Stood Up

I'm not the kind of girl who takes getting stood up lightly. So you can imagine my annoyance when my date last night simply failed to show up.

What makes the whole situation even worse was that it wasn't a romantic prospect, but the 13-year-old boy I tutor every Wednesday. Since this week is his spring break and tutoring was cancelled, we had agreed to go do something fun--no studying required.

A few weeks ago, he had mentioned how much he liked s'mores, so immediately I thought of taking him to Cosi. I asked him about it, he sounded excited. We made plans. I asked his mother.

And when I showed up last night at 6:30 to pick him up, he was nowhere to be found.

Stepping out of the car, his little sister, sitting on the stoop of their row house, called out to me, "You're Michael's tutor? Here to pick up Michael?" "Yes," I said, smiling. "Is he here?"

The small gaggle of children then led me across the street, through their dank, neighrborhood alleys, to the playground--a fence-enclosed parking lot next to their elementary school. But Michael wasn't there. "He went with his friends somewhere," they told me. "He knew you were coming."

Waiting on the steps in front of his house, a number of his siblings came out to greet me. "Where are you guys going?" they all asked. "Can I come, too?"

But there was no trip to be had--by 7 p.m., I gave up waiting and got dejectedly into my car.

It wasn't so much that I was angry, more that I was worried. Am worried. Each week, I see this boy slip a little further away. His reading skills are not improving; his grades are slipping; he hangs out with friends that consistently make him late to tutoring. And his younger brother confirmed for me last night that they are no good. "He does bad things with them," he told me. He didn't elaborate. But I assume that bad things at 13 will continue to spiral to worse things.

It's a rough neighborhood they live in; they live a rough life. And being a part of his life for one and a half hours each week just won't cut it. I'm powerless, and it makes me miserable.

Flail

I'm not sure if it's the weather or not, but something has brought out the crazies in full force.

Witness my drive in to work this morning. Now, I only drive to work once a week (so that I can drive to tutoring after work). The rest of the time, I am an ordinary pedestrian commuter. I jaywalk at lights and get mad when cars almost run me over, just like everyone else. As an infrequent driver, I try (emphasis on the try part) to be aware of the pedestrians around me. I should also add that since Boog has joined me on those once-a-week drives, my stress level has decreased significantly. Having a passenger really helps ease your aggressive driving behaviors, and I tend to be more conscious of the fact that running people over would be bad.

Driving up 20th Street at about 8 a.m., I had a green light to turn right in front of the metro. I inched my car out, since I wanted to make sure the car turing left wouldn't cut me off from getting into the left lane.

As I pulled up near the crosswalk, a woman--who was just stepping off the curb, nowhere even NEAR my bumper--began flailing her arms wildly at me, as though she were caught in a wild stampede and trying vainly to get the attention of the charging rhino. I think she was trying to alert me that she had the right-of-way, but it was so over the top that it completely threw me.

Baffled, I looked at her (my car already stopped) and threw my own hands up into the air and shot her a look of, "What, are you completely nuts??" At which point, I think she realized that she must've looked absurd, because she put her arms down and smiled sheepishly.

Boog and I immediately erupted into laughter.

But she's not the only one. Since that early morning incident I have witnessed at least three other demonstrations of crazy. Some involving cars, others, just crazy people.

I'm telling you, this weather makes people bonkers.

Off to join the circus

My parents and I this weekend did something I haven't done since I was 8 years old--we went to the circus.

It was playing here in town and I thought, "What the hell, why not." So I dragged the three of us over to the MCI center. We sat in our seats, surrounded by thousands of toddlers and young children.

As we watched the performances--the dog, horse and elephant trainers; the clowns; the irritating "comedic magician"; the trapeze artists; even the far-too-excited-to-be-real ringmaster--and all I could think about was how these people ended up in the circus.

Is joining the circus something you plan to do, going to clown college or similar training programs? Or is it something you just end up in? I mean, is the ringmaster a guy who really wanted to be on Broadway, but he didn't make it and so his fall back was Ringling Brothers? I'm not really sure how these things work.

And how exactly do you get hired at the circus? Do they have an HR department, do interview training? If you're the woman who acts like a human pretzel, do you just do your thing for the show producers and bam! you're hired?

Interestingly, if you go to the circus main website, you'll find a small link to Feld Entertainment. These are the same folks who've brought us Disney on Ice year after year--in addition to the Circus extravaganza. A quick trip to their "openings" shows that, although no performing positions are listed, they DO need a few animal care handlers. I like animals, so should I run off to join the circus?

