Monday, October 30, 2006


work angst, love

I generally avoid talking about work on here for the reasons that people generally avoid talking about work on their blogs.

But. I'd just like to express. Shock. Horror. Annoyance. At how some people seem to have zero qualms about not doing their job. I do my job. Why can't others do theirs?


I'm watching "How I Met Your Mother" (of course), and there's this Nivea commercial that I saw a couple of weeks ago (and it was just on right now). It's a girl in gray pajamas, and she's in this warmly lit room, and there's this hot guy on a bed waiting for her. She cuddles up to him, and he looks so happy and so happy to be with her.

The first time I saw it, I noticed that she was wearing a ring on that finger. It intrigued me. I he wearing a ring? Are they having an affair?

So, the commercial was just on, and it was the same girl in gray, and the same warm lighting. I snapped to attention. The guy was waiting in the bed with the same huge, happy grin on his face. She came to him, and he reached out his hand.

A ring! A ring! They're married!

(let's assume they're married to each other.)

I love that commercial. It's so wholesome, so complete, it portrays a married couple as people who want to be with each other. It doesn't paint adultery in some glorified light, or marriage in some miserable hue. The commercial is perfect.

And honestly...I think it will encourage me to buy Nivea products.

PS - I have two Halloween goals. Let's see if they come to fruition!

Sunday, October 29, 2006



If you're going somewhere, and you miss your flight out, but manage to get to that location anyhow (via a another flight, rental car, what have you), be sure to call the airline to ensure that you're still on the passenger list for the return trip.

Luckily for me, my mom knew that litte tidbit, so I called Delta on Saturday. They had taken me off the manifest - I would have been in t-r-o-u-b-l-e if I hadn't let them know that, yes, I did still need a ticket.

That is all.

Friday, October 27, 2006


I didn't even meet the man of my dreams...

So last night had me sitting on my suitcase at the airport, crying my eyes out while I was the phone. Perhaps there had been a disaster, you ask? Some family tragedy?


I have no idea how I screwed it up. No idea at all. Some part of my subconscious must have been fighting to be heard, because walking to the Delta ticket counter, I knew I was right, but I felt like I was at the wrong airport. There was this nagging feeling that was growing as I got closer and closer and walked longer and longer (it was a damn long hallway).

I finally got to the counter, and the woman asked where I was going. First tip-off: no one else was checking in. It was me, her, and a lone security guard. I told her Boston...she hesitated, and told me that Delta wasn't flying to Boston tonight. In fact, they don't go from Dulles to Boston. I wavered. Hoped against hope that I had the wrong airline. But since I had copied and pasted my airline to my Dad earlier that day, I knew it was Delta.

(By the way, it was AirTran. Not Delta. I blame Expedia for that random thing. Because I checked, and my itinerary does say "Delta")

She kinda tiptoed away, and I called home. My dad asked me what was wrong, my voice broke, and I said that I think I had gone to the wrong airport, and asked him to check my email to verify. He started looking for other flights, and said that AirTran had two flights leaving BWI the next day. 6:45 am and 2:30 pm.

Okay, let's take a second here. Baltimore's code is BWI. The Dulles code is WAS. Not even remotely similar. I have no idea how I screwed this one up. I could understand if I had confused Reagan and Dulles - DCA and DCA.

In fact, at the JetBlue counter, I asked a woman what the airport code was, and she said DCA. I accepted it blindly. So someone should clue her in.

So, basically, I was on the phone with my dad for about 20 minutes, and I was crying the whole time. Sometimes sniffling, other times I had the occasional "sobbing-so-hard-I-can't-catch-my-breath" thing going on. I was so distraught because 1) I wanted to go home. So badly. I did NOT want to go back to my apartment, then go to an airport the next day. It was too much to bear...and 2) What a STUPID mistake. Here I am, trying to pretend that I'm a cool grownup with my work outfit and business cards and wheeling suitcase, and I call my parents crying my eyes out.

I went to the AirTran counter to try to get a rebate, and the guy was pretty horrified by the crying girl in front of him. He offered to call AirTran mainframe people for me, so while I was waiting, I called E, crying. She said that she'd come to get me, immediately.

Back on the phone with my dad, he said that there was a JetBlue flight leaving at 8:30, and I should check the price. I went to the counter, and the woman said that it was $155. I said that it was too expensive, so I walked away. My parents called me, and told me that I should get on it, and they'd pay for it. I said no, I could take a cab to BWI at 4 am the next morning, and they said no, give the woman my credit card.

I purchased the ticket, and the woman told me to run. As fast as I could. The flight was leaving in 15 minutes.

I was that obnoxious girl cutting everyone in line...I threw my stuff on the belt, unzipped my boots in record time. My bag was flagged, of course, and this hot security guard grabbed my suitcase, and took out my wonderful hair stuff. He grimaced, and said "We might have to get rid of this..."

