Home Sweet Home

That's right, I've got an apartment in Evanston. A house, actually, and this there be it up above. Going to see it tomorrow.

Hee-yaaah!

Attack of the smellemia

Good gravy, it's hot.

Now, I've been in South Carolina for the past week, and it was damn hot there. But lounging by the pool all day in a bikini tends to lessen the swelter a bit. Back here in DC, swaddled in the least amount of clothing I can wear and still be considered professional-looking, all I can do is walk slowly and hope I'm not swamped by the time I reach my destination.

But the worst part of the heat?

The smells.

They are everywhere, and they are pungent. Stepping out of my front yard, I was hit with the overwhelming smell of garbage. It's trash day. The odd part of it was that the trash is picked up in the alley in back, and I was on the front street. The heat was already so intense at 8 a.m. that it was carrying the oddly sweet and dirty smell of rotting food in waves over our houses.

On the bus, a man sat down next to me. Suddenly, the smell of smoke was practically choking me. Another passenger yielded some sour b.o. Waiting for the train, the acrid smell of hot metal and brake fluid seemed to hang a bit heavier than usual. Hiking up the metro escalator, again the smell of trash. Walking up to my office, I could smell the approaching garbage truck a whole block away.

Catching a whiff of unpleasant smells is never very fun, but when you can't escape it, it makes you miserable. Worse, those smells seem to invade your nostrils and take up residence there, helping to keep those nasty odors with you the entire day.

It's a condition my roommates dubbed "smellemia" back in college. I lived with another girl who, for some reason, had a pretty stinky bed. It wasn't that she didn't wash her sheets, or that she didn't bathe; no matter what she did, it just always smelled like funk. And then our room smelled like funk. Finally, I became paranoid that after spending any amount of time in our room, I smelled like funk, too.

I started asking everyone to smell me, because I was convinced the stench was pasted on me like glue and that I would repel everyone within five feet of me. Of course, I didn't really smell--or at least I didn't smell like the room. But the smell haunted me, followed me to class, sat with me in the cafeteria. My paranoia became so intense that my hall-mates said I had a nose-malfunctioning disorder, and they named it smellemia.

Now, on this hot, humid July day, the smellemia has returned in full force.

Do you smell that, too??

Mine

I name all my cars.

My first car, an adorable white Honda Civic with a little pop-open sunroof, was named the Rainbow Fish. I bought her the sping quarter of my freshman year of college. I was so freaking proud of that car; I had been saving up money from my various jobs in high school. I knew I wanted her the minute I saw her on the lot. My father, ever so practical, insisted I look around before I chose my car, but I could not be swayed. No other used car in Mansfield would do. We went back to the dealer immediately and swooped her up, out from under a woman who was browsing her.

Back at school, one of my college roommates, Christy, was obsessed with the Rainbow Fish cartoon, and somehow we thought that an appropriate name for the kicky little car. Tragically, the Rainbow Fish had a short life with me; later that same year I made a left turn in front of a pickup truck hauling a load of junk. She was unfixable. I was devastated.

But I knew I needed a replacement car. I felt guilty for ruining the first vehicle, so I promised myself not to be as picky in selecting the second car. My father played golf with a fellow who owned a used car lot, so we drove over and asked him to show us cars in my price range. He took us over immediately to a boxy, white Ford Escort. I didn't love her, but she had cruise control and air conditioning, neither of which I had in the Fish. "Let's take it," I said, and home came my second car, Chloe.

Throughout the rest of my college career, Chloe served me well. She ferried teammates to and from practices and tournaments. She trekked along to family vacations and summer internships. She successfully moved me and a first load of stuff to Washington after college.

Midway through my first year of post-college life, however, I started to get antsy. People around me were buying new cars. I had a newfound steady stream of income. It seemed reasonable. I started investigating options.

Then, one day, Chloe just couldn't take it anymore. I took her to the shop to see what could be done. Her alternator had given up; it would take more than $1,000 to fix her. I decided it was time to make the switch.

After researching numerous options and test driving several cars, I decided the new, perky Ford Focus was the way to go. Though I couldn't get all the features I wanted--like a sunroof--it seemed like it would be a good investment. Since I wanted a standard, I had to order it from the manufacturer, which took much longer than I initially wanted.

Finally, after almost two months of waiting, they called me. My car was ready. I showed up at the lot after dark, in the middle of a horrible thunderstorm. It didn't matter--I had a NEW CAR. Sitting in it, my nose filled with new car smell, I was on top of the world. As I drove home from the dealership, I decided to name him Ferdinand, or Ferd the Ford for short.

Since the car was a little more expensive than I had anticipated, I took out a five-year loan and slowly began paying him off, month by month. And today, after five long years, I finally signed and mailed my very last payment.

At last, he's mine, all mine.

Celebration of Other Gus

Happy birthday, OG! Since no other D-bergs are local to serenade you with our sweet harmonies, I hope our written birthday tradition will do.