Goodbyes

I have such a hard time saying goodbye to people. Whether it's my mom and dad, Angel, my grandparents, my brother and Val... I always seem to get just a little misty when it's time to go. I linger just a half a second too long in those big goodbye hugs--only seconds away from needing to be pried away.

It's especially hard to say goodbye to the people you love so dearly but don't have the luxury of being around all the time. The older I get, the more I appreciate the smaller moments I get to spend with those people. Sometimes just sitting in a cafe, having a mundane breakfast with my parents, is more satisfying than any wild, elaborate vacation could ever be.

But then breakfast's over, and they hop in a car and drive up the street, and I'm left behind. And I can't help but miss them before the bumper even disappears into traffic.

Seen it

Have you seen the new video from that one rapper? Um, I forget his name. You know, the video where the rapper is surrounded by his entourage in a club, looking down at the camera, flashing gold. And there's the scene outside of the sweet cars pulling up with flashy rims. Oh, don't forget the numerous young ladies shaking their money-makers. You know which one I'm talking about, right?

I flip to MTV2 and MTVHits a lot just to see whats on, hoping to catch a U2 or Modest Mouse video, and the above is all I see. Besides some creative artists like Ludicris and Outcast, every frickin' rap video is a bunch of guys hopping up and down in jerseys! Its like we should give them a creative award for introducing the term "crunk."

I'm not complaining, or trying to say "back in my day," or making Dave Berry-esque observations for caucasians. I'm just wondering why rap artists are all about making a product that blends in rather than stands out.

Giggle girl

It started around lunchtime. I'm blaming the soda, since I don't drink carbonated beverages often, but in truth I think I was simply "seized by the spirit." The spirit of laughter, that is.

Suddenly, everything and everyone is funny. And I can't stop laughing.

At first, it was my co-worker, bumbling about in Chipotle. Cracking me up with politically-incorrect lunchtime conversation (that though un-PC was quite hilarious). Then back in the office, everything quickly became fair game.

A pregnant friend wrote to tell me that she can feel a head in her crotch... and not in the good way.

A manager stopped by to ask my office mate and I if we were attending a ninja convention later. (We're both dressed in black as we are volunteering at a food event later; we simultaneously and without hesitation or irony answered "yes" to his question.)

My brother sent me a link to a hilarious critique of the Shiavo case, involving Bill Clinton, Judge Whittemore and a small Cuban boy. (See note about PC above.)

I could go on, but literally, I have not stopped laughing since I got back from lunch. Maybe they put a little something extra in my burrito?

Things that make you go hmmmmm...

Like this study:

Sex, not money, buys happiness, study says
Helena Olivier
Cox News Service

Mar. 21, 2005 12:00 AM Increasing sex frequency from once a month to at least once a week provides as much happiness as a $50,000-a-year raise, according to a paper titled "Money, Sex and Happiness: An Empirical Study," submitted to the National Bureau of Economic Research, one of the leading organizations in its field.

Really, please, twist my arm.

Rainy day

Spring has definitely sprung--it's raining buckets outside my gloomy work window today.

I actually don't mind the rain so much, especially if I'm curled up under a pile of snuggly blankets in my bed at home (preferably with someone snuggled up against me--the dog doesn't count) and listening to the soft drumming of the drops on the roof and rain spout outside of my window. I like to hear the rush of a real downpour and then the persistent tap-tap-tap on the aluminum as it slows to a drizzle.

I like spring rain the most; warm drops that trickle down your face and drop off the tip of your nose. And as the clouds dissipate, the smell of warm, wet earth fills the air. It's almost like you can smell the flowers growing and the trees budding.

It amazes me how much good a solid rain can do in a few short hours. This morning, on my walk with Casey, I noticed some of my neighbors yards had miraculously perked up with their bath. They seemed greener, shaggier. Brighter. Can the rest of the green world be far behind?

Now if only the rain could do something about those damned cherry blossoms... I have two parents coming out this weekend who want to see some pink around the basin. Maybe today's rain will do the trick.

Spring Break '05

On this first day of spring, what better way to start the season than to take a well deserved vacation?

That's exactly what two of the Roogies are doing this week--Other Gus in the Canary Islands and the Angel in Brazil. I'd like to pretend I'm not jealous, but let's face it, staying here in 50 degree weather in the Nation's Capital just doesn't measure up to such exotic travels.