Ordinarily, I'd try to turn on the charm. But this time I started crying again (I was pretty much in a perma-crying state), and snarled "JUST GET RID OF IT, THEN! AARRRGGGHHHHHH!"

Then I ran to the shuttle, nearly knocking over people, and my little wheeled suitcase went on one wheel. I pulled up to the shuttle stop, breathing heavily and embarrassingly out of breath. Where I waited for six minutes for the stupid thing to return, making awkward small talk with the shuttle guys. I got in, and they let the thing leave 10 minutes earlier than it should have, possibly screwing over anyone else behind me trying to make a flight. Oooops.

Crossing the plane driving area, we stopped to let a freaking plane cross. I was like "I WANT TO RRUUNNNNN" and this poor senegalese guy was trying to make me feel better by talking to me.

The shuttle came to a stop, and I shot out of it, and burst to the gate like a bat out of hell.

The woman at the desk was nonplussed by my ridiculousness. And told me that the flight was delayed for 35 minutes. I said, "THANK GOD" and the crying stopped.

And the real me returned. I shot her a look (I think she saw the panic leave my eyes and the cunning return) and I said, "How long has the flight been delayed?"

She said, "A while."

The whore at the first counter HAD TOTALLY MESSED WITH ME.

Thursday, October 26, 2006


*must chew gum!*

So last night C-note had a crisis, so we reverted to our Crisis Management Plan (something that every good DC worker/resident has) - we went to multiple bars and drank.

She was sitting, poised, swirling her straw in her Jack Daniels on the rocks, I was guzzling down vodka and orange juice. After chilling in one bar for a while, we decided to move to another - Rumors.

We went in, went out, for lack of guys. I posed the idea of Lucky, so there we went. And ran into friends from Catholic. Including J.C. and his lovely girlfriend R.

Now, whenever I see J.C., I can't believe it's him. It's like a celebrity sighting. He waves to me in that funny way he has (usually making a face and pointing), and I'm like "Is that him? Is that J.C.?! Oh my God it's him!!"

Since our relationship primarily revolves around blogging (and bars, I suppose!), we started talking about you guys, and how we should have a giant blog drinkfest. TC? Wombat? Cam? Anyone? Something to think about. Of course, as JC said, we probably wouldn't know how to communicate without using a blog, so we'd probably have to clack away on laptops in order to function.

Whenever I get drunk in Dupont Circle, I always have this urge to go sleep at my work. It's so close, and my apartment is soooo far. It's not as though I'll ever actually sleep at's just tempting. You know?

Speaking of tempting, I really want a fried Chicken Fuddrucker's sandwich. I had half of one last night, and it was such a tease. I'm secretly hoping the pizza that my work buys for us today stinks so that I have an excuse to FuddRush.


Tuesday, October 24, 2006


WARNING: does not cope well with disappointment

This article is on MSN today:

'Paris Syndrome' leaves tourists in shock
Japanese visitors found to suffer from psychiatric phenomenon

PARIS - Around a dozen Japanese tourists a year need psychological treatment after visiting Paris as the reality of unfriendly locals and scruffy streets clashes with their expectations, a newspaper reported on Sunday.

To read on...

IS this for real? What type of Paris are they picturing? I mean, I'm picturing swirling fall leaves, me in a chic chocolate brown outfit with some tall smoothie on my arm, as we waltz by the Eiffel Tower - but, as my man Thomas Fuller said, "Hope not for impossibilities."

(That sounds really pessimistic. I promise it's not, I just know that my little daydream probably won't happen. That's not to say that reality won't be better...because I'm sure it will be fantastic.)

Monday, October 23, 2006


hell hath no fury...

I love a newly popular song by that wholesome American Idol songstress, Carrie Underwood. It's called "Before He Cheats," and basically...she goes ballistic. Her boyfriend cheats on her, so she goes and wrecks his car. The video can be seen on youtube here.

She sings ... "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four-wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats. I took a Louisville Slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all four tires" and concludes with "maybe next time he'll think before he cheats."

Pardon and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think every girl has a bit of crazy in her. A guy does something reprehensible, and you want some justice. Some way to hurt back. As Gabrielle exclaimed helplessly last night on "Desperate Housewives," "How can I hit you so hard that you won't recover?!"

Luckily, we all have that little thing in us that keeps us from crossing the line. It might be a sense of right and wrong, or it may just be pride. Or it might be a healthy fear of the law - whenever I see or hear "Before He Cheats," I'm tempted to yell (or you know, I do yell), "Stop! You're going to get arrested!!"

Whatever it is that dams the recklessness, it's a good thing. So, knowing that we remain in control, it's always great to witness a fictional account of a woman taking back her broken heart.

Another great example of scorned woman getting revenge is "Kerosene" by Miranda Lambert - she catches her boyfriend cheating on her, so she blows up his house. Obviously.