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Other Gus
Happy birthday to you
Blow out all the candles
Happy birthday to you
Blow out all the candles
May your wishes all come true
Here's health to you
And wealth to you
The best of everything
May you be here
From year to year
To join us as we sing happy birthday
Blow out all the candles
May all your dreams come true
As we join once more
In a gay encore
Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday, lady!!

It's kind of a long story

I love complaining about the metro, mostly because it's such an easy target. You can always find something to bitch about, whether it be late trains or slow buses or even tourists who stand on the left. But sometimes, like this morning, you really have no one to blame but yourself.

I took my car in to be serviced early this morning. Luckily, the dealership has a shuttle to the metro, but the stop it deposits us to is five stops further out than my usual. Still, it was only 8 a.m. so I figured I'd still be early.

For some reason, two stops away from Metro Center--where I change trains--I had a sudden urge to get off and walk the rest of the way. But as passengers crowded first off and then back on again, I stayed in my place, clutching at the handrail and trying vainly to finish my crossword puzzle.

I should have listened to my gut. At Metro Center, I plodded off the train and walked up to stand on the red line platform. Four minutes to the next train, it told me. Four quickly stretched into five, into six, and then the numbers began disappearing from the board.

Shit, I thought, a mechanical problem.

I abhor getting onto crowded trains, particularly during the morning rush hour (on a Monday, no less) when everyone's grumpy and surly and it gets hot and claustrophobic and suddenly you can't breathe and WILL YOU STOP TOUCHING ME, PLEASE and ... well, you get the picture. So I decided to take the train back two stops and walk the rest of the way, as I initially thought I should.

I headed back down to the escalators just as they were making the announcement of the delay. Smugly, I sneaked my way through the crowds. I was beating the metro. I headed back up the escalators just as the train was pulling up to the platform, and managed to slip in just before the doors closed. I took a deep breath, enjoying my personal space. Two stops, I thought, and then I get off.

Except the next stop wasn't where I wanted to go. As I was congratulating myself on my brilliant maneuver, I had gotten onto the wrong train. And now I was still on the red line, instead of the orange or blue, and one stop FURTHER from where I had been before.

Sigh.

I grumbled in my head, cursing my stupidity. As I got off the train, I looked across the tracks. Sure enough, the other side was miserably packed. Grumpily, I stalked up the escalator to walk over a few blocks and get on again back at Metro Center.

And it was HOT. Hot enough to melt your lotion right off your legs. It did not improve my mood.

One block from the metro entrance, I saw a familiar face: David, a guy who had worked briefly in our office. Though he didn't stay long, he was well known by everyone as one of the friendliest guys with an unbelievably sunny attitude. I smiled.

As I waved and walked over to him, he gave me a big bear hug. "What are you doing all the way over here?" he asked me. Embarassed, I laughed. "It's kind of a long story," I said.

We chatted briefly, and then he carried back on his way and I on mine, this time, with a smile on my face. Walking down to the train, I saw the crowds had eased. I hopped back on the red line without a hostile thought in my head.

Yeah, it kind of is a long story, but sometimes, those long stories take you in even better directions.

Beefy

So tonight, I'm heading off to Fado--an adorable little Irish pub downtown--for drinks. And while Fado is often exciting because it's a post-DC United game mingling venue where you can often catch a glimpse of the team throwing a few back, it's not the crowd I'm looking forward to.

It's the burgers.

The mini-cheeseburgers, to be precise.

I'm not sure what started the craze (and DCist called attention to it as far back as Dec. 04) but the mini-cheeseburger is everywhere in town. One of the newer joints in Arlington, Tallulah, has a pretty decent small cheeseburger, though I wouldn't call it mini. And a visit to the newly-opened Union Pub last night found a basket of baby burgers on the menu. DCist even sent up a tribute with a do-it-yourself recipe. But no one, in my opinion, even comes close to Fado.

Maybe it's because Fado's little burgers are reminiscent of the famed White Castle fare that I used to inhale as a kid. In fact, I remember when I discovered they sold them frozen at the grocery store and had a hard time limiting the number I consumed in one sitting. I think it's the combination of the greasy beef, the slightly crusty toasted bread, and smattering of roasted onions that make them so tasty delicious.

I can already taste it now... mmmmmm...

So if you know of a place that can top Fado, pass it along. Maybe before I leave this summer, I can embark on a tour of the mini-burger all across town. Now there's a farewell activity for ya.

OHIO!

Ummmm...... yep.... I'm from Ohio...

Same Girl, Different Conversation

This time I'm the one who screwed up speaking to that same female co-worker.

Just to set the scene, I'm dropping her off at the mall after work. Our entire office is headed out on the CEO's yacht tomorrow for a day of casually dressed fun.

Oh, she's very attractive.

And married.

Here we go:

FCW: Thanks for the ride!

YT: No problem, anytime. I'll see you in the morning in a tee shirt.

I mean... I mean, I didn't mean it that way!