave desperately, I can get a bit of that control back.

So for the next 40 days, it's bye-bye brownies (especially the yummy looking ones my roommate just received in the mail). So long, Nestle candy hidden strategically around the office. Sayonara, morning cocoa; ta-ta, mocha coffee; adieu, chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce, and M&Ms. Good grief, when you really start to count up all the different forms of chocolate I eat on a regular basis, it's a wonder I am not 300 pounds.

Help me stay strong, friends. It's going to be a long time 'til Easter.

Gee... Golly-ball

I ruined our volleyball game last night.

In the first of 3 games, which we lost all of I add, we were off to a solid start. Rotating to my favorite position, front middle, started a reaction that led to our team drying out quicker then a cats pajamas.

I made completely different mistakes on three plays in a row: knocking the ball out of bounds, ruining a set for the girl next to me, and palming the ball. Quicker than Angelina Jolie can ruin a marriage, our team spiraled to the level of a fifth-grade, short-bus-riding volleyball squad.

Sure, my game slightly picked up, and sure, there are five others on the court at the same time, and 11 of us total sharing a similar hand in a Monday night defeat.

ButI started it. I was Pickett's ill-fated charge.

Flog me.

Monkey-ing Around

My dad sent me an email this morning about the Superbowl ads that brought back a memory I'd totally blocked out - but gave my parents a whole new visual of their only daughter.

When I first graduated from college I got a job with a temp agency so I could make some money while I waited for my Achilles to heal. At this time my plan was to move to DC as soon as I was back walking, so I wasn't even looking for a full time job. I had visions of going to work in some professional office where I answered the phones and flirted with cute business men.

The agency I went to was in suburban Chicago and (unbeknownst to me) primarily dealt with blue collar staffing - factories and the like. They were pretty excited to have a college graduate walk in and immediately hired me to do temp work in their office rather than staffing me out.

Right away I disliked the job - most of the full time employees were skirting by doing the bare minimum, and went to great pains to make sure I was just as unproductive. I'm as happy as the next guy to get paid for not working hard, but the work was painfully boring - imagine spending 8 hours a day alphabetizing.

I came home and told my family about my big new job and commented that I thought they could train chimps to do it, so from that day forward they referred to temping as my chimp job.

After last night's careerbuilder.com ads, my dad says he now has a mental image to go with my first post-graduate job. Somehow though, the magic of TV managed to make a chimp job look much more fun than the reality!

I want my Star Wars lunchbox

I'm feeling nostalgic today.

Either that or my hormones are raging out of control (possible), because this piece in today's Washington Post made me all misty.

I don't know, maybe it's because I could really identify with the author's frustration that the working world just isn't what we bargained for when we were younger. If I had known that being an "adult" meant dealing with office politics, shuffling papers, and sitting through hours upon hours of meetings that seemed to go round and round, I probably would have just joined the circus or something.

It's nice to know that others feel the same frustration, and are able to find ways--even if small--to hold on to a part of childhood, innocence, quirkiness.

Now I just need to find my own "lunchbox."

Barking dog

Barking is an unusual sound in Dupont Circle, so I was suprised to hear it on my way back to the office after lunch.

It's not that you never see dogs in the area--it's actually a fairly dog-friendly place. Just about everytime of day, you see owners out exercising their pooches. But rarely do you hear the kind of insistent arfing that is usually reserved for dog parks and backyards, at least not on the city sidewalk.

But there he was, this beautiful black lab, tethered to the railing just outside of Chipotle.

And he was MAD. He was directing his full mental energy at the Chipotle door, angrily demanding his owner to please finish your burrito and get the hell back out here, pronto. Even other customers couldn't placate him; their friendly faces and gentle pats only temporarily distracting him from his wrath.

Actually, given the colder-than-expected temperatures, I'm sure I'd be pretty mad, too, if my friends left me on the sidewalk to brood they enjoyed a hot, delicious meal in a warm restaurant.

Poor doggie.

Lessons learned from the drunk guy at the end of the bar

OtherGus and I were supposed to meet some former colleagues out for a drink last night. Being the annoyingly punctual person I am, I was right on time and the first one there. After scanning the bar for my friends, I took the only open seat I could find, next to two older, visibly drunk, men.

I saw them check me out as I sat down. I ignored them. But when one of them left some cash and headed for the door, the other one turned his full attention to me.

"You waitin fer Misther Wonderfull?" he slurred.

"Nope, meeting some old work pals," I told him with a sigh, realizing I was sucked in a probably wouldn't be able to get away from him.

How right I was. Before the other ladies showed up, he subjected me a lecture on how people don't actually use their college degrees, numerous repeated questions, and a few cheesy compliments. After they arrived--well, it got even worse.

At first he realized we were "catching up" and kept to himself. But then either he couldn't resist, or that half-full glass of Makers was cheering him on.

"I'm blind!" he said, sheilding his eyes from one of the girl's engagement rings. (After which I noticed our other newlywed friend had carefully concealed her left hand in her right. Smart girl.) We indulged him for a few minutes of harmless banter, which included a brief lecture on the value of relationships, repeated questions, and the cheesy compliments.

When OtherGus finally arrived, we again tried to talk amongst ourselves, but our location was not conducive to making a circle for four. Our drunken Pal, Mark, picked off poor Deidre, who was too polite to ignore him. Every time we tried to engage her in the conversation again, he would cut her off, getting her attention back to him again.

When there was a break in our conversaion, he loudly accused us of being a coven of witches. At first, OtherGus was the leader; then after I assumed a perch on a shelf and was sitting higher than the others, I suddenly became the leader.

"You girlsss scare me to deathh!" he said, wagging his finger. Well, actually, I can be pretty frightening at the end of a long day.

But I thought I'd share with you some of Mark's wit and wisdom:

On beautiful women: "You have such a beautiful face, it's all I can look at. I don't know if you're big or flat chested, if you have no waist or a gigantic behind."

On enduring beauty: "After all your contemporaries have turned to salt, you will still be beautiful."

On why he would use such lines: "I'm not trying to pick you up. Just telling the truth."

On how to have a great relationship: "You need to let your man that he is the luckiest guy in the world."

And: "You need to go home and fuck his brains out every night."

And that's to say nothing of the wisdom he shared with Deidre, who was cornered into talking to him for most of the evening.

Regardless, here's to the drunk man at the end of the bar, whatever bar that may be. Even when annoying, he's good for a chuckle and a funny story the next day.