After giving this some thought, and going in a direction I entirely didn't expect when I set out writing this...I'm seeing people like Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood, and Kelly Clarkson (Since You Been Gone) as modern-day Wonder Women, avengers of girls everywhere. Whether or not it's true, they portray that a) attractive girls get cheated on, and b) jerks pay for their mistakes.

Let's be absolutely clear here. You can't wreck someone's car, you can't burn down a house, you can't go to an apartment and thoroughly wreck it. Those are the actions of an unbalanced person. But Carrie Underwood, Miranda Lambert, and Kelly Clarkson can, and you can sing your heart out as they do it. Not bad.

Sunday, October 22, 2006


"ghosts appear and fade away"

When I was about seven or eight, I had laid in my bed, crying inconsolably before bedtime. My parents heard me sobbing - or perhaps I had called for them - and my dad came in my bedroom, and asked me what was wrong.

I told him that I was so sad that I couldn't remember so much, that I couldn't remember being a baby. It seemed so unfair, that I couldn't remember a lot of my life. My dad thought for a bit, and agreed that it was very sad, but that I could watch my younger brother, and remember his life as a baby...and in that way, reclaim part of my infancy.

I have trouble accepting that I had such a complex thought as a seven or eight year old, except that I remember the incident quite clearly. So it must have happened.

It's so frightening to know that memory, so important to us, and to who we are, is such a fleeting and fragile thing. A friend of mine had a seizure Friday night, and C-note was there and witnessed it. After the seizure, my friend didn't recognize C-note (and they had been roommates for four years), and she didn't know the name of her boyfriend (someone she's been dating for six years). Her memory gradually returned after 10-15 minutes, but those moments were very alarming.

And to see elderly people, people who we know are whip-smart, to see them struggle to remember, or to stay on task, is so heart-wrenching. You can see them trying to keep from slipping. But, try as they might, it's like trying to keep grains of sand in one's palm.

My nana talked to my dad a couple of weeks ago, and told him that she had gone to the mechanic, he drove her home before he looked at her car, then came and picked her up when he was finished. A couple of days later, my dad called her, and my nana repeated the same story. A bit unusual, but everyone repeats herself on occasion. Young and old. He then asked her what she was up to for the day, and she said that she was waiting for the mechanic to pick her up so that she could get her car.

He asked her to go to her window, and check to see if her car was in the driveway. It was.

I suppose that memory loss is inevitable, an exchange that some make for the gift of growing old. Our bodies are not invincible - our faculties decay.

I was distraught at the age of seven to not remember. To be 84 and not remember - the pain is unfathomable.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


Friday is oh-so-close and I'm all over the place

Goodness, I can't wait until tomorrow.

This week has been...okay. Not bad, but I think my blahness comes from feeling underutilized at work. Or rather, I'm doing stuff, but it's all stuff that can wait, like sorting photos and getting rid of ones without credits. I know that's not a bad task, and there are tons of crappier things to do out there than looking at beautiful images of clouds...but so it is. And has been for a couple of weeks. I sort of miss the hardcore pace of yesteryear.

So - my super plan for the weekend is nothing special. I cannot wait.

(Nothing like contradicting my uber "I miss stress" statement of a few moments before.)

I'm planning on reading, doing laundry, finally finishing season 2 of Lost, giving a new recipe a go (potato pancakes? anyone?), possibly catching a matinee (and on that note, I had forgotten about two movies that I want to see: the writing one with Emma Thompson, and the one with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet), cleaning up my room, maybe going to the NGA, Portrait Gallery, or the Botanic Gardens. You know, just being spectacular and that cool lone traveler.

I'm watching Project Runway right now - why are models always looking nasty and serious? Is that what the industry finds to be attractive and alluring? Is snobbiness supposed to be a plus? My brother's girlfriend's roommate is a model...maybe I'll ask her next time I'm home. (I wonder how I should phrase that so it's not offensive? "Um...are you striving for a bitchy look, or does it come naturally?")

Speaking of home, I'm so there in a week. Exactly. Huzzah!

Oh, and for my second TV comment: does anyone else find that "hotties playing dodgeball in their Hanes underwear" commercial a tadddd uncomfortable? It's just awkward. Why aren't they wearing real clothes? What type of clotheless society are they living in?

Inspirational Quote Time! I spied this in the back cover of my beloved copy of Bridget Jones's Diary, scrawled in my cramped and abbrieviated style. I think I found the quote on an airplane a couple of years ago, in one of those SkyMall catalogs.

"This is the beginning of a new day. You have been given this day to use as you will. You can waste it or you can use it for good. What you do today is important because you are exchanging a day of your life for it. When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever; in its place is something that you have left behind...let it be something good."

Got that?

Finally...I love Dierks Bentley. He's such a heartbreaker.


