Drunken temptations

There are so many dangers facing you when you go out into the world alone with a couple of drinks under your belt. You have to worry about the drunk dial. The random tripping-over-shit-lying-right-in-front-of-you. The tempation of lying down for a "rest" on people's patios and lawn furniture. Now add to the list drunk shopping.

At least in my case, drunk shopping is usually limited to things that can be purchased at the Rite Aid across the street from my house (which is conveniently a 24-hour facility). But still, if you wandered the aisles for about 10 to 20 minutes, I'm sure you could think of things you HAD to have when you're sober, never mind when you're too inebriated to fight off the buying impulse.

A portable charcoal grill for $10? Throw it up on the counter. Lipstick in bubbleberry pink? I hear it's the color this season. An oscillating pillar fan and air purifier? Yeah, I saw one of those on TV and the people in the commercial said the air smelled a lot fresher.

Fortunately for me, after having a few drinks with YouTwo last night, it wasn't air filters and makeup that tempted me, but candy.

All day, I'd been craving Skittles or some type of chewy candy. So when I got home, I made a beeline for the store to go satisfy my craving. But when they didn't have ANY Skittles--or the real Starbursts as my backup--I went nuts. Not only did I buy MULTIPLE candy snacks, but then I went home and ate them, promptly passing out on my couch, evidence of mischief scattered around me.

(With a little additional luck, I woke up before Boog got home.)

They need to develop some sort of gadget that prevents you from spending money when you're loaded. Like a little shock collar that goes off whenever you reach for your wallet. I don't think that's unreasonable.

Muddy

I can't get my head straight.

I'm not sure exactly what it is. You'd think after hearing back about grad school, I would be completely over the moon with excitement and anticipation. And I am excited, but it's almost as though each new day brings a new worry, a new consideration, a new little black cloud that's blotting out my sunlight.

Suddenly, instead of getting juiced up, I'm sapped out.

It's funny--I've been here in DC for almost six years now, and when I sent in my application, I was so certain that it was time to go. Now I'm feeling like four months isn't enough time to say goodbye to the city that was finally starting to feel like home.

Chicago is a new city, a new place, and I don't really have a solid base there. A few friends and acquaintance and a couple of family members, but not a ready group of pals. No alumni group, no old co-workers and drinking buddies.

What's more, looking at the cost of school brought me right to reality. I certainly won't be living high. I'll be lucky to afford a solid diet of ramen for the next couple of years.

I've been combing the Craig's list ads, looking for afforable housing, watching for deals. It doesn't ease my mind; I hate the uncertainty of not knowing where I'm going to be, whether I'm going to be able to have the dog with me, or if I'll have to have a roommate.

It's not that I'm rethinking my decision--I'm moving in September, however panicky I might be feeling right now. I just feel so insecure and unsure of myself, and it's not a good feeling. What if I'm making the wrong decision? What if I pick the wrong place to live? What if I hate it there? What if I don't make friends?

What if? What if? What if? I feel like a damn broken record, spinning round and round, producing only that sick, warped sounding, slo-motion audio that makes you want to yank the plug out of the wall immediately.

How does one go about calling a time-out of life? I feel like I desperately need one.

Pure Garbage

Last night I saw Garbage at the 930 Club, a band I've now seen on each of their four tours promoting their albums. Once again, the band put on an arena-sized show in a club sized setting. The sound system was brilliant, and they're using a light technology similar to what U2 is currently using on the Vertigo Tour. I was fortunate enough to get about 20 feet from the stage with the lady-friend.

Shirley Manson's red hair is back, darker and longer than ever. The blue eye-shadowed vixen prowled the stage with a presence that said "I am sexuality" in an open-backed, leg-flattering dress.... mmmmm.... Wait, where were we? Oh yeah. After coming out for the encore, we noticed the thick strap on her back of what looked to be a sports bra. During the third song of the encore, "Sex is not the Enemy," Shirley pulled down the front of her dress, showing a beige wrap fully covering her breasts. On first look, if you didn't notice the strap, you might have briefly thought she showed her breasts. But it was clear she was fully wrapped up.

Yet, right as she did that, cops immediately came out of nowhere, storming the stage, pulling her off, grabbing the mic, and announcing show was over. The band was stunned. I heard on the radio this morning Shirley was seen in the back of a cop car. The police were obviously waiting for her to do that. But do what??? She didn't show anything!!! The whole crowd was stunned and most wouldn't leave, even with the lights on, until they started pushing the gate to clear the floor.