When I was in high school and college, I rarely took advantage of the spring break. I think I went to Florida twice--once in high school with my cousin, once in college with Angel--and both times, I stayed with family. There were no crazy late nights of clubbing and drinking. No spring flings or hooking up with hot beach boys. Mostly sitting on the beach sunning and driving around, eating ice cream. Now that's what I call wild.

But now as an adult, I wish more than anything we could all have a spring break. Can you imagine if offices just shut down for a week and dispatched workers to do some globe trotting? I can assure you, I wouldn't take it for granted as I did in college.

If I end up at grad school next year, you can bet I'll be somewhere warm for that magical week.

Ride

Waiting for the bus in the mornings, at the corner of a fairly major intersection in Arlington, I sometimes feel extremely vulnerable. Exposed. Even naked.

As the drivers sit at the long light, waiting for their turn to go again, I can feel eyes on me. I try not to make eye contact, but some are insistent. The workers piled into the white pickup truck lean out their window, whistling and shouting at me in words I can't understand. Men in delivery trucks and service vehicles honk their horns, startling me as I try vainly to read my newspaper. The creepy man who works in the dry cleaner's behind my stop comes out to "flirt" with me.

It's not that all these situations happen every day. The point is that standing out there, even bundled up under layers of scarves, hats, and puffy windbreakers, I can feel eyes on me. It makes me squirm, sends my skin crawling. Having people look at me makes me extremely uncomfortable.

This morning, I walked out and perched myself in my usual spot. Since it was chilly and I no longer have my gloves, I didn't take out my newspaper to lose myself in reading. With nothing to distract me, I couldn't miss the man in the silver-gray sports car idling right in front of me. I looked up just in time to see him staring me down. I looked away quickly to avoid eye contact. I thought the moment had passed as I saw him, from the corner of my eye, look back expectantly to the light. But then I saw the window slink down. He leaned over the passenger seat.

"Going into the city?" he asked me. He looked normal. Older, slightly graying hair. Beard. Nice suit. Sporty car. Clearly in midlife crisis mode.

Now, I will admit that this isn't always a situation that I would say no to. If it's someone I know, I'll gladly hop in the car and bypass the bus. Once, I even took a ride from a tow-truck driver after having waited more than 45 minutes for a bus just to go two miles down to Other Gus's place. He had driven by three times and took pity on me. And mad as hell at the bus driver, I climbed up into his cab without reservation.

But something about the man this morning felt... sleazy. Even if he wasn't a serial killer, the way his eyes burned through my fleece-lined coat set off little warning bells in my ears.

I shook my head. "Thanks, though," I said, offering him a taught smile that concealed my lips. He said something else to me, but as traffic was starting to move, I couldn't hear it, and so he rolled up his window and drove off.

I don't know, maybe this is a classic example of Sarah-the-untrusting. It's possible his offer was entirely innocent. But I guess for me, feeling exposed was better than finding out.

Luck of the (partially) Irish

I've never really been one to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. I tried to get into the spirit in college; I drank some green beer one fateful St. Patty's, and it really messed with my digestive system. I've been suspicious about the holiday ever since.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I mind celebrating it. After all, I'm as much Irish as I am Swedish (my mother's maiden name was McDevitt), and I love to wear the color green. (You should see my socks today. I look like a freaking leprechaun.) But I just can't get into the spirit of getting piss drunk in the middle of the week in honor of good old St. Patrick.

Weekends are a different story, as I proved last weekend at the annual Shamrock Festival in Arlington. I'm more than happy to consume frosty adult beverages out of green cups when I don't have to get up for work the next morning.

Right now, my plans for "celebrating" St. Pat's are limited to joining Boog for a celebratory birthday dinner (Happy Birthday, Roomie!). And though I know my friends are going to hit the town and make the most out of a day that honors my own heritage, I just don't think I have the steam in me to do it.

Am I just getting old?

Maybe I can blame my lameness on money woes. Saving for grad school... that sounds plausible, doesn't it?

Word of the Day

Like any aspiring writer, I think building a strong vocabulary is important. So a few years ago, I began subscribing to the "Word of the Day" email from dictionary.com. Some days, I get words I already know well, which always makes me feel a little cheated. But today's word was a gem:

fugacious\fyoo-GAY-shuhs\, adjective: Lasting but a short time; fleeting

The fugacious nature of life and time.
--Harriet Martineau, Autobiography

Tastes, smells... being, in comparison, fugacious.
--John Stuart Mill, Examination of Sir W. Hamilton's
Philosophy

I'm a huge fan of the ladies over at Go Fug Yourself, who always amuse me with their biting critique of the fashion choices of the stars. Knowing nothing about fashion myself, it's nice to have someone point out mistakes to me. And the word, "fug," of course, has taken on a wide meaning. On GFY, it is the mashing of "fucking" and "ugly" to create a new word that describes the highest level of fashion atrocity.