UPDATE on guy who killed man for molesting guy's daughter

So that's why we have a criminal justice system...

Tuesday, October 17, 2006



I saw "The Departed" last week, and I loved it. Definitely recommend it. Especially to Tans and Pat.

It made me miss home. Not like I grew up in Southie or around gangsters in Boston (Far from it. But geographically close enough...), but it was nice to see the people, etc. The film really captured the town, and the atmosphere that is thick with patriotism, religion, and loyalty.

There's this one scene where a guy is talking to his cousin. The cousin is wearing a cross around his neck, and behind him is the American flag flying off the house. And it just struck me - it was the visual depiction of what my Grandpa has ingrained in all of us: "God, Family, and Country."

From my experiences, those are the most important things in Boston. I'm not going to claim that I didn't grow up in the idyllic suburbs, but my mom and her six siblings grew up in the projects, with their dad working two jobs, one as a firefighter, the other as a mailman. My grandmother's only brother died in combat in WWII, and her sister was a nun for over 60 years. My dad's dad was a policeman, and his brother is a State Cop, up for retirement in a year. All of the houses in my family proudly fly the flag, and my younger cousin just served in Iraq, with the hopes that he'll get preferential veteran status when applying to become a Boston firefighter. Church is an important presence in my family - 21 of us are part of the same parish (well, 20, when I'm not there), and many of our get-togethers are centered around the bazillion first communions, confirmations, and baptisms that go on. "God Bless" is a standard way of saying goodbye.

My mom says that when she was younger, my Grandpa would sit at the head of the table, and tell her and her five brothers and one sister, "Look around you. These are your only friends." Granted, being a huge family, they had lots of friends. And now that circle is larger, with 23 grandkids, 14 parents, and my Grandma and Grandpa serving as the heads.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking to my dad, and I said about someone, "Oh, she's got my back." My dad's voice got an edge to it, and he said, "Meghan, the only people that 'got your back' are me, your mother, and your two brothers. Don't ever forget that."

God, Family, and Country. The implicit message is: Stay close. These three protect you, and do great things for you. Don't ever betray them.

Monday, October 16, 2006


"I think you take better pictures" - e, to me. (hahahaha)

I left work exactly at 5:30 and headed to the bookstore to get a glimpse of Annie Leibovitz. By the time I got there, the place was already packed (what, do these people not have jobs or something?!), and I waited in line to purchase my book.

After that, I went to the fiction room (i.e., the place for the B-listers), and sat on the floor in the ever-so-comfortable Indian (Native American? American Indian?) style. Forty-five minutes go by, and I thought about how those slave passages over to America must have really sucked.

(I'm not being flippant. I was miserable after 45 minutes, and I had a lot more room than those people did. I can't imagine how horrible it must have been.)

In this disconnected world, I always love to see who the people are behind my otherwise faceless community. Per usual, they were sorta weird. And rather pushy. And a bit difficult. Having enough of the masses, I untangled from the pretzel I had folded myself into on the floor, and I retreated between a bookcase and a wall, all set to watch Annie on the TV screen that is erected in the Fiction room.

She popped out of the elevator, and a wave of ooohs passed through my room. She tripped on a pushy person, and someone gushed, "You'll never wash that foot again!"

Annie Leibovitz passed out of our vision, and went to the little stage that they had set up in the other room. And she began speaking. Annnnnnnnnd we couldn't see her. It was a speech and slideshow deal - luckily, we could see the slideshow. She read from her book as pictures appeared onscreen. She lost Susan Sontag (it was never publicly declared, but it was widely known that they had been together) and her dad within six weeks of each other, and those were catalysts for compiling the book. She got a little choked up, and it was just so amazing to hear the person behind all of these great works of art. She became more than a name.

She finished speaking, and the mayhem began. I milled around until it was my turn to get in line. There was a girl around my age in front of me, and a cute couple just out of college behind me (well, I think the guy liked the girl, but she didn't know they were on a date). An employee kept going up and down the line, instructing us to get our books ready, and saying, over and over, "NO PHOTOGRAPHY."

I didn't think that would be a problem, since I didn't have my camera with me. But oh, was I wrong.

Waiting patiently, I tried to think of some way to impress Ms. Leibovitz. What could I say so that she'd remember me? What type of advice could she give me? How could I convey to her how awesome and talented I think she is?

I was about five people from mecca when the formerly quiet girl in front of me turned around and asked me if I would take a picture of her and Annie Leibovitz when she was getting her book signed. My mouth pretty much dropped open, and I said, "um, okay...I guess. I hope I don't get arrested."

I tried to hide the camera with the 20 pound tome, but a helper grabbed my book from me and put it on the table, next to be signed. The girl talked to Annie Leibovitz, and gave me a significant look. I took a picture. She gave me another look, this one more insistent. This time, the camera flashed, and the denizens were upon me. I just needed a bush to hide behind, and I'd be the spitting image of a paparazzi.