My first reaction was to try and help her, though fortunately my second reaction, telling me not to, “you moron,” quickly followed. Nonetheless I am perplexed.

Sittin Da Bench

I'm not sure why it is, but I seem to be incapable of hitting a softball for a game.

Tonight was Game 2 of the OU season, and after a miserable showing during Game 1 last week (two strikeouts, two dropped and/or missed balls), I had earned my seat back on the bench. And it's not that I'm complaining, either, because I make a good damn cheerleader.

But since our coach is a really good guy who likes to make sure everyone plays at least an inning or two, by the time the fourth rolled around, I was back on the field.

Truly, it's not the fielding that is my problem. I can catch, and I can throw fairly well. Playing catcher, you aren't involved in many plays anyway, so I wasn't in danger of blowing our lead.

Getting up to the plate, however, is a different story.

For some reason, everytime I'm up I seem to be in some critical position. Either there are already two outs, and I'm under pressure to get on base, or I need to be the tying run, or some other ridiculously pressured situation. It doesn't really matter, because I choke every time.

Forget that in our first practice, I was belting the ball consistently just past the infield area. Or that I could make contact even if the ball was short, high, fat... whatever. None of this matters, because when it DOES matter, I'm the queen of the choke.

Fortunately, my hesitation to swing tonight paid off--the pitcher was throwing them shallow, and she walked me. But the secret I took to first base was that I probably wouldn't have swung no matter where the ball came in.

I don't know how you can get some confidence in the batters box, but I CAN tell you it ain't by watching the pitches go by.

Maybe I should've stuck to ultimate.

BUSTED!

I spent day in New York yesterday – I had a meeting with my NY colleagues and then spent the afternoon doing site checks for an upcoming event. Because of the multi-purposeness of the day, and because I hate looking like an out-of-towner while in NYC, I put a little extra effort into choosing my outfit trying to find the right balance between professional, comfortable and chic.

The day went as planned until my last stop. I had a bit of extra time before my flight, so I decided to stop at the Marriott Marquis to check out one venue that wasn’t on my list. As I was speaking with the events manager, the front of my shirt started to feel wet. I tried to subtly assess the damage and found that the dampness on my sweater had a thick, slimy quality to it.

My Alias fueled imagination took over and I knew immediately I had been shot and was bleeding. Since it didn’t hurt and I didn't see red, I figured I would survived the assassination attempt, and finished my meeting.

Finally, I stepped into the restroom and found out the real culprit – my water bra had burst and the “secret gel formula” was oozing out!

All that concern about the outfit, and what I really needed was something waterproof!

FUCK

I just got a dreadful phone call... the woman who owns my house just passed away. I never met her, but I did talk to her a few times on the phone. She seemed like a very nice old lady, and I'm saddend by her passing.

Unfortunately, this also means I may now have to vacate my house as soon as June 1.

SHIT.

Now I'm supposed to find housing for the summer months--just as the intern crush begins--WITH A DOG??

FUCK.

Let the season begin!

It's official: today marks the beginning of one of the most exciting and heralded sports seasons in DC--softball.

People in this city are simply obsessed by this summer pasttime, and I must admit, I've caught the fever.

My first introduction to DC softball was my senior year of college, as a lowly press intern in a Senator's office. On game days, full-time staffers would dispatch one or more of us grunts around 3:30 p.m. to go claim our field space on the Mall. Out we would trudge, shorts and T-shirt clad, carrying our ball gloves and a cooler full of beer, to stake out a small plot of land somewhere between the Capitol building and the Washington monument. Then for three hours, we would wait, watching the other unfortunate field claimers mark their own territory, waiting for the rest of our staff and the other team to arrive.

When the weather is nice, it's actually not a bad job.

On any given spring or summer weeknight, you can easily find hundreds of softball players fanned out across the Mall, the tidal basin, and the Ellipse. Just about everyone plays on at least one team--sometimes even more than one. Hill offices, nonprofit organizations, corporate offices, alumni leagues--no matter where you work, you can find a game. Softball is THE sport in the summer.

During my years at a PR agency in town, we fielded a team in a so-called "PR League." Of course, my office being staffed by women and gay men, we weren't as competitive as some would have liked, but it was still a good after-work diversion.