And now I find that versions of fug actually have a real meaning!

Of course, now I'm fascinated to see what other fug words I can find out there. An Australian radio network says fug means "'a thick, close, stuffy atmosphere'. It can describe a room that is overcrowded, or has poor ventilation, or in which lots of people are smoking." (Dictionary.com confirms this definition.) It's been used by an American author as a substitute for the f-word itself. Another random website says fug is a "commonly used expletive culled to describe a moment of unbelievable, undeniable stupidity or inadequacy in the completion of an action or the unbelievably stupid origin or source of the action." (this site even offers fug of the month!)

I even went so far as to look up fug-words in Webster's dictionary. There are suprisingly few: fug, fugacious, fugal, Fugard, fugitive, fugleman, fugu, fugue. My personal favorite is the psychological definition for fugue: "temporary flight from reality." That one seems more along the lines of fug.

Our dictionaries are so woefully behind--this year's big word added? "Wedgie." How far behind can fug be?

Editor's note to Other Gus: Check out what Google has to say about ridicularity.

The waiting game

Is there anything worse than waiting to hear news of something you care about?

I finally got confirmation today that Northwestern does, in fact, have all the materials they need to make a decision about my application for grad school. So now I'm playing the waiting game of watching the days tick by before they tell me either yes, I'm moving to Chicago, or no, I'm staying put in DC for a little while longer.

It's agony.

I know that of the long list of "news" I could be waiting for, grad school acceptance isn't (or shouldn't be) high-stress inducing. But honestly, I think it's the fact that they make you wait for an answer that freaks me out. Am I just so impatient that I can't stand to wait four lousy weeks for results?

Two months ago, my confidence was unshakable--I talked about moving to Chicago without a hint of doubt. Now, instead of using words like "when I move" I have somehow shifted to "if I move." And it's all because now, I no longer have control of the situation. It's in someone else's hands. And that bugs the hell out of me.

Happiness is... a warm tummy

It's Friday morning, and I'm sipping on my favorite warm drink--a Starbucks tall skim chai latte. It makes me so freaking happy I could spit (except I wouldn't want to waste any of my precious warm goodness).

There's something about drinking warm beverages in the morning, especially on a cold day. Though I've never been a big coffee drinker, I can certainly understand the draw. Warm liquid seems to relax you--yes, even if it is so chock full of caffeine that you get the jitters for the next 24 hours.

For me, though, chai is the drink of choice. I can do cocoa, but it doesn't quite satisfy me the way chai does. Maybe it's the warm milk, or even the subtle spiciness in the taste. Whatever it is, that very first sip is guaranteed to send me immediately into a great mood. That's exactly where I am this morning.

And as for the title of this post--does anyone remember the old Peanuts book of "Happiness is" ideas? Where Snoopy and Charlie Brown gave a laundry list of all the things that make us happy? I'm starting my own list, beginning with the post title. So to continue, happiness is...

Fridays.
Making a giant breakfast feast for friends to provide a solid food layer for an entire day of drinking.
Sunny days and rising temperatures.
Suprises.
Gooey chocolate. (I miss it!)
Getting your work done early.
Happy hour with friends!

Anyone else care to chime in?

Feeling nostalgic on a Friday

Remember back when you were a teenager, when figuring out what you were going to do on a Friday night was as easy as deciding whether or not you'd go to the big basketball game? When you didn't have to stress out over pulling together the most chic and sexy outfit possible--you just grabbed your home team's t-shirt, your favorite jeans and a pair of sneaks?

When the only thing you needed to have fun was a group of friends around you and maybe a box of candy from the snack bar? When the energy in the room was so palpable that you couldn't help being swept away by the smell of sweat, the sound of the band blaring live music down into the stands, and the sight of watching cute boys hustle across the court?

When win or lose, it didn't really matter, so long as your section of the crowd was the most enthusiastic? When the grand finale of the night was a trip with the gang to the local pizza joint down the street? And you were back home again, tucked safely into your bed, at a reasonable hour?

Sometimes I really miss those days.