People squawked from the front row "HEY! No cameras!" and the helpers turned from helping to mean. I snapped one more pic, and wailed "This isn't even my camera, I'm being a goooood Saaammmmaaaarrriiitaaaaaaaaaann" while the girl who I was TAKING A BULLET FOR pretended to not know me and chatted up Annie.

The girl finally grabbed her camera and shifted away, and I realized - OH CRAP I'm right in front of someone who would be my hero, if I had heroes, and I'm frittering the moment away aiding and abetting some rule-breaker - and I tried to think of what to say, and I looked her in the eyes, and thoughtfully blurted out,

"Thank you so much - just, you just - you are just SO FREAKING AMAZING."

Annie Leibovitz said thank you, and thrust out her hand. I shook it. I'd like to think that she recognized how much she meant to me, but I'm thinking the handshake is status quo. I said thank you, and stepped aside, while another helper put my book in a plastic bag. I'm pretty sure my face was bright red, and he said, "Don't worry, I won't be calling the camera police."

And with that, I walked off into the night.

Sunday, October 15, 2006


sooo arty

The amazing, award-winning, ridiculously talented Annie Leibovitz will be speaking at Politics & Prose on Monday - I'll be going over directly from work. Does anyone want to come? Let me know! She'll be hawking and signing her new (seemingly overpriced) book...I might buy one just to, you know, indulge in some harmless hero worship.

On another note, I've been reading Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin. I had picked it up with great expectations: the back blurb teases of a rough Irish burglar who falls in love with a consumptive young woman. It is a "magical masterpiece that will transport you to New York of the Belle Epoque." To top it off, the cover is that beautiful B & W image of Grand Central Station. (To find it, go to and look at image IH059772) Judging books by their covers is my thing, and I was pretty sure that this one would kick ass.

And ugh. It's so stupid. The plot is great, and the characters are multi-dimensional, but the author is just trying to be too cool. There's this mysterious wall that comes into the city and sucks people up, or something, never to be seen again. What the heck? Here's a sample paragraph:

The Baymen were waiting, Peter Lake knew, for a great window in the cloud wall to open and reveal a burning city that was not consumed, a city that thrashed like an animal and yet did not move, a city suspended in the air. Sharp on detail and alert to small signs, they insisted that such a thing would appear, and that, after it did, the world would light up in gold.

The worst thing is that I have the feeling that I'm supposed to feel inferior reading it, and when I get to a nonsensical part, I'm supposed to pretend that the problem is with me, and not with shoddy writing. I think this because the author's bio begins with, "Educated at Harvard, Princeton, and Oxford..." I know it's just listing facts, but when those facts are presented first, it seems as though they're supposed to be strong enough to carry the weight of the story. Or maybe I really don't understand the brilliance of it all (but probably not).


There are a bunch of movies coming out that I want to see. Listing them here, so that I don't forget:

- A Good Year
- Marie Antoinette
- Flags of our Fathers
- The Prestige
- We Are Marshall

Thursday, October 12, 2006

I just came back from the movies, and walked around my empty apartment with one hand flinging open doors (my right), and the other grasping my pepper spray (my left).

Although I am of the paranoid sort, the red alert has been raised in the last couple of days. Wednesday, before leaving work, C-note gchatted me with the message that she had just spoken to Bethany (remember her?), and had some alarming news. A man had called Bethany Monday night, around 10:40, claiming that he had to get to our apartment because he had a package. He had said our apartment number - not our names - and Bethany was suspicious.

He was able to reach Bethany because she has her desk calls forwarded to her cell phone. And he was calling from the front door of our apartment building. He called four or so more times, and finally stopped.

Bethany decided that it would be good to let us know two days later. Whatever. When I came back from socializing with Mel and good ole' Gabrielle, C-note and E met me at the gatehouse, and we all walked to the apartment together. Me with my trusty pepper spray, C-note with her keys splayed threateningly, and E with her razor sharp mind.

It turns out that while I was getting spritzed by Gabrielle, the creepy guy was at the front door of our building, banging on the door and trying to get in. A woman had been in the lobby with her daughter, got freaked out, ran away, and called Bethany. Bethany visited our apartment, letting C-note and E know.

The woman described the man as being in his mid-30s, and wearing a turban. Doesn't ring a bell.

Being that there are three of us in the apartment, we each have a theory.

Me: He wants to get in the building to attack/kill someone, and just named our apartment number as a way to get in, not expecting Bethany to know who lived there. Luckily, since we complain quite frequently about stuff, she knew that something was up.

C-note: He wants to get to our apartment because he thinks that someone accidentally delivered a package to our apartment, not knowing that that person doesn't live here anymore.