Last year, I broke down and joined my alumni team, which is part of the Capital Alumni Network of sports leagues. With 40-plus teams competing, the play is typically pretty good, even on our little team. Personally, I've never been an outstanding player, excelling at beer-drinking and cheering rather than hitting and scoring. And I'd even argue that in this town, those two activities are just as important as good play. (Actually, I'm not a bad fielder--I can catch and throw--but I can't hit worth a damn. That in itself earns me a coveted spot as first-team, all bench.)

Well, wherever the coach plays me, I'll be happy to be there. Today's our first game of the season--a 14-game commitment that stretches clear through August. And though the weather is a bit cool, I can practically taste summer.

And the beer, of course.

Nose Candy

Reading this clip from this morning's Express was a bad start to my day:

A Sinus Problem That Really Sucked
Doctors have removed a leech from the nose of a Hong Kong woman after she swam and washed her face in a stream, the Hong Kong Medical Journal said in its April issue. The woman had been complaining of nose bleeds and an occasional sesation that something was blocking her left nostril. Her family doctor notice a "brownish mass" in her nose but couldn't remove it because of heavy bleeding. Doctors later identified it as a bloodsucking leech, but had trouble pulling it out because the 2-inch creature had retracted far into the nose.

Two things. 1 - GROSS. The Express, yet again, goes above and beyond the call of duty to provide morning commuters with squirm-worthy fodder. They should just call their "eyeOpeners" section on page 2 "This Morning's Nasty News" or something like that. Maybe they named it eyeOpeners because most of the entries are guaranteed to widen your eyes in shock and revulsion.

2 - How the hell do you not realize a leech has crawled up your nose and taken residence? Seriously, that's really, really disturbing. Like I needed any more reasons not to go swimming in places that don't maintain a regular level of chlorine.

Color Coordinated

I'm always fascinated by the different personalities I run into whenever I go to give blood. I think there's a part of me that has a preconceived notion of how a nurse should be (you know, Clara Barton's warm nurturing), and rarely do I meet nurses who could fit neatly into that description.

There's the jolly African woman who mothers me in her thick accent. The young, male nurse who jokes with me, trying to distract me from my hemorrhaging arm. The stern supervisor, who walks around making sure everything is running smoothly, stopping to smile and wink at patients.

Even though I'm a regular blood donor, I still get a little queasy whenever I go. The stick of the needle makes me uncomfortable, and then once it's in, I absolutely cannot look at the needle. Or the filling bag. So sometimes, it's nice to have a nurse who can distract me from focusing on that.

Today's nurse, however, didn't seem to be that kind of woman. She had a serious face, and made no effort to chat me up with small talk. It was all business as she marked my vein and sterilized my arm. She walked over to her dressing table to prepare everything she needed. Watching her, I saw as she looked closely at my shirt, then proceeded to dig through her pile of bandages until she found the bright red tape. I laughed.

"Coordinating with my shirt?" I asked. She smiled sheepishly and laughed a little. "I always coordinate. It makes me mad when I can't."

Clara Barton's got nothing on the color coordinators.

Today's a Sun Day

No one should have to work when it's this gorgeous outside.

Seriously, today is the kind of day that you only get a few times a year--low humidity; warm temperatures; clear, blue, cloudless sky; trees all a-bloom. Since this weather is so infrequent, I'm in favor of declaring "Sun Days." You know, instead of cancelling work because the weather is so heinous that you can't even get out your front door, why not cancel it because it's simply to nice to go to work?

Think about it. How many people can actually get work done when it's like this outside? You spend just 20 minutes walking to get your sandwich at lunchtime, and the temptation is just too great to not go back. If you have a window in your office, like I do, you spend half of the day gazing out longingly at the happy walkers outside, enjoying the weather.

I would guess that productivity at most companies is at its lowest rates when people are desperate for some sun--especially after a particularly long and painful bout of rain and cold temperatures. And that's to say nothing of the number of people who actually DO take Sun Days, under the guise of being "sick." Sure, buddy, your allergies are just killing you, I know it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I feel a bit of a cough coming on.

Blinded by the light

Or the whiteness of my legs, perhaps. Yes, finally, joyfully, the temperatures are soaring to heights that are much more appropriate for days in April. Yesterday the mercury soared up into the mid-60s, prompting me to don shorts (for running purposes only, OG, I promise) for the first time this year. It was a frightening sight. I'm enormously jealous of those of you who have already had the opportunity for exposure to sunlight.

Now on to 70! And please, weather gods, I beg of you, please don't skip us ahead to the 90s as you have in years past.

Don't miss out

If you haven't seen this yet, start from the bottom with the first post and work your way up. Brilliant!