E: He wants to kill an old occupant of our apartment, and will accidentally kill us at night, when he can't see our beautiful faces and know that he's got the wrong people.

Yikes. Whatever the hell is going on, we're pretty freaked out.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006


putting my face on

After work M-boss, Mel, and I went to Douglas, home of cosmetics, brushes, glitter eye shadow, and other stuff I don't really need. I went in with the purpose of purchasing blush - I had dropped mine on the toilet seat, and it was finally done for good. To confess, it was a bit of a relief, since it has been broken for a good couple of months, but I've been too...thrifty/lazy/cheap/fill in the buy a new one.

Anyhow, we were all trying the perfumes, and I wanted to spritz Tender Touch by Burberry. They didn't have a tester out, so I asked the lady scaling a ladder on the opposite wall if she had a tester. She responded sorta bitchily, and said no.

(Basically the only bitchy part of that was me not getting the answer I wanted, to be honest.)

The three of us continued to spray away. I went back to the makeup, and M-boss decided to peace out of the shopfest, and hit the gym. Unbenownst to her, she was going to miss all of the fun.

Employee saw me and Mel puzzling over the blush (peach? pink? pink with bluish tone?! WHAT WILL MAKE ME LOOK ALIVE?!), so she came over and began doing what she does best - making customers feel extremely awkward by putting makeup on them. I stood there, trying to avoid looking directly ahead as a 5'5" woman patted "buff" powder on my jawline, cheekbone, one side of my nose, forehead, etc. I'd look to my left, then look to my right, catch Mel's eyes, then crack up. It was so awkward in a "I should be more mature so this isn't awkward" way. Her face was about three inches from mine. I forgot how to breathe, in fear that I'd exhale in her face, or crinkle the makeup, or look like anything but a cool 23-year old.

(Let's be frank here. That cover was blown the minute I walked in and said that one perfume smelled like poo.)

Employee (name = Gabrielle) finished up, advised me on which blush to use, and I thanked her. I made a joke to Mel about how it was a good thing that I was going out on a date tonight (since one side of my face was all dolled up). Gabrille ran to answer the ringing phone.

Wandering around the display, I went back to the perfume. And Gabrielle came back, grabbed a stool in an efficient (dare I say... "German"?) manner, and instructed me to sit down, and relax.

Zipping around the store, she swooped up her tools, and got to work. She diligently added powder to the rest of my face, applied blush, found some eyeshadow, and painted on lip gloss. Looking into her purple eyeshadowed eyes, I pictured war-like blush streaks on my cheeks, and dark, hideous lids. Reaching into my hair and lifting, she told me that now I'd look good for my date.

*Awkward Pause*

Mel was standing in front of me this entire time. Almost holding back laughter. My lips felt sticky. Globbed in lip gloss. But also hot and shiny.

Gabrielle gave me the mirror, and I couldn't believe it. It was me...but better. Dewy cheeks, smoother skin, prettier lips, brighter eyes. It was ridiculous. Even my hair looked better, and she hadn't really done anything with it. The woman has magic fingers.

Ringing me up, she threw in a free gift that my purchase hadn't warranted. And asked about my date. I replied in my "oh, you knowwww" voice that I'd be hitting up a restaurant with, um, some guy. I didn't have the heart to tell her that my only date set was the one with my TV.

Then she told me that I needed some perfume to make all the guys want me, or something. Telling me that I should never, ever, EVER rub my perfume in, she grabbed a pink bottle off the bottom shelf and sprayed my wrists, neck, and the backs of my knees (since I was wearing a skirt). After doing that, she grabbed a bottle for Mel, and sprayed her liberally, telling her that if her man bit her tonight, she'd know why.

I smothered guffaws, since Mel had walked around with that bottle about a half hour earlier as an example of what NOT to smell like.

As Mel and I walked out of the store, she wished me luck on my date (aarrrggghhhh) and I promised to come back soon to check on the perfume tester status. Mel and I reached the sidewalk, and Mel said that she wanted to go to happy hour. I agreed. So we went to Heritage India. And it was good. And I got five marriage proposals. The end.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006


right makes might

Yesterday I went to the National Gallery of Art and visited a wing that I never really knew about/cared existed. To get there, you have to go past the cool temporary exhibits (eg, the one that is on display now - B & W photographs of old New York and its people), and make it through the neat sculptures and paintings by Rodin and Degas without being fully arted out for the day.

(I hadn't done a thorough examination of anything...I was more in a run-through, quick peep sort of mood. And I had seen the NYC exhibit when my brother had visited.)

Anyhow, so this little section has some religious art - stained glass windows, kneeling angels, etc. All very nice. It also had a display of old Italian medallions, and I got lost imagining the hands those medallions had passed through. Who had given them as gifts? Who had worn them around their necks? What did it mean to them? I know it's fanciful, and stupid to really think about, but I really wish that I could go back in time and observe. But maybe we don't know how to go back in time so that we don't spend all of our time watching other peoples' lives?

The last room in the series is big, with a fountain in the middle. I was the only one in there, and walked around slowly. My head down, I peered into cases. I'm a sucker for good names (give me "Man In a Hat," and I want to jump out a window), and one caught my eye - "Virtue Overcoming Vice," by Benvenuto Cellini.

I saw the title first, and fully expected some sort of motivational piece - some muscular virtuous person scaling a cliff, while a vice-laden person was chowing down on cake or something at the bottom.

Raising my eyes, what I saw made me laugh out loud. Virtue and Vice were people, of course. But instead of an inspirational scene, Vice was sprawled on the ground, and Virtue was standing on him. Not only that, but she had a huge stick in her hand, raised to clobber Vice.

Virtue didn't just have a moral victory, she had a physical victory. And although one might think that Virtue wouldn't technically win over Vice through physical violence, I think it shows that Virtue doesn't always have to be quiet, and weak, as it is often portrayed. Virtue can be strong. Willful. Ass-kicking in its splendor.

Monday, October 09, 2006


no work today! no work no work no work!

Happy Columbus Day!

So, I have a very good friend, and I have a little story about her Saturday night. She was at a bar with some friends, and met some new faces, learned some new names, etc. One guy was being really friendly, chatting away, doing the whole "lightly touching" thing. It was cool, and flattering. So when this friend and a friend of hers decided to meet some other friends at a different bar, she invited this guy to come with her.

The friend of my friend decided to go back to his friends at the other bar, so it was just my friend and the guy, who seemed nice, but she didn't really know, walking along. My friend, she didn't know the area very well, and no one seemed to know where the bar was that she wanted to go, including the new guy she was with.

The guy, he suggested that they go to a different bar, on U St. and 16th. My friend, she thought for a moment. She knew her friend wanted to see her at the bar, but she knew that her friend had about 10 people with her, and probably wouldn't mind if she didn't show.

So, a little tipsy, she decided to go with that guy to the other bar, which was a couple of blocks away. In her tipsy state, she knew that 16th and U was at least five blocks away, which was a little annoying, but oh well. It was time to live large and try new places.

They were walking with their arms around each other, laughing, and the girl's friends called her on her cell. She jokingly (or not so jokingly) asked her friends if their buddy was a murderer. They, being drunk, called her a rockstar. Being that they didn't answer her question, that didn't really sit well with my friend, but she laughed it off.

They go a couple more blocks, and my friend felt herself being steered towards a building. She stopped, and said (so she told me), "Wait, where are we going?"

He stopped, gestured expansively, and said, "Well, we have two choices. We can go to that bar, which is still a few blocks away, or we can go to my apartment, which is right here."

That pissed my friend off. And she saw that this supposedly nice guy was just trying to get into a tipsy girl's pants. He had gotten her away from her friends under false pretenses. So she told him that she was going back to her friends, whipped out her phone to call her friends, and started booking it. And when my friend walks mad, she walks fast.

He caught up to her, grabbed her arm, telling her to wait, wait, wait, it was okay, they could still go to the bar. She stopped walking, turned around, and told him that he could go to that bar, go to his apartment, or come back with her to her friends, but she was going back to be with her friends.

He responded petulantly that he may as well go to his apartment, since he was practically there. She said that was fine with her, and stalked off to the lights and safety, cursing and scowling the entire way.

Getting back to the main road, after getting turned around a few times, a friend of hers, that she hadn't seen in months, walked in front of her, and asked her what was wrong. She hugged him, telling him the story, and clung to him for a few minutes like an unexpected life raft.

A lame ending to a story - it could have had excitement! Murder! Rape! Tragedy! Instead, just an angry girl.

She was talking to her friend Pat the next day, and he said that she could have ended up in a dumpster with a sock in her mouth. Now, who knows if that guy would have gone to those measures. Most likely not. The point of this story isn't to slander that person.

But there are plenty of those people out there.

My friend considers herself very lucky that she learned an important lesson, without getting hurt.

Sunday, October 08, 2006



good thing I bought the 100 text package...Initials changed for anonymity

6:34 pm
V: my sis and I are going to a movie. well go to admo right after.

Me, to V: Call me when it's out and I'll head over!

Me, to V: At ad mo- millie and als?

E: Did you make it there ok

Me, to E: Yeah xy hates me though - whoops

E: Why?

B: Were at heaven and hell if you wanna come down

Me, to B: I'm at millie and al's w/xy - come if you want!

12:16 am
V: come now to monkey 2nd floor now

Me, to V: too crowded - not coming in

G: Please keep in touch I think the world of the meg

Me, to G: Where are you?

G: Home. hit a bouncer. bah.

B: Im there. wherew are you?

Me, to V: Where are you? im here and at front of second floor

Me, to B: Now Im at brass moneky - prob leaving soon

B: What? Were at millie and alS?

Me, to V: Cant find you - Im leaving

(same minute)
Me, to B: I left you

V: What? im here

Me, to V: Come to the top porch Im at a table

Me, to G: Can I call you when I'm walking home? In about 35 mins...

Me, to W: Thanks for helping me tonight!!

W: Anytime. Sometimes things are meant to be. Hope you feel better.

V came and found me on the porch, I didn't hear back from B. G didn't text me back - my text was unread, so I'm thinking he fell asleep. And W had helped me by giving me moral support when a guy got stupid with me.

OOOH! This just in!!

V: i hope your night didnt totally suck. talk to you soon!

Me, to V: In hindsight it was hilarious! thanks for a fun time!

Thursday, October 05, 2006



Sitting at my computer, I was penning (can you "pen" an email?) a note to my brother's teacher. The teacher and a group of Chinese exchange students are coming to DC this weekend, and I'm offering my services as a chaperone/generally cool person to see and be seen with. The offer is a bit self-serving, because my family has one of the students staying at our house, and he is sleeping in my bedroom (or, as my dad calls it, "the princess suite"). It's always good to know whose head is resting on my home pillow.

Suddenly, I hear a shriek from E. Being that we're girls, a shriek of hilarity is not that uncommon. But that shriek was swiftly followed by a chorus of blood-curdling screams. Wondering if perhaps someone had chopped off their hand, I lazily called out, "is something wrong?"

And C-note uttered the accursed word in our apartment. The one that they've heard me screaming in the dead of the night. The one that simultaneously springs us to action, and freezes us in our spots.


I ran out into the living room, grabbing a sturdy flip flop on the way. Once in the area, I surveyed the scene. It was pretty much a paradise for bug hiding and playing. Two sofas, perfect for concealment. An empty of bowl of ice cream that had served as a snack while tv watching. Tasty. The open ironing board, effectively hampering maneuvering on our part. And a bag of apples, ripe and untouched since the bobbing festivities of Saturday night.

E was crouching down, banging on the sides of the sofas to try to scare the thing out. They both told me that it was the biggest bug they've ever seen. Attempting to surprise it, C-note and I both grabbed an end of the sofa and launched it three feet to the left. No dice.

C-note and I regrouped in the corner as E continued to do her thing. E spotted it, screamed, vaulted over the sofa, and ran to the kitchen. C-note caught a glimpse, screamed, ran to the kitchen. I saw the apple bag rustling, making crazy shadows on the wall, I screamed, and possibly left tracks in the carpet during my hasty retreat.

We talked some sense into each other in the kitchen ("a bug! a bug! we can't run from a bug!") and came back out. E pointed to where the insect had last been spotted.

And...there it was. I think he knew his game was up when he heard the screams, and the approaching strangled cry emanating from my throat. I slapped with the shoe, he dodged. I slapped again. He dodged. I slapped, and hit. He bounced, dodged. I then delivered the kill shot. Not with the finesse of a mercenary, but with the clumsiness of someone in the throes of terror.

After further analysis, we classified it as a cricket. I don't think it was a cricket.

Cleaning up (tossing the ripe apples, putting the bowl in the dishwasher), C-note and I lifted the sofa to put it back in place. And it was totally heavy and not as moveable as before.

Oh, adrenaline.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


why try to be a jerk? sociology and shared meanings and whatnot

So today I was at the corner waiting for the light to change, and a girl standing to my right sneezed. I hadn't noticed her before the sneeze; I had been pleasantly lost in my little world of anticipating the tasty BLT clutched in my hand.

I said "God Bless You," and she said thank you, and smiled this huge smile.

I used to know someone who never said God Bless You - he said that it was stupid, since it originated from that whole "may the Devil not steal your soul" business. We all know sneezing isn't related to the devil, and souls, so why bother saying it?

He explained that to me once, and it shut me up. It made me feel like I was being sensitive and silly and quaint. Continuing to bless him and the world in the face of such cold logic became my little gift.

The girl's smile brought that all back to me today as I crossed the street, and it made me realize why it sorta stings when people systematically refuse to acknowledge the sneeze.

When I said "God Bless You," I wasn't trying to protect her soul. I was saying "Hey. I notice you, my fellow human. I wish you well."

Her smile showed that she feels the same way - sometimes it's nice to know that there are random people who got your back.



In the past three days, I have:

a) scuba dived in the pool
b) carried a keg
c) pushed a car down a driveway with a guy named Mabil
d) got pulled over by the police for the first time in my life

so many stories. Well, four. Unfortunately, today I have to cram for my quizzes (aka read a really long chapter and hope reading the other chapters counted as studying) and tomorrow I'm going to be cramming for Lost. But I'm going to write soon.

Carpe Diem